The Castaways

DELILAH

I t was Delilah who had come up with the name. The Castaways.

Why did they need a name? It was something street gangs did, and sororities. But Phoebe insisted. (Did Delilah need to point out here that Phoebe had been an Alpha Kappa Delta at the University of Wisconsin?) Phoebe had been in charge of organizing their first trip together, to Las Vegas. She was having hats made, baseball caps in denim blue with electric green embroidery. Las Vegas 2000 for the front, and over the vent in the back, Phoebe wanted a group name. In her life before meeting Addison, Phoebe had facilitated trips for Elderhostel USA . The Elderhostel groups had hats for each trip.

We need a name! Phoebe implored, clapping her hands.

They came up with a bunch of ideas, the most appealing of which was the Porn Stars, suggested by Greg—but then he let it slip that this had been the name of his first garage band. They dismissed it immediately on the grounds that they did not want to name themselves after any of Greg’s failed musical endeavors.

They tried to incorporate Nantucket, the island, the beach, the first letters of all their names, GATEPADJ , JEDAGATP . Nothing worked.

Delilah came up with the Castaways as she was falling asleep, which was when she had all of her brilliant ideas. She had always meant to keep a notepad on her nightstand so she could write her thoughts down, or words that would cue her thoughts. Even in this instance, she woke up not remembering her idea for the perfect name. But then it surfaced: the Castaways.

The Castaways: Because Delilah had run away from her parents and found Nantucket, because Jeffrey had inherited a farm from an uncle he barely knew, because Greg had played in a (different) band with a guy whose parents owned a house in Sconset, because Andrea had been recruited to be the head lifeguard in the summer of 1988 and where Andrea went, Tess was sure to follow. Because Addison had scoped out the community with the most valuable real estate on the East Coast, and he had brought his new bride, Phoebe. Because the Chief had been transferred from Swampscott to shape up the police department. They had all washed up on the shores of Nantucket, and they had stayed and made it their home. They had found each other.

Everyone agreed it was the right name. It was embroidered on the hats, and Phoebe was happy.

Back then, they had all been happy.

Las Vegas! Vegas, baby! What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!

January 2000: They had been talking about traveling together for months, but it took forever to decide where to go, and when. They chose Vegas because it was the place in the world that was the most unlike Nantucket Island. Nantucket was historic, pristinely preserved and maintained, it was quiet, it was gray and staid and safe, it was an island surrounded by chilly waters, it was a Quaker woman wearing a dress with fifty eye-hook buttons and a wide lace collar. Vegas was flashing lights and cigarette smoke, it was overchlorinated swimming pools, bulimic slot machines binging and spitting up change, it was point spreads and neon signs and cleavage, marble floors, fountains, bourbon on the rocks, it was an island of electricity surrounded by orange dust, it was a nineteen-year-old showgirl wearing red fringe, five-inch stilettos, and pasties.

Nantucket was an authentic place, a place largely unchanged since 1845, with its cobblestone streets, whaling captains’ homes with widow’s walks and cedar shingles, leaded transom windows, back staircases with rope banisters, brick fireplaces with cooking pots hanging from iron hooks. The storefronts, the churches, the banks, the Pacific Club at the bottom of Main Street, were all as they had been a hundred and fifty years ago.

Vegas was a studied mimic, it was three miles of trompe l’oeil. It mocked the rest of the world—Paris, New York, Venice. It tried to out-authenticate the authentic. What did Addison say as they strolled through the Aladdin? This place looks more like Morocco than Morocco itself.

All the cliches about Vegas were true, and they loved it!

