The noise startled Ruth, who was dozing in her chair, half aware of Frida’s cleaning the kitchen. Ruth was pulled from a dream about a trapeze and a public swimming pool; she was hoisted in the air, on the trapeze, and the water glinted below, dangerous in some indefinable, chlorinated way. Frida answered the phone. “Yes, Jeff,” she said. “A little adventure, yes. She’s fine, the silly duck. She probably won’t remember any of it tomorrow.” And then: “Now, Jeff, it’s not exactly—” And finally: “Sure, sure, here she is.” Frida presented the phone to Ruth, then returned to scrubbing the brown kitchen. Ruth held the receiver to her ear. “Ma? I just had a phone call from Ellen Gibson.” Jeffrey’s voice came at Ruth from around a suspicious corner. “Lovely Ellen!” said Ruth. “I hear you went into town today. What was that for?” “I felt like it,” said Ruth. She suspected she was in trouble, but couldn’t decide how to feel about it. “I’m allowed, aren’t I?”
