I opened my mouth to say, “What do you mean,” but I knew what she meant.

“I don’t know. I feel better than I’ve felt in a long time. Except for some lingering soreness, I’m pain-free. That’s good. But I’m sad, Abby. Really sad. This stuff with my grandfather, and Susan, and—it all seems like nothing compared to the fact that I’ll never be anyone’s mother. I’ll never be pregnant. I don’t know what to think about that. I don’t know why I feel like this. Maybe it’s seeing Kim. I associate her with pregnancy, terrible disastrous pregnancy. I know that’s not fair.”

Abby was silent for a long time. Then she took my hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s walk.”

Hand in hand, we crossed the brickyard. We passed Harrelson Hall, Cox, and Dabney, and we walked down through the Free Expression Tunnel. It was painted with the usual assortment of messages—announcements for fraternity parties and campus meetings, slogans supporting the basketball team, slogans attacking the basketball team, and, at the fringes, cryptic notes like Free the White Panties and Don’t be a Pussy. Periodically, the university painted the tunnel walls white, which was an invitation to the campus graffiti artists to turn out in force and once again make it their own.

We emerged on the other side and, by some psychic common consent, skipped my proposed tour of our old dormitory. Instead, we went straight to the snack bar tucked into the side of the campus bookstore. Abby bought a cup of coffee. I bought a large Pepsi and two Ho-Hos.

“Dessert,” I explained. We sat at one of the plastic and metal tables outside. Once upon a time, we’d eaten breakfast at these tables five days out of seven.

“It’s not uncommon to feel grief after a hysterectomy,” Abby said. “Most women do. I’ve got to tell you, though—that wasn’t what I expected you to say.”

“What did you expect?”

“Something else.”

A group of skateboarders was practicing jumping off the wall behind us. Abby turned around and gave them the eye. “Sorry,” one of them muttered, “Come on, guys.”

Abby turned back to me. “What makes you think you’re not warm?”

“What?”

“Back there on the brickyard. You said that I was warm and you weren’t. That’s not true, you know. You’re not a cold person. You’re very warm.”

“I don’t feel warm.”

“How do you feel?”

I thought for a moment. “Aloof. Detached.”

“You’d like to be aloof, but you’re not. You don’t detach yourself from anything. You feel it all, even when it’s not yours to feel.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Instead of answering my question, she said, “This morning, I was angry with you. Do you know why?”

“Because I was late.”

She shook her head. “I was angry because you stayed out all night. You went to dinner at Susan’s house, and you didn’t come back. You spent the night with her.”

“I spent the night,” I said, biting into my first Ho-Ho, “in my old bedroom, which is once again my grandmother’s sewing room. She shifted her ironing pile, and I curled up on a musty single bed beneath a fluffy pink duvet. I’m sorry. I should’ve called you.”

Abby squinted at me. “You didn’t have sex with Susan Sava?”

“I didn’t say that,” I replied. “But no, I didn’t.”

“Huh.”

“Huh, yourself.”

“Did you want to?”

I laughed. “Of course. She’s one of the women on my list.”

“On your what?”

“My list. Come on, don’t tell me you don’t have one—the Impossible Women list. You fantasize about sleeping with them, but you know you won’t. Sharon Stone, Gillian Anderson, Hillary Clinton, that English teacher we had in the tenth grade.”

“Mrs. Ferguson?”

“That’s the one. Sigourney Weaver, Sandra Bullock, Barbara Jordan . . .”

“Hold on a second.” Abby reached out and stole my second Ho-Ho. “Barbara Jordan. I’m not getting that.”

“What do you mean you’re not getting that? Barbara Jordan is . . .” I struggled for a moment to explain Barbara Jordan. Then I gave up. “Barbara Jordan is god. What a woman, what a voice. Why wouldn’t she be on my list?”

“One of these things is not like the other,” Abby sang.

“Oh, Jesus. You mean because she’s black? I know I was raised by crackers, but I’d like to think that doesn’t limit my libido.”

“God knows,” Abby agreed. “Nothing else seems to.” Before I could object, she said, “Tell me something. Whose idea was it to invite me to dinner tonight?”

“My mother invited you.”

“Did you suggest it to her?”

“You ate my Ho-Ho.”

“I thought so,” Abby continued. “But that’s okay. I’ll come. First, however, I want you to tell me what happened during your dinner with Susan. Everything. Spare no small detail. Then . . .”

“Then what?”

Abby took the lid off her coffee and blew on it. Tendrils of steam rose from the black surface. She took a sip. “Complete crap,” she pronounced.

“We’re not in Portland anymore, sister. This is not a coffee town. Then what?”

“Edna doesn’t like my braids,” she said. “Specifically, she used the words unprofessional and pickaninny.”

“Edna doesn’t like anything.”

“True. But I want to know what you think.”

“About what?”

“About my braids.”

I stared at her for a moment. Somewhere along the way, a sea change had taken place between us. I wondered where I’d been when the tide had turned.

“Okay,” I said tentatively. “But you’ll have to buy me another Ho-Ho.”

I’d driven myself to Susan’s house over Abby’s objections. She’d offered to drop me off and pick me up, but I said I didn’t want her to be my chauffeur. I’d also called Susan and asked her not to pick me up. I wanted the freedom to come and go as I pleased. I wanted to be able to escape, if need be. If the evening went poorly, I planned to tell Susan a lie, like Abby was waiting for me at Edna’s at thus and such a time, so I was sorry, but I had to go. Thank you and good night. I don’t know what I expected. A scene perhaps, some longed-for and yet dreaded emotional confrontation. I didn’t get it. We had a quiet dinner and a long talk. We cleared the air, or at least rendered it a little less opaque. Nothing is ever transparent between ex-lovers. Once you’ve seen someone naked, your vision is forever fogged.