They stayed at Caesars Palace, in the newly renovated tower. They had four rooms in a row on the nineteenth floor. The Kapenash room and the MacAvoy room connected—and Delilah and Phoebe joked that this was because Tess might wake up in the middle of the night and want her mommy. They had all been happy then, but there were still jokes and pokes shared sotto voce. This was the nature of the beast, the nature of women. The four women were two couples: Andrea and Tess, Phoebe and Delilah. Andrea and Tess were a couple because they were first cousins. Andrea had been a nine-year-old girl sitting on a front stoop in Dorchester the day Tess was brought home from the hospital in her baby bunting. Andrea owned Tess; she constantly lapsed into conversations that Delilah and Phoebe couldn’t follow—about Sister Maria Jose, or Aunt Agropina, or Crazy Richard from Harborview Avenue and his plot of marijuana out back amid the basil and spring onions. Delilah and Phoebe had had no choice but to buddy up themselves, to prick their fingers, mingle their blood, exchange vows—best friends forever—although both of them, deep down, wanted to get close to Tess. Wanted to be her favorite. Well, you know, her favorite after Andrea.

They had all been happy then. The Chief and Andrea had kids in elementary school, left behind with Mrs. Parks, the retired dispatcher from the police department. No one else had kids, though Delilah and Jeffrey were talking about it—or, put more accurately, Jeffrey was talking about it and Delilah was avoiding talking about it. Tess and Greg were thinking about it, too; they may even have been trying. They disappeared to their room when they thought no one would notice. Addison had a daughter, who lived with his first wife. Phoebe had no desire to get pregnant. She was into her “business”—she still consulted for Elderhostel and other tour groups for the active aged—and she was into her body.

In Las Vegas, Phoebe jogged along the Strip each morning, all the way down to the Stratosphere and back; she worked out in the gym, she tanned by the pool, she had a bikini wax and a facial and a hot stone massage. She dragged the rest of the girls to Ferragamo and Elie Tahari and Prada and Armani and Gucci and Ralph Lauren. Phoebe was a size 2 and Addison made millions of dollars—why wouldn’t she go shopping? Andrea tired of it first; she would stand in the concourse and call Mrs. Parks from her cell phone to check on the kids. Delilah and Tess hung in there a little longer. Tess could fit in things, but she had no money (teacher’s salary, she moaned). Phoebe offered to buy her whatever she wanted, but they had a rule among the group about no gifts. It was a good rule, Delilah decided, especially since she sensed Phoebe trying to buy Tess’s love. That wasn’t exactly a fair assessment, because Phoebe offered to buy things for Delilah, too, but Delilah had full breasts and a curvy ass that Versace didn’t design for. Eventually Delilah and Tess started going for gelato while Phoebe shopped and Andrea phoned, and when they reunited, they were happy. Tess and Delilah shared their gelato, Phoebe showed off what she had bought, Andrea gave them the lowdown on the kids.

They were happy in different configurations. Jeffrey wanted to see the Hoover Dam. So he and Delilah rented a burgundy Ford Mustang convertible and asked who else wanted to go. Phoebe was a no, and Addison decided to stay with Phoebe. Tess was a no, and Andrea decided to stay with Tess. Greg wanted to go and so did the Chief. The Chief drove because he was the Chief, and Jeffrey sat up front because he had rented the car. Delilah and Greg sat in the back, taking in the sun and the wind and the desert.

The dam was astounding, mind-blowing, 726 feet of concrete holding back a biblical amount of water. Delilah stood in genuine awe. She had gone along because her husband was keen on it and because she couldn’t take any more shopping or smoke or signage, and as they descended down the middle of the dam with a tour guide, she congratulated herself on her fine decision. What if she had missed this?

As they waited for the elevator that would take them back up to the top of the Dam, Greg whispered in Delilah’s ear, “I should have brought a joint.”

Delilah giggled, less out of amusement than out of a sense of conspiracy, because she and Greg were the only two of the group who smoked dope, much to the dismay of their respective spouses.

Jeffrey looked at Delilah sharply—the tour guide was in the middle of a discourse on the WPA—and Delilah felt bonded to Greg even more. They were the bad teenagers disrupting class. Hadn’t it always been that way when Delilah was growing up? She had led boys astray or she had let them lead her astray; she was always pushing the envelope, forever getting into trouble.

