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again. “How long?”
    â€œNot long.” She turned around. Charles was naked save for his boxer shorts. His pale shoulders were drooped in a sad way that made her want to go to him, and through the slightly open slit of his shorts, she glimpsed a small part of his limp penis, the sight of which left her feeling tender and proprietary toward him. He was hers—her lover, her friend, her companion.
    â€œFrom what?” he asked.
    â€œCancer.”
    He nodded.
    â€œIt’s gone to the brain,” she said. “That’s why I get dizzy.”
    â€œJesus,” he said.
    â€œIt’ll get worse,” she continued, unable to stop herself. “Before it’s over, I might not be able to make facial expressions. I might not be able to pronounce words correctly.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    â€œYou didn’t tell me any of this.”
    â€œWe were having a fling,” she said. “That was our agreement.”
    She sat down next to him, but he moved away and then stood up and began hurriedly dressing. “No,” she said. She hadn’t meant to say that.
    He struggled to tie his necktie, finally just letting its ends fall. “I’ve got to go for a while,” he said. He picked his shoes up from the floor, walked into the hallway in his socks, and closed the door behind him.
    She hadn’t expected the heartbreak, the thoughts of him, the simple, unrelenting desire for an absent person. She called twice and left messages. In the first, she asked him to please call. In the second, she was blunt. “Call me, Charles. Call me today.” She was shocked by her aggression, her outright command. But she was even more surprised by the fact that he didn’t call, not on that day and not on the next. The third time she called, Ryan answered with a flat, face-slapping, “Yeah, who is it?”
    â€œKate,” she said softly. “I’d like to speak to your father.”
    â€œWhat did you do to him?” She’d expected the rudeness, but not the defensiveness, the obvious anger in his voice.
    â€œI’d like to speak to him.”
    â€œHe’s not here.” He paused. “What did you do to him?”
    â€œI don’t think that’s really your concern.”
    â€œHe was crying the other day. He was just sitting at the table crying. I guess you found out just how much you could push him around. I’d say you’re an expert at that.”
    The rage in Ryan’s voice left her both overwhelmed by guilt and glad that there was love for Charles mixed in with his son’s bitterness. “Please tell him I called.”
    â€œMaybe I will,” he said, and then hung up.
    By mid-November, the beautiful portion of fall had ended. The winds came and blasted the leaves from the trees, and the rains turned them to brown gutter slush. The dark fell early, and more often than not Kate woke to gray mornings and the wet sounds of cars driving through water-drenched streets. Melissa continued to stay away, arriving home late in the evenings and slipping out of the house with her book bag early in the mornings. Kate worked half days now at the bank. She’d told her bad news to her district manager, who was happy to let her work until she no longer could. She spent her solitary afternoons at home rereading old mysteries and watching stacks of rented movies. She slept. She hoped that Charles would call. And she prepared herself for what would be a quieter, lonelier death than she’d expected.
    Just when it seemed things would go on in this way, Kate came home from work one afternoon to find Melissa on the couch hugging her knees. She was in her favorite pajamas—thin yellow cotton with blue polka dots—and her eyes were raw from crying. In the crook of one arm, she held her worn-out teddy bear. Kate sat down on the opposite end of the couch. “Where’s Mark?” she