“Exactly!” Senderovsky cried. That minor detonation inspired both of them to step apart. Senderovsky thought he could smell perfume, but maybe it was a floral shampoo. It had been almost two decades since he had pursued anyone, and during the official wooing of Masha he had never really cataloged his future wife’s smells. She smelled, from the start, like home （a tragic beginning, he now realized）。
“I’ll let you freshen up, and then we’ll go meet the gang,” Senderovsky said.
“I’ll walk up with you,” Dee said. “Just gonna pee.”
Senderovsky sat on the tiny bed—in his recounting, none of his guests had ever made love on it, those monkish writers—and listened to the sound of a muffled but hearty stream coming from the bathroom. He was excited by the day’s many chapters, but already growing tired before the main event of dinner and the uncertainty of the Actor’s arrival, and, hence, of everything else in his life. Student peeing, he thought to himself, not lasciviously, but filing it away for some possible future reference.
Dee wondered if she should wash her hands before wiping and after, but decided to be incautious and washed only when she was done. Senderovsky heard the sound of a young woman flushing a toilet and remembered that this had once had its significance. Dee read the framed quote next to the rusted antique mirror husband and wife had bought for nothing in the town across the river.
LOVE TAKES OFF MASKS THAT WE FEAR WE CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT AND KNOW WE CANNOT LIVE WITHIN.—JAMES BALDWIN
“Hey,” she shouted to Senderovsky over the sound of hands being washed, “did you just have that Baldwin quote framed in the last couple of weeks?”
“No!” Senderovsky called out. “We’ve had it forever. A happy coincidence!”
* * *
—
When they got up to the porch, everyone was seated in their jackets and sweaters at a healthy remove from one another, as if they were organized criminals or dignitaries at the League of Nations. Senderovsky and his wife and daughter were clustered together, Masha cutting a slice of Spanish ham for a fidgety Nat on her lap. Dee counted four Asians among seven people, an instant outnumbering. The Asian woman was the important one, the East Asian man importantly dressed. No one was particularly ugly or attractive. She didn’t mean anything by this census, Dee told herself, she was just processing.
That morning, she had run through their social accounts. The Actor’s page was like a temple built by the sweat and labor of his fans. Karen didn’t have one, which, given her controversial standing in the world of technology, was surprising. Sasha’s social accounts she already followed; they usually constituted a drunk nightly cry for help and a sober morning plea for relevancy. His wife didn’t have one as far as she could tell. She had never heard of Vinod.
Senderovsky was introducing her as his favorite student and a great success. Everyone was waving at her from across a distance, even Vinod, who was pouring out glasses of inky red wine with the prophylactic aid of an oven mitt. When her former teacher’s soliloquy was over, no one knew what to say to the newcomer. “Y’all look so cozy in the candlelight,” Dee said, leaning into her usual Southern repertoire. Ed smiled at her. Or, rather, intensified his smile, his right hand hovering in the vicinity of his ear.
“Vinod is going to get cold,” Masha said. “Someone should start a fire.”
“I’m fine,” Vinod said. “And you can’t catch a cold from the cold.”
“Yes, that’s an old wives’ tale,” Senderovsky said. “Can one still say that?”
“One can,” Dee said.
“Vin, I can see your goosebumps from here,” Karen said.
“？‘Goosebumps’ is a funny word!” Nat shouted.
“It is, honey, but let’s say it quietly,” Masha said. “Seriously, someone should light the stove. Maybe a manly man?”
“I’ll do it,” Ed found himself saying, his eyes still on the newcomer in her skinny jeans and fleece. He rushed over to the stove and began to fuss with it. He had done this so many times before, on so many different porches, during so many different twilights, but this time was different. His fingers were like lead bars. He had abandoned a tray of Gibsons, which it turned out nobody wanted and which he would likely have to drink himself. “Help yourself to a Gibson, Dee,” he shouted to the young essayist, the syllables thick and courtly in his mouth.
He wondered what was wrong with him.
“Thanks,” Dee said, letting the vermouth flood her mouth, along with the tiny pop of the tipsy cocktail onion. “They’re excellent!”