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static-clinging for dear life to the back of my blouse. Bless Hannah, who came into the living room as I was greeting our guests, put an arm around me, and casually asked me whether it had come to my attention that George, who had previously left town, was
back.
    As I watch Hannah bite into a mushroom puff, it strikes me how far we’ve traveled, my college friends and I, since those giddy years before careers, spouses, and dignity installed themselves in our lives. It takes an old friend now—one grandfathered in from my twenties or earlier—to bring out the goofiness in me. As Hannah chews, I rue the sobriety of the thirties: all life choices and strategy, no slapstick.
    And even with Hannah, dignity needs its due. “Tell me about Ed’s job,” I say.
    â€œOh, it’s
fantastic!
” It’s clear that the promotion is a source of pride not only for Ed but for Hannah, who details the changes in Ed’s responsibilities with relish. Beneath her excitement I hear relief. Hannah’s job has always been more prestigious than Ed’s. And while she’s never made mention of a certain sulkiness from Ed where her work is concerned, it hasn’t escaped my notice.
    â€œOh, and big news from Adam,” Hannah says.
    â€œHe’s joined a luge team in Finland?”
    â€œI wouldn’t have been surprised.” Adam, Hannah’s younger brother, hung up his teaching shingle a couple of years ago in Prague, then moved on to Rome and Parma, taught English in the countryside in Holland until he and his Dutch girlfriend split, then bartended in Gorky
to get a little Russia in.
“But he’s done with his travels,” says Hannah, “and he’s moving back to New York. My mother just told me last night.” She licks her fingers discreetly. “He called her from Moscow.”
    â€œAdam in New York?” I say. “Poor Elijah will have to adjust to an uncle who thinks eggs are for juggling. I give it a week before Adam teaches him to shoot spitballs.”
    â€œAdam’s grown up a bit, you know.”
    â€œ
Adam?
” I say. “I know the rest of the human race grows up. But
Adam?
”
    Our laughter attracts the gaze of Hannah’s boss. Hannah flashes him a disarming smile. “I need to be a little social,” she whispers to me. “Can you stand two minutes of networking?” She leads me to the center of the room and into a conversation with one of the charity administrators, a fifty-something-year-old woman named Nancy whose husband, Victor, has the decency to ask me about my teaching style, and the pros and cons of a classical education for students of literature. As I summarize the canon wars for Victor’s benefit, Hannah stands beside me in her dark jacket and black slacks, waistline thickened, eyes sparkling with freedom. I can’t remember the last time she and I were in a social situation without Ed or Elijah clinging to her, Elijah with earnestly lisped requests, Ed with an expression of faint bewilderment that hasn’t gone away in three years of fatherhood. I know women who would run for the hills at her responsibilities. But motherhood suits Hannah. She’s among those luckiest of souls—people who like being needed.
    Hannah tips the contents of her plate onto mine. “Here,” she whispers. “Now I’m too full to eat.” With a quick apology for not having more time, she hugs me goodbye, plans a business call with Nancy, and leaves with a promise to let me know the minute Adam shows up.
    Victor alights on his passion for archaeology and his stints volunteering at digs. I check in often enough to agree at the appropriate moments, but I’m not listening. Instead, I continue to indulge a rare hit of nostalgia for those postcollege years when Hannah and Adam and I all lived together. We argued over the remote control, the telephone line, the grocery list. We consoled one another, roughly