Far-Flung by Peter Cameron

the picnic table, roused himself at the sound of his name.
    “I’m going to miss him,” Joanna said.
    “You could get another dog.”
    “Not really. Not in an apartment.”
    “You could get a cat.”
    “I could.” Joanna began examining Virgil’s ears for ticks.
    “Are you seeing anyone?” Ruth asked.
    Joanna looked up at her. “What?” she said.
    Ruth repeated her question. In the dark it was easy: You just looked down and away and spoke.
    “No,” Joanna said.
    She’s lying, Ruth thought.
    “What about you?” Joanna asked.
    Ruth shook her head.
    “What about Tamar?” Joanna asked.
    Tamar was in Slavic Languages. “What about her?”
    Joanna had returned her attention to Virgil’s ears. “I just thought you might, you know, be interested in Tamar.”
    “No,” Ruth said. “Besides, I don’t think she’s gay.”
    Joanna laughed.
    “I’m sure she’s not,” said Ruth. “Besides, it doesn’t matter.”
    “It would if you were interested in her.”
    “I’m not,” Ruth said.
    Joanna completed her search by ruffling Virgil’s ears. “Finito,” she said.
    “Did you find any?” Ruth asked.
    “No. But he got a lot on the island.” Joanna sat back in her chair, and looked about the dark backyard. “How’s the garden doing?” she asked.
    “Fine,” said Ruth. In the dark it looked as if it might be doing fine.
    “Could I take some tomatoes back?” Joanna stood up and walked down toward the garden fence.
    Ruth followed. “I don’t think there are any left,” she said. “I’ve picked all the good ones.”
    “Have you? Already?”
    “Yes,” said Ruth. Up close, in the moonlight, the garden looked a mess. She could sense Joanna’s not commenting, her wanting to go in and set it all to rights: prune and tie and weed. There is something ruthless about gardening, Ruth thought. It’s not natural.
    “I canned all the tomatoes,” she lied.
    “Did you really?” said Joanna.
    “Yes. I want to make sauces this winter,” Ruth said. “I plan to do a lot of entertaining.”
    “You’ll have to give me a jar,” said Joanna.
    “Yes,” said Ruth. “They’re in the pantry.” She’ll forget, she thought; she forgets everything.
    Joanna loitered at the garden’s edge.
    Ruth said, “You must be tired. All that driving.”
    “I am,” Joanna said. “I think I’ll go to bed.” She looked up at the stars. She seemed about to say something.
    Ruth stood still, waiting.
    “Good night,” Joanna said.
    There were no canned tomatoes in the pantry. There was very little of anything in the pantry, Joanna noticed. She turned out the pantry light and looked around the kitchen. There were several pictures of Devon and Denise, Ruth’s nephew and niece, stuck to the refrigerator. Joanna looked at them. They both looked older and less cute. Devon had braces.
    Joanna did the dishes she had brought in from outside. Through the kitchen window she could see Ruth sitting at the picnic table, drinking wine and talking to Virgil. It was obvious that she was drunk. This is why I didn’t want to stay here, Joanna thought, I didn’t want to see this. But she could not look away. It was like one of those violent, fascinating traffic accidents you pass on the highway: debacles you feel compelled, against your better judgment, to observe.
    Ruth lay in bed, watching the small, mean hours of the morning go by. At four o’clock she got out of bed. She’d sit in the living room. Maybe Joanna was having trouble sleeping, too. Maybe if she heard her, she’d get up. They could drive out to Dairy Maid for breakfast.
    Virgil followed her down the hall. They paused outside the guest room door. Ruth stood for a moment clasping its knob. It was a beautiful knob: cut glass. They had found them in the attic when they bought the house, and restored them.
    Ruth opened the door. The moonlight was sudden and bright: It looked as if it had just been turned on. Joanna slept on her stomach, her head mashed into the pillow,