Talk Before Sleep by Elizabeth Berg

her Joan-and-David heels and stand before her opponent, still talking in her soft voice, and she will win, because the person can’t look up at her and feel that he has any authority. “It’s like all of a sudden they’re in their bathrobes, with bed head,” Ruth said.On the phone with Andrew, Sarah’s manner is so cool and decisive it forbids conflict. I’ll never be able to handle myself the way Sarah does. It requires a certain maturation I don’t expect to ever achieve. Every time Andrew has tried to persuade (bully, L.D. says) Ruth into coming to his house for “final care,” as he calls it, Sarah has always taken the phone and told him to fuck himself. In a very nice way.
    “She does have the right to change her mind,” Andrew says now.
    “And if she does I’m sure she’ll tell you.” I realize my voice has gotten loud, and I return to a quieter one, saying, “We’re taking good care of her, you know. Someone’s with her all the time.”
    “I know that,” he says, and I suddenly have an image of him staring out his window, seeing a Christmas morning when he and Ruth sat cross-legged in their pajamas, ripping open presents. I see his hand go deep into his pocket, seeking the comfort of spare change.
    “I mean, this party thing,” I say. “She really did suggest it. I think the notion of a lot of her friends around—”
    Ruth is up out of bed and standing at the entrance to her living room. “Who’s that?” she asks, rubbing one eye.
    “Your brother.” I hand her the phone.
    “Andy-man,” she says, sitting down and drawing her flannel shirt around her tighter. It’s a deep-blue plaid, makes her eyes stand up and salute. “Hi, sweetie, how are you?”
    A long pause. I go back into the kitchen, put my finger to my lips, sit at the table and eavesdrop with allmy might. As does everyone else. Helen’s teacup is in midair.
    “Oh, no,” we hear her saying. “No, I don’t think I want to, Andy.”
    Long pause.
    “I know you do, I know you would. But I want to stay here.”
    Longer pause, then Ruth’s voice, hesitant, “Yes, I have thought about that. But they’re taking good care of me. I’m all right.”
    “Goddamn him,” L.D. says.
    “Shhhh!” the rest of us say.
    But Ruth is talking too low for us now, and she does, after all, deserve some privacy in her own house. We return to the guest list. “So. No guys, right?” L.D. says. The air has changed, and, like oath takers, together the rest of us solemnly answer, “Right.”
    When Ruth is off the phone, she comes into the kitchen. The phone rings again. She sighs, asks L.D. to get it for her.
    “It’s Joel somebody,” L.D. says. “Do you want to talk?”
    Ruth sucks in a breath, lays a hand across her chest. “Joel? Really? Joel
Fratto?”
    L.D. shrugs.
    Ruth goes into the living room, and we hear her say, “Is this Joel Fratto?” Then she nearly yells, “No! No! I don’t believe this! How did you find me?”
    “Who’s that?” Sarah asks.
    I don’t know, and neither does L.D., but Helen says, “That’s her old boyfriend, the one she had before she married Shithead.”
    “The artist?” I ask.
    Helen nods. “He was really handsome. She’s got a picture somewhere. He’s on a motorcycle, with no shirt.”
    I feel a blip of jealousy—I’ve never seen that picture.
    “I wonder why he’s calling,” I say. “Do you think he knows?”
    Ruth comes into the kitchen, flushed and wide-eyed. “He’s coming over here,” she says. “I’ve got a fucking
date!”
    “Who is this guy?” L.D. asks.
    Sarah stands up to give Ruth her chair. “Are you sure you feel okay to see him?”
    Ruth pushes a pile of insurance forms on the kitchen table out of the way, sits there. “This is the fourth day in a row I’ve felt absolutely fine,” she says. “God, Joel Fratto!”
    “What the hell kind of name is that?” L.D. asks.
    “He was so wonderful,” Ruth answers.
    “What about this party, Ruth?” L.D. wants to know.