They stopped for a late lunch at a roadhouse on the way back to Vegas, and Delilah and Greg polished off three Coronas apiece and started telling stories about the sexual mishaps of their younger years. They laughed like fools, spurting beer all over the table, while the Chief looked on with mild indulgence (sex wasn’t against the law, after all) and Jeffrey glowered.

“Why don’t you guys tell stories?” Delilah asked.

They were embarrassed by the question, and Delilah knew why. It was Andrea, the woman they’d shared. The Chief would not tell any stories about other women for fear of disrespecting Andrea in front of Jeffrey. Jeffrey, Delilah knew, had only slept with two women, herself and Andrea, and that sewed that up pretty tight. It was not funny to tell stories about his own wife, nor about the wife of someone else at the table.

Jeffrey motioned for the check; Delilah excused herself for the bathroom.

Twenty minutes beyond the roadhouse, Delilah had to pee again.

“You just went,” Jeffrey snapped.

Delilah had read somewhere that the human bladder could expand to the size of a grapefruit; hers was a basketball, a wobbly and distended water balloon. She had to go now, she was seconds away from letting the stream go, hot and grateful, all over the backseat of the rental car. She intoned as much.

The Chief pulled over and Delilah climbed out of the Mustang without using the door. She crouched behind the exhaust pipe and lifted her prairie skirt. Her flow ran in rivulets over the hard red dirt. Jeffrey held his forehead in his hand; he couldn’t believe she was doing this, even though it was the kind of thing she was always doing. She climbed back into the car, grinning.

“Okay,” she said. “Ready to go.”

Delilah leaned her head back against the seat, catching the last angled rays of sun on her face. She was happy. The afternoon she went to see the Hoover Dam remained one of the singular afternoons of her life.

Greg and the Chief and Andrea got up early and walked to New York New York for Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Addison and Tess and Delilah went to the Bellagio to see the impressionist collection. Andrea and Addison and Delilah and Greg were addicted to the slot machines; they each walked around carrying a plastic cup of quarters and would stop to play when someone else in the group went to the bathroom. In the MGM Grand, Addison hit it big. The coins splashed down. He won seventeen hundred dollars. Everyone else groaned. Of all of them, Addison needed the money the least! He seemed abashed by the win; he pinkened all the way over his bald pate—or maybe he’d gotten too much sun by the pool with Phoebe.

I’ll buy dinner! he said. Wherever you want to go!

They all agreed this was a wonderful idea, despite the rule of no gifts.

They went to Le Cirque, because they had all heard of it—even the Chief, who claimed to know nothing about the finer things in life. Addison had actually been to the original Le Cirque in New York with his first wife. (She had gone to boarding school with one of Sirio Maccioni’s sons.) Phoebe complained that it was no fun to be the second wife and lead the second life with a person who had done it all—and done it well—the first time around. She complained privately to Delilah as they moved en masse down the strip through the throngs of people, sidestepping the short immigrant men who handed out cheap business cards about massage and dancing girls. Delilah was only half listening. She had had a fight with Jeffrey and could not stop fretting about it.

The fight had taken place as they were getting ready for dinner. Delilah ordered a bottle of Sancerre from room service. It arrived, elegant and cold, and Delilah, wrapped in her white waffled robe, waited as the bellman poured two glasses. She tipped him ten dollars.

Jeffrey was soaking, dutifully, in the two-person tub. The tub was merely atmosphere, it was foreplay. Delilah had it all planned out: wine together in the tub, wild sex either on the impressive acreage of their California king bed or on the plush bathroom rug, followed by a long shower for Delilah. She wanted to get the cigarette smoke and the twenty-four-hour miasma of the casino out of her hair and off her skin. But when she submerged in the tub and handed Jeffrey his wine, he said, “You really disappoint me. You know that?”

It was his choice of the word disappoint that struck Delilah first. It was such a parental word. “Why?” Delilah said.

