The Circle

breaded, and they talked about the various ways the health
     of Mae’s father had improved. Now he had his choice of doctors. Now he had no limitations
     on the medicines he could take; they were all covered, and there was no copay. Mae
     noticed, as they narrated the story of his recent health, that her mother was brighter,
     more buoyant. She was wearing short-shorts.
    “The best thing about it,” her father said, “is that now your mother has whole swaths
     of extra time. It’s all so simple. I see the doctor and the Circle takes care of the
     rest. No middleman. No discussion.”
    “Is that what I think it is?” Mae said. Over the dining room table, there was a silver
     chandelier, though upon closer inspection it seemed like one of Mercer’s. The silver
     arms were actually painted antlers. Mae had been only passingly enthusiastic about
     any of his work—when they were dating, she labored for kind things to say—but this
     one she genuinely liked.
    “It is,” her mother said.
    “Not bad,” Mae said.
    “Not bad?” her father said. “It’s his best work, and you know it. This thing would
     go for five grand in one of those San Francisco boutiques. He gave it to us for free.”
    Mae was impressed. “Why for free?”
    “Why for free?” her mother asked. “Because he’s our friend. Because he’s a nice young
     man. And wait before you roll your eyes or come back with some witty comment.”
    Mae did wait, and after she’d passed on a half-dozen unkind things she could say about
     Mercer and had chosen silence, she found herself feeling generous toward him. Because
     she no longer needed him, because she was now a crucial and measurable driver of world
     commerce, and because she had two men at the Circle to choose from—one of them a volcanic,
     calligraphic enigma who climbed walls to take her from behind—she could afford to
     be generous toward poor Mercer, his shaggy head and grotesque fatty back.
    “It’s really nice,” Mae said.
    “Glad you think so,” her mother said. “You can tell him yourself in a few minutes.
     He’s coming for dinner.”
    “No,” Mae said. “Please no.”
    “Mae,” her father said firmly, “he’s coming, okay?”
    And she knew she couldn’t argue. Instead, she poured herself a glass of red wine and,
     while setting the table, she downed half of it. By the time Mercer knocked and let
     himself in, her face was half-numb and her thoughts were vague.
    “Hey Mae,” he said, and gave her a tentative hug.
    “Your chandelier thing is really great,” she said, and even while saying the words,
     she saw their effect on him, so she went further. “It’s really beautiful.”
    “Thanks,” he said. He looked around to Mae’s parents, as if confirming they had heard
     the same thing. Mae poured herself more wine.
    “It really is,” Mae continued. “I mean, I know you do good work.”And when she said this, Mae made sure not to look at him, knowing his eyes would doubt
     her. “But this is the best one you’ve done yet. I’m so happy that you put this much
     into … I’m just happy that my favorite piece of yours is in my parents’ dining room.”
    Mae took out her camera and took a picture.
    “What’re you doing?” Mercer said, though he seemed pleased that she’d deem it worthy
     of a photograph.
    “I just wanted to take a picture. Look,” she said, and showed him.
    Now her parents had disappeared, no doubt thinking she wanted time alone with Mercer.
     They were hilarious and insane.
    “It looks good,” he said, staring at the photo a bit longer than Mae had expected.
     He was not, evidently, above taking pleasure, and pride, in his own work.
    “It looks in
cred
ible,” she said. The wine had sent her aloft. “That was very nice of you. And I know
     it means a lot to them, especially now. It adds something very important here.” Mae
     was euphoric, and it wasn’t just the wine. It was release. Her family had been released.
     “This place has been so dark,” she said.
    And for a brief moment, she and Mercer seemed to find their former footing. Mae, who
     for years had thought about Mercer with a disappointment bordering on pity, remembered
     now that he was capable of great work. She knew he was compassionate, and very kind,
     even though his limited horizons had been exasperating. But now, seeing this—could
     she call it artwork? It was something like art—and the effect it had on the house,
     her faith in him was