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Shirley smiled in the darkness, and gently rubbed her leg against her husband's thigh. Tom's mouth had been amazing. She must have cum four times before she found herself on her hands and knees, being fucked from behind by a wild man. The image stoked the heat between Shelia's legs and she felt herself blush like a post prom teenager.

The car lurches, a terrible, groaning sound. And how alone she is,in the passenger seat; She doesn't think about David in the back seat;nor does she think about the driver, the realtor, Suzanne--a breathy blonde,in billowing silk--except to think, in a tiny corner of her mind: of course.Because in fact the realtor (Suzanne--she's a person, too, perhaps witha family of her own, hopes and dreams of her own, her own sense of infallibleand sacred individuality) had been driving erratically, withoutconcentration, ever since she'd picked them up at their hotel. And when,precisely, had that been--a half an hour ago? Indeed, Ruth and David aresupposed to be starting a new life, here in this Western city: a new, betterjob for David (he is an academic, a professional philosopher, a person whoattends conferences on obscure subjects, a reader of foot notes andbibliographies), and new vistas for Ruth--new colors to paint, new things tolook at, a place where she can leave all her ugly old sins behind. Here inthis sprawling dry place. She owes it to him, doesn't she? After herlittle frisson of love last year. After the appalling spectacle she made ofherself. In love with a social worker more than 10 years her junior, a wirythin man with freckles and a too-expressive neck--with sculpted-lookingtendons, with skin that blushed--whose job it was to get junkies into rehab.What could she have been thinking? All those long hours in bed, with a manyoung enough to still believe that people could be redeemed--who was in factso convinced of it that he bordered, at times, on fanatical--a man who,moreover, found her own way of life vaguely distasteful (the big house, theblack cleaning lady, and Ruth's own obsession with the details ofhousekeeping: with fabrics, and light, and dishes, with cut flowers in heavywhite jugs). There she would lie, in his arms, amazed at herself, while herchildren (her twins) were in kindergarten at the Montessori school, learningall those good, progressive values: sharing, communicating, respecting thefeelings of others. Lolling in bed like a teenager; and--as she later came tothink of it--fucking his brains out. Who did she think she was, Emma Bovary?

So she owes her husband this change, this chance for a new place.Only an hour ago she'd been going on and on about its beauty. Look atthe mountains, David! Oh my God, smell that air! The kids are going to lovethis. But David, too, is gone from her. But she isn't thinking of him,not even a little bit, and for that she will later feel guilty. She isthinking of the children, and then, briefly, her lover (her ex-lover, withhis soft blonde hair, his judgmental eyebrows), Jim. They were practicallythe same size: it was like being exactly with herself. But Jim gets pushedout, too, in this terrible careening as the car it spins around, the impactof the metal against the metal shooting straight up her spine, the worldtilting dangerously, but not unfamiliarly--it is every bad dream she'sever had and every cop movie she's ever seen--and she knows the ending:both she and David, crushed by a car. Not the way she'd planned it. Justfor starters, it is so damned trite. And her children. Her precious children.How she and David, sitting over glasses of red wine in their kitchen back inCincinnati, had fretted over which of their relatives should be appointedguardian in the advent of their untimely demise. "Stop worrying aboutit, Ruthie," her sister--her younger sister, the one she's alwaysbeen closest to--had said to her only a month ago, after Ruth had taken thenewly-minted wills to the vault for safe-keeping, "because if you andDavid die in a car crash, your kids will be fucked up no matter who you givethem to."

Why didn't they die? A simple enough, a basic enoughquestion, and yet no one seems to have the answer. Not the doctor in theemergency room who'd felt along her spine and ribs, and then asked herto squeeze his fingers; nor the nurse who helped her into the bathroom andthen waited outside the door until she emerged, her bladder newly emptied,newly refreshed; nor any of the kind, concerned, even-tempered professors ofphilosophy (David's future colleagues) who call them, later, at theirhotel, to make sure they're all right. "Oh yes, we'reperfectly fine," Ruth hears David saying on the phone, while she herselflies in the bathtub, submerged in hot water. "as it turned out, it wasnothing."