“Carrying on like you did with Greg at the Hoover Dam.”

“Carrying on?”

“You were like a couple of kids. The pot joke. The sex stories. And then you lifted your skirt in front of everyone. You pissed in front of everyone. I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Mortified. You’re a grown woman. You’re my wife.”

“So?”

“You have no idea how to behave. No sense of decorum.”

“Decorum?”

“It was disgusting. Three beers at lunch and a shot of tequila?”

She didn’t realize he’d seen the shot of tequila, but yes, Greg had shanghaied her on the way back from the ladies’ room and they’d each thrown back a shot of Patron silver, quick and neat.

“I can’t stand this,” she said.

“What?”

“Being monitored like this. Being lectured on decorum . We’re on vacation, Jeffrey. We’re in Las Vegas .”

“That’s no excuse.”

She stood up, unsteadily, and climbed out of the tub.

“Fuck you,” she said, though she meant the opposite. There would be no wild sex. She stepped into the shower. When she emerged, Jeffrey was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his navy suit, looking somber and morose, like a funeral director.

“I want an apology,” he said.

“Apology?” Delilah said. “Ha! I’m the one who deserves an apology.”

“And why is that?” He turned his head stiffly, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Because you’re acting like my father,” she said. She pulled a dress on over her head. Phoebe would have something new for tonight, a thought that was both demoralizing and infuriating. Phoebe had worn a new dress every night of the trip so far. “And don’t forget, I ran away from my father.”

“Meaning what?” Jeffrey said.

“Meaning what do you think?” Delilah said. She foraged through her suitcase for her other black slingback. There was a knock at the door.

It was Tess, fresh-faced and grinning like a Girl Scout.

“Ready?” she said.

Still, they were happy at dinner. Le Cirque was as glamorous a place as Delilah had ever eaten in, and she was relaxed knowing that Addison would take the bill. He ordered two bottles of Cristal. Delilah’s spirits rose. Greg was to her left, Jeffrey to her right, and Andrea on Jeffrey’s other side. Tess was next to Greg, Addison between Tess and Phoebe, the Chief between Phoebe and Andrea. The vacation had them breaking up into small groups, it had them rearranging and forging unusual allies, but when they sat down for a meal together, they always sat like this.

It was curious.

The champagne came and Phoebe, assuming the role of first lady (because Addison was paying for dinner or because she had organized the trip, Delilah wasn’t sure), wanted to make a toast.

“To us,” she said. “The Castaways.”

“The Castaways!” everyone said. Glasses clinked, none crossing! (Phoebe swore it was bad luck.) Delilah sipped her Cristal. She was normally counted on to get the conversation rolling, but tonight she wouldn’t do it. She wasn’t in the mood. No one understood how difficult it was to come up with new, interesting things to talk about with people who had exhausted every topic under the sun. No one gave her any credit for her conversational gymnastics, and she was pretty sure Jeffrey resented it. How many times had she heard it? You talked a lot at dinner. Tonight she would observe all the rules of proper decorum. She would not get bawdy. She would not be the first one to bring up sex, or drinking, or other lewd topics. She pressed her lips shut.

There was a lull at the table. They were waiting for her. What is the greatest song the Rolling Stones ever recorded? I say “Loving Cup.” Andrea, how about you? No, she wouldn’t. Was anyone looking at her? She didn’t care. She didn’t care if they ate their whole meal in awkward silence. She studied her menu.

Out of the blue, the Chief started talking. This was truly amazing, as the Chief normally said very little, in the way that serious men who had important, quasi-confidential jobs said very little. The Chief had apparently bumped into an officer with the LVPD at the roulette wheel. The Chief showed his badge. The other officer was on the vice squad, he said. The Chief and this officer chatted it up for quite a while.

“You would not believe the things he told me,” the Chief said.

“Like what?” Delilah said, forgetting to keep her mouth shut.

