Heroic Measures by Jill Ciment

pudding-thick, is bubbling, but Rudolph takes a bite of his chicken anyway. He chases it with ice water. “You need nuclear fission to get food that hot,” he says.
    “All the more reason to have an ample supply of iodide pills,” May says. She turns to Ruth and Alex. “Have you found a place yet?”
    “We just started looking,” Ruth says. “Everything is so expensive.”
    “You should get the hell out of here while you can,” Rudolph says.
    “Maybe the stairs are a blessing, at least they’re forcing you to make a decision,” May says. “We talk about leaving all the time. Move the gallery to Santa Fe. But our son despises Santa Fe, so we do nothing about it. You knowwhat a weekend like this does to us? Nothing. Rudolph checks to make sure the kayak’s inflated and all I feel is lassitude. I’m like a gazelle caught in a lion’s jaw—limp, numb, resigned to my fate. Our son thinks the only reason Osama hasn’t struck again is because he has the Hollywood syndrome. Now that he’s had an extravaganza, he’s not going to settle for a small, artful, independent feature.”
    “Before we all run off to the South Seas, remember, this is the dreck we’ll be eating,” Rudolph says, spearing the last of his chicken, and then pushing away his empty plate.
    “It is awful, isn’t it,” May says, setting down her cutlery. She’s barely touched her food.
    Alex’s perch is long gone and Ruth’s dinner is just crumbs now, though she has no memory of what anything tasted like.
    Rudolph reaches for his fork and begins picking at May’s untouched chicken. “Didn’t you say that the
Times
gave it a good review?”
    The waiter appears. “Would you like to hear about our desserts? Tonight we have fried mango sorbet with guava syrup and cheesecake.”
    “They make cheesecake on the equator?” Rudolph asks.
    “I believe our cheesecake comes from Passaic, New Jersey.”
    “The check, please,” May says, quietly handing the waiter her credit card as he leaves.
    “We’ll pay the tip,” Alex announces.
    “I wouldn’t tip this guy,” Rudolph says.
    “Is Dorothy allowed visitors?” May turns to Ruth.
    “We forgot to ask.”
    On the street, the two couples hug good-bye.
    “You’ll call us about Dorothy?” May says.
    “Thank you for everything,” Ruth whispers.
    “Next time dinner’s on us,” Alex announces.
    “Let me know when you want the paintings moved,” Rudolph says.
    “Good luck tomorrow,” May adds.
    Ruth, a head shorter than May, and Alex, almost two heads shorter than Rudolph, watch their friends start west toward Fifth Avenue, the waist-length braid swinging behind them.
    “I know she was only trying to be kind,” Ruth says. “But how could anyone imagine that facing five flights of stairs at our age is a blessing?”
    “I’m not sure the warehouse is such a good idea,” Alex says.
    They turn and head east toward the projects.
    The temperature has risen: the air feels almost balmy. Ruth unknots her scarf, undoes the top button on her overcoat: she’s always the hotter of the two. Alex puts on his red baseball cap. It’s a little after eight, early by East Village standards. The Saturday-night crowd isn’t even awake yet. The dominatrix haute-couture shop, the trance music store, the drug paraphernalia stand are all empty. Tompkins Square, lit by old-fashioned arc lamps, looks especially inviting. Ruth takes Alex’s arm and they enter the park. The snow on the path has already melted, butabove them, in the latticework of elm branches, whiteness abounds. It’s a white Alex would mix with Chremnitz white and a touch of hansa yellow.
    When Ruth looks up, it’s not the snow she notices; it’s the black pieces of night between the white branches. At this time of year, the sky usually looks as low and gray as a tin ceiling, but tonight, it looks exactly like what it is— infinite.
    On warm winter Saturday evenings, the park’s normally overrun with suburban teenagers, blasting