She comes out of the bathroom naked, her feet padding on thevacuumed hotel wall-to-wall. He puts down the phone and stares at her,openly, as he did years ago: her whole long skinny body, her freckledshoulders and damp dirty-blonde hair, her left breast hanging slightly lowerthan her right one, the stretch-marks shining on her abdomen like paleribbons. She isn't surprised when he gets up and begins to rub the backof her neck, all the while making the little mewing sounds that are hissignal, his pathetic and annoyingly cloying signal, that he's horny.That he wants a little down-home loving. A little reassuring roll in the haywith his sweetheart. In, out, in, out, until that final little burst ofapplause, and his body limp, over or under hers. Clearly, the man isn'ta mind reader, but what man is? Even Jim, Jesus: he did things to her whethershe wanted him to or not. But that was different. This good Jewish girl, thisloving mother with her beautiful large colorful canvases and beautifulchildren, screwing so hard that she forgot who or what she was. Now she turnsto her husband and says, "What do you mean it was nothing? Itwasn't fucking nothing. We almost died, David, was got thisclose"--an inch-sign, made with thumb and forefinger--"and you sayit was nothing?"

Which is when David blows up. She sees it even before she hearsit; sees it in the tension in his shoulders, in the slightly pink cast of hisneck, in his clean, curled fingers. Thinking about it, brooding, all the wayback from Dallas, and then in the car driving home, and then up the stairs:thinking about his wife's betrayal: first Jim, and now this--thisconstant need to talk, this urge to express herself, at all costs, no matterhow embarrassing or just plain self-indulgent. All of life, a giant grouptherapy session. Talking to strangers on airplanes as if they were youroldest friends. "You don't get it, Ruthie," he says."That accident wasn't 'about' anything. It wasn't'about' you or me, or the realtor, or the meaning of life or death,or anything. It wasn't some lesson, some cheap morality play, some signfrom God who, let me remind you, you don't believe in, anyway. So goahead: you want to turn it into something directed at you, and the preciousindividual who is Ruth Anne Ellman, at your own little ego, that's yourbusiness. But I refuse to take part in your histrionics. Talking to that manon the airplane? Please. I was embarrassed for you, Ruthie, really I was.That shmuck was just trapped there, while you yammered on and on, poor guy.Let me make myself perfectly clear: not only are we not dead, we aren'teven hurt. Or am I wrong? Are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Having troublebreathing? Seeing stars? Dizzy? Nauseous?"

"You know, Ruthie," he'd said only a little whileago--six days? a week? "This could turn out well. I'm a goodscholar. I'm a very good scholar." They were heading west onAmerican Airlines, soaring towards their future. He held her hand, gazed outthe window. Below was flat brown scorched dry earth, dirt and sand andsagebrush stretching in all directions, as featureless as brown wrappingpaper.

"I loathe my life," she says. "David is steady butso unfeeling that it's as if he isn't made of flesh andblood," she says. "Every single day I think that I should tack anote to the refrigerator, pack a bag, and move out," she says."Just grab the twins and go, while I'm still young enough to havesex," she says. "Start over. Move back to the city. Or out to thecoast," she says. And when her sister says, "Aren't youoverdoing the Anna Karenina act just a bit?" Ruth says: "Ican't stand it anymore. I'm going to leave him. I am."

When at last she calls Jim--calling him from her studio while thetwins are downstairs watching TV--she knows that she has run out of chances,that the luck that has kept her intact, kept her married and respectable andappropriate all these years has evaporated, leaving her exposed, vulnerable,willing to do anything, be anything. Once a cunt ...

There is silence, through which she can hear the sound of theTV's inane noises, and she wonders, briefly, if he'll hang up onher. But no: that wouldn't be his style. Instead, after a little while,he says: "What do you want?"

Blue mammas with black and white bulldogs, in frantic brightlycolored life. Fat red mammas holding blue babies holding dollies. Butit's gone, it's all gone, all the terror, all the exhilaration, thefrantic beating of her blood cells. And now she's back in her house, inthese rooms that she's created, with her children, her husband who lovesher (he told her so, apologizing for his recent bad mood) her flowers, herpaints. At night, while everyone is sleeping, she moves from room to room,thinking about the desert. Arching blue sky; a million stars; cacti andcanyons. In the desert she wouldn't have a garden anymore. Insteadshe'd have white walls, sweeping views, silvery light, tiles. She'dhave dark wood and vibrant colors. She'd have the mountains to look at,and hair that would lie down and behave, and years and years and years. Thetwins will grow up and leave her; David's reputation will grow;he'll be invited to deliver talks in faraway places--in Boston, inLondon, in Moscow. Meanwhile, her own face will grow thinner and her skinmore papery, soft and wrinkled; her hips will widen; she'll have to wearsun-hats, and billowing cotton, and broad flat sandals, the sturdy kind, madefor walking. Everything about her will grow soft and comforting, and people,upon first seeing her, will think: she looks like a pleasant woman. And whatchoice, after all, does she have? She is a woman drifting through the roomsof her house, tallying. 2b1af7f3a8