The Chief drank from his beer bottle (the waiter had wanted to pour the beer in a glass, but the Chief held his palm up and said, It comes in a glass, in a way that was very Chief-like). He shook his head at Delilah. He wasn’t going to tell them anything else. He was famous for bringing up teasers like that and letting them drop.

Okay, fine, forget it, Delilah wouldn’t push it, though the life of a Las Vegas vice squad officer sounded fascinating if you loved the raw and the raunchy, which Delilah did—and it would be relevant besides. But she’d taken a vow of silence and she meant to stick to it.

Phoebe regaled the table with details of her hours by the pool— Okay, does everyone in this town have fake boobs or what? —and Delilah’s mind wandered. It became clear, now that she had stepped out of her role as the conversational master of ceremonies, how firmly established that role was. They all had their roles, each one of them; they had their personalities, proclivities, interests, likes and dislikes. They were adults, they were known quantities. Was this good or bad? They could not surprise each other. They were not likely to change or act out of character. Like the Chief insisting on drinking his beer from a bottle, even here at Le Cirque, because that was how he drank his beer. Utterly predictable.

But the roles gave them comfort, the lack of surprise lent security, a sense of understanding, friendship, family, acceptance. Right?

The Chief was their spiritual leader. He was their man in case of emergency; he was the best problem solver (though Jeffrey was a damn close second). He was the police chief, he knew everything and he knew it first, but he gave nothing away. The man was a vault. If they ever broke him open, what would they find? A treasure trove of secrets and confidences bound up by his honor. The Chief was principled and discreet. He was part of a fraternity across the country, across the world. Law enforcement. The earth’s finest.

Andrea was the den mother, Mother Earth, Mother Nature. Delilah had always thought it would be boring to be Andrea—she was matronly, sexless, she wore skirts to the knee and one-piece bathing suits, she wore comfortable shoes—but Andrea seemed content. She wasn’t looking for anything, she wasn’t searching for herself, trying on identities or attitudes the way Delilah sometimes did, the way Tess and Phoebe did, too. Andrea had a firm grip on who she was, and this left her plenty of time and energy to focus on others (the Chief, her kids, Tess). When Delilah was sixty or seventy, she wanted to be just like Andrea. She said this once to Jeffrey, and Jeffrey made a face indicating that he found this statement ridiculous or inappropriate. Jeffrey had been in love with Andrea years and years ago; they had dated, kissed, groped, copulated, fallen in love, moved in together. They had talked about marriage and kids. But back then, Jeffrey wasn’t ready. Andrea was the first woman he’d made love to (Jeffrey’s long-time girlfriend in high school and college, Felicity Hammer, was a devout Baptist, determined to remain chaste until her wedding day, and so for six years Jeffrey was dragged along on that virginal ride). But Jeffrey didn’t leave Andrea because he had wild oats to sow; he left her because he had real oats to sow, real corn, real vegetables. He’d inherited a hundred and sixty-two acres of fertile farmland, a legitimate business opportunity, and he wanted to succeed. He could not put the farm first and put Andrea first. They broke up. It was, in his words, very sad.

This could have moved Delilah right along to thinking about Jeffrey, but she couldn’t allow herself to deconstruct him. He was her husband, she knew him too well, and she was angry. She would skip him. You really disappoint me. God, it infuriated her, but it did not surprise her.

Addison was talking now, rescuing them from Phoebe’s discourse on life as seen from the chaise longue. He was describing Las Vegas real estate trends (Addison loved trends) and how the old casinos—the Sands, the Golden Nugget, the Desert Inn—were being medicine-balled and replaced by theme-park giants—the Luxor, the Venetian, Treasure Island.

The waiter reappeared, and they ordered. Delilah ordered the salade frisee avec lardons and the steak. Jeffrey wanted the beets, but would not order them because they were out of season. And so he went with the grapefruit and avocado salad and the pasta with lump crabmeat. (Even their ordering could not surprise her. Phoebe ordered a salad with roasted vegetables. Addison and the Chief got the steak, like Delilah.)