Susan met me at the door in a terry cloth bathrobe. She said that dinner was on the stove—coq au vin, an old favorite—and that she’d be dressed in a moment. I should sit down and make myself at home. There was wine on the buffet and beer in the refrigerator.

The living room was smaller than I remembered, smaller, in fact, than my own living room in Portland. A new cream-colored leather sofa had replaced the old brown one, and the room was tastefully redecorated in what I now recognized as straight-from-Martha Stewart. The Savas had more money than the Bartholomews and the Koslowskis. They didn’t have more unaided good taste.

“You can come back here if you like,” Susan called. “Or are you still painfully modest?”

“Still modest,” I called back, “though not painfully. I’ll wait here. Does anything on the stove need stirring?”

“Nothing. I’ll be there in a second.”

She came out in a pair of jeans and a lilac turtleneck, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down on the sofa next to me with her feet tucked up beneath her.

“What should we talk about?” she said. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Me neither,” I admitted. “Perhaps we should start with the obvious.”

“My mother and your grandfather.” She finished her wine and then reached over to take my glass. “After dinner,” she said. “Let’s not keep the coq au vin waiting.”

Dave had impeccable timing. Hunter had no sooner driven off for the proverbial pack of cigarettes than he pulled into the driveway. I’d planned on going out to meet him, but since the coast was clear my mother insisted on my waiting until he came up and knocked on the door. He was obliged to make polite conversation with her and Nana while Maurice sniffed his crotch.

I was pleased to see that his mustache was even once again. He was wearing a white turtleneck, khaki trousers, and a navy blue blazer with gold buttons. Between the blazer and the turtleneck, he looked like Thurston Howell on Gilligan’s Island.

Once we were alone, Dave talked about the weather and about the much-anticipated release of the third Star Wars film, Return of the Jedi. He said Kim had mentioned getting a big group together and skipping school the afternoon it came out. I agreed that sounded like fun.

“Abby’s been dying to see it,” I lied. “It’s nice of you to offer us a ride.”

The French restaurant was called Jack’s, not Jacques, and it was only a block or two from the Irish pub where I’d eaten dinner with Susan. Dave parked on the street outside and then insisted on opening my car door for me. Thanks to my stupid blue pumps, I was obliged to take his arm to pull myself up out of the plush bucket seat of his dad’s red Monte Carlo.

The maitre d’wore a black tuxedo with a thin satin collar. He was only a few years older than we were, probably a student at UNC. He stood next to a lectern between two enormous palms in hammered copper pots.

“Reservation for two,” Dave said. “Wilson.”

Our table was in the back, next to the double swinging doors of the kitchen and as far away as possible from the chamber quartet playing on a dais in the front of the restaurant. The violinist was a tall thin blonde in a long black dress, but it was the cellist who really caught my eye. She was a substantial redhead with a fabulous cleavage tucked into a forest green gown. She had on a black velvet choker with a small silver medallion. Her eyes were closed with the passion of her playing.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Dave said.

“It is,” I agreed.

“Bach?”

“Mozart, I think.”

The waiter, who was even younger than the maitre d’, arrived with two menus. Dave’s had a small wine list tucked inside. Mine featured a list of dishes with no prices.

“Have whatever you like,” he suggested. “I’m starting with escargot.”

“Hmm,” I said, noncommittally.

My starter was a pâté that tasted like liverwurst. I pushed it around the plate and ended up trying one of Dave’s snails. It was like eating an eraser soaked in garlic butter, but I smiled and pronounced it delicious. This, unfortunately, prompted Dave to offer to switch appetizers with me. When I had a napkin full of surreptitiously discarded escargot, the waiter brought out our entrées. I had coq au vin, chicken in wine sauce, and Dave had coquilles St. Jacques, which he also thought was chicken. The waiter explained that coquilles were scallops. “Oh,” said Dave.

We finished with two salads and a cheese plate. One of the cheeses was wrapped in oak leaves and tasted like a creamy Danish blue. I liked it. Dave took one taste and stuck to the Camembert. Two cafés au lait later, the waiter brought out our bill, and Dave tucked four twenty-dollar bills into the brown leather folder.

“Will that be all?” the waiter asked, taking the folder.

“Yes,” Dave said.

“Well then, good evening.” The waiter smiled.

“No change?” I whispered.

Dave tucked his wallet back into his pants. “Gratuity. My dad says you tip twenty percent in a place like this.”

He’d spent as much on dinner as my mother and Nana had on my dress, hair, and shoes. I’d done his pocket no favors by refusing to go to the prom.

We left the restaurant and walked up Franklin Street, retracing the route I’d taken with Susan the weekend before. We even finished up at the same oak tree, though neither of us cared to sit down in the space by the gnarled root. I didn’t want him to spoil his khakis, and I had to think about funerals I might someday attend.

On the way back to the car, he reached out to take my hand. I hesitated; then I thought about the bill for dinner. His hand was hot and damp.

“Poppy,” he said. “I know you don’t like to dance and everything, but there’s a band playing up at the Cat’s Cradle. I read about them in The Spectator. Do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. What kind of music do they play?”

“Rockabilly and techno punk.”