Addison was the businessman, the money man. His last name was Wheeler, and every single person on Nantucket called him “Wheeler Dealer.” Addison was tall and thin and bald; he wore horn-rimmed glasses. He was part nerd, part aristocrat. His father had owned a carpet and flooring business in New Brunswick; his mother had been a nurse in the infirmary at Rutgers. Until high school, Addison’s life had been very Exit 8. It had been McDonald’s after football games; it had been Bruce Springsteen and summers spent “down the shore.” But like cream, Addison rose to the top. If you believed him, he did so without trying. He was bright, polite, and charming. He had a silver tongue. He was a social genius, and because of this, he stood out. The junior high school principal suggested that Addison make a run at boarding school, where he could take advantage of some real opportunities.

He got into Lawrenceville based on his interview alone. From Lawrenceville he went to Princeton, where he was president of his eating club, Cottage. There was something funny about his graduation, and by funny Delilah meant peculiar—he hadn’t had the correct credits at the end of his senior year to get his diploma. He had finished up the following summer at Rutgers. Had he graduated from Rutgers, then, technically? Or was it a Princeton diploma with a Rutgers asterisk? Delilah had also heard that Addison had been thrown out of Princeton for conducting an affair with the wife of the dean of arts and sciences, whom Addison had met at a faculty cocktail party he’d crashed. Now that sounded like Addison, but Delilah did not have confirmation of that story, and the one time she had been brave enough to ask Phoebe, Phoebe had said dismissively, I can’t keep track of all the stories. The man has had nine lives.

That was the truth about Addison: he had had nine lives. The stories were too numerous and byzantine to keep track of. Which were real and which were lore? He claimed to have lived in Belfast, Naples, and Paris while working as a broker for Coldwell Banker. But he had only just turned forty: how had he possibly fit it all in? He spoke fluent French and Italian, he spoke Gaelic, he knew everything there was to know about food and wine, painting, sculpture, architecture, classical music, literature. His first wife was an anorexically thin rubber heiress named Mary Rose Garth, who had a brownstone on Gramercy Park and a penchant for younger men—her personal trainer, the handsome Puerto Rican doorman. Mary Rose had taken Addison for the ride of his life; she had shown him all of the best ways in the world to spend money. But she had been too much even for Addison; they divorced amicably, and Mary Rose now lived in Malibu with their daughter, Vanessa. If you were to believe Addison, Mary Rose and Vanessa shared boyfriends.

Delilah ate her steak. She had asked for it rare and it had come perfectly cooked, seared on the outside, dark pink on the inside. Addison had also ordered his steak rare, but the Chief had ordered his well done. (Predictable.) They had moved on to drinking a red wine from Argentina—shocking, since Addison was a Francophile. But it was the most incredible wine Delilah had ever tasted. It was like drinking velvet. It was like drinking the blood of your one true love. If she said this, everyone would laugh. Phoebe would say, God, Delilah, you are so clever, and mean it, and Jeffrey would shake his head, embarrassed.

Andrea was talking about her kids. Dullsville. But Delilah would not save her.

In her mind, she moved on to Phoebe. Phoebe was Delilah’s best friend, though they were an odd match. Phoebe was blond, stick-thin, never caught in public without perfectly applied Chanel lipstick. She was a cruise director, a cheerleader; she was the pep squad. She was a trophy wife. She liked being all these things; the stereotype was her identity and she relished it. The shopping, the waxing, the Valentino heels, the Dior perfume, her slavish devotion to Sex and the City. She did not cook, she did not clean or do laundry, but she did take spinning and yoga classes, she did avoid red meat, as well as chicken and fish and all starches. It seemed like she ate the same way that she drank champagne: sparingly, on special occasions. Tonight she had ordered a beautiful leafy salad with a timbale of roasted vegetables, but at home it was all rice cakes, navel oranges, and mineral water.

What Delilah had learned, however, was that there was depth to Phoebe. The woman was a fantastic administrator. She sat on the boards of directors of two charities, she cochaired events that raised ludicrous amounts of money. She ran her consulting business with acuity; she was as shrewd as Addison—shrewder, perhaps, because whereas Addison was acknowledged as being shrewd, Phoebe was considered ditzy and vacuous.

Phoebe came from a close-knit family from Milwaukee. She had grown up with loving parents and a twin brother, Reed, whom she adored. They were the kind of twins who created their own language; they were, in Phoebe’s words, “just like the twins in Flowers in the Attic , minus all the nasty stuff.” Her parents, Joan and Phil, were still married, still living in a center-hall colonial in Whitefish Bay, still sustaining themselves on the milk and cheese of Phoebe and Reed’s youth. Reed was a fantastically successful bond trader in New York. Phoebe talked to him at least twice a day. He invested her money. He had made her millions.

Something fell and hit Delilah’s foot. It was… Greg’s spoon, one of Greg’s many spoons. (This dinner required the full Emily Post lineup of utensils.) He bent down to retrieve it, a very un-Emily-Post-like move. (How many times had Delilah’s mother told her that when you dropped a utensil, you were to leave it be and ask the server to bring you another one?) Delilah felt Greg’s fingers fondling her left heel. She was shocked, but she kept her expression steady. His fingers kept going; he dragged them up the back of Delilah’s calf to the crease in her knee. This was outrageous. It was unprecedented. There had been new allies forged on this trip, yes, and maybe Greg, like Jeffrey, was recalling their flirtatious afternoon at the Hoover Dam—but to fondle her foot under the table during dinner?

Greg surfaced like a kid trolling the bottom of a swimming pool for coins, holding his spoon aloft.

“Got it!”

It might seem like Addison and Phoebe were the couple who were the most mysterious, respectively unknowable and misunderstood, but Delilah was baffled by Greg and Tess. Because they, somehow, had won. They were everybody’s favorites. They were Boy Bright and Suzie Sunshine; they had what everybody wanted.

With Greg, it was easy to understand. Greg was, after all, their rock star. He played guitar and piano; he sang. He had shaggy brown hair and intense green eyes and a day of growth on his face. He was six feet tall—shorter than Jeffrey by five inches and Addison by three—but his body was that of a professional surfer. He had six-pack abs and the shoulders of Adonis. He had a vine tattoo encircling his left bicep. He wore two silver hoops in his left ear and a silver ring on the second toe of his left foot, which only someone like Greg could pull off. If there was a woman in the world who was resistant to the charms of Greg MacAvoy, Delilah had yet to meet her. In a way, Delilah was immune. (His looks and charm were a virus she had encountered many times before.) She prided herself on being Greg’s buddy, his partner in crime. She did not fantasize about Greg; she did not desire him.

(But this thing that had just transpired under the table—what was this? A joke, she decided. A harmless funny.) She looked at Tess. Had Tess noticed anything strange? She had not. She was listening with ridiculous, eager attention to Andrea talk about Eric’s crush on the elementary school art teacher.

Tess was the ingenue, the baby sister. She was Amy in Little Women; she was Franny Glass. Adored, coddled, spoiled, adored some more.

It helped that she was small—five feet tall, ninety-seven pounds—and it helped that she had thick dark hair cut into a bob and tucked behind her ears, showing off her pearl earrings or her microscopic diamond studs. It helped that she had freckles and a Minnie Mouse voice. It helped that she was the nicest, kindest, most generous person on the face of the earth. She loved babies and animals. She cried at movies and AT she loved Greg and Andrea and the Chief and the rest of them with unbridled intensity. It felt good to have Tess like you, to have Tess love you; it felt like sunshine, it felt like warm chocolate sauce over your ice cream.

Greg was no dummy. He could have had any woman he wanted and so he snapped up the prize: Tess DiRosa. He had been playing with his band at the Muse and Tess had been in the front row, wearing—how many times had Delilah heard the story?—jeans and a green bandanna on her hair. And Greg said to his bass player, Hey, that little Gidget girl is hot.

They were, now, the perfect couple.

Or were they? Delilah was suspicious. She didn’t believe in perfect couples. She didn’t believe in perfect families. Delilah told off-color jokes and stories, she threw decorum to the wind, and people liked this about her because on some level everyone related. Life was messy. It did fart and burp, it left a stink in the bathroom and bloodstains on the sheets. Polite society had an underbelly. People led complicated, secret lives, and this fascinated Delilah.

But what did she know?

Greg’s hand on her foot. Her leg!

Dessert was served, and Delilah was tired of thinking. She wanted to talk. She cleared her throat, and everyone at the table looked at her. They were hungry for her.

“Greatest band of all time,” Delilah said. “Who is it?” She pointed at Greg. “You’re not allowed to say the Porn Stars.”

“Or the European Bikinis,” Addison said.

They were off and running.

By the time they left Le Cirque, they were all drunk. Happy drunk! Too drunk for Wayne Newton, too drunk for Barry Manilow, too drunk for O. Too drunk for the crooner in the cheesy lounge at Caesars who liked to end his cabaret show with “Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain.”

But not ready for bed. Not yet! It wasn’t even midnight!

What to do? The Bellagio fountains—again? No. The white tigers at the Mirage? No. A drink at the Venetian? No. Slots? Maybe, just for a minute. Howie Mandel? No.

They decided to go to Circus Circus to ride the roller coaster. This was Tess’s idea, and since she was Cindy Brady, and since she never got to decide anything, that was what they did. They were all dressed up, but no matter. They filed two by two (couples only this time) into the roller-coaster cars, with Delilah and Jeffrey up front. Delilah leaned her head against Jeffrey’s shoulder; she squeezed the hell out of Jeffrey’s farmer hand, which was as wide and sturdy as a spade. No one would believe this, it would in fact surprise them, but Delilah was afraid of roller coasters. Terrified. And not just in the way that normal people were afraid of roller coasters. She was in full freak-out mode. Her heart was a crazed animal that had been zapped with high-voltage electricity; she thought she might cry, or insist on staying on the ground where it was safe, but this was a group thing, Tess had picked it, and Delilah would not be the spoiler.

She clung to Jeffrey. The man was a walking, talking security blanket. He was not going to let anything happen to Delilah. That, in the end, was why she had married him. She didn’t need excitement or trouble from a man; she created enough of that on her own.

“You’re the best person in the world to ride a roller coaster with,” she said to her husband.

It seemed he did not need this explained to him. He took it the way it was meant. As an apology.

“Thank you,” he said.

The roller coaster lurched forward. Delilah shrieked. They hadn’t even gone anywhere. Here we go! Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! The roller coaster jerked upward, it ticked ominously up the incline. Delilah had her back braced against the seat. Her heart wanted out. Oh my God. It would be thrilling, she thought, a thrill all the better because it was so damn scary. They crested, the car hesitating at the top. Delilah could not see the bottom of the chute but she could sense it. The air beneath her, the breath-stealing trajectory.

They plunged. Delilah’s stomach fell away; it was somewhere over her head. She screamed. They all screamed.

(They hadn’t known, then, what was coming. They didn’t know about September 11, Phoebe’s twin brother jumping from the hundred and first floor; they didn’t know about lost pregnancies; they didn’t know about the pharmaceutical cornucopia targeted at post-traumatic stress disorder; they didn’t know about the ways their marriages would fall apart and then be saved; they didn’t know about affairs or love realigning; they didn’t know about a girl named April Peck or the shitstorm she would create; they didn’t know they were going to leave and be left. They didn’t know they were going to die.)

They screamed. Back then, they had all been happy.