Frank Perrone

He has one job. It’s not even a job—it’s a privilege and an honor: making love to his beautiful wife. On an August Saturday morning at first light, end of summer, a day off for both of them, the window raised and a quiet breeze from the lake fluttering the curtains. This is the day Frank looks forward to every week after long hours of work, after the neck pain and back knots from standing for hours wrapped in a lead apron, when he and Jess habitually linger in bed upon waking and pay each other the attention they want and deserve from each other. Bedroom door closed, kids still asleep, phones silenced. The time is theirs and theirs alone.

Jess slips out of bed—naked, they both sleep naked, and she still looks amazing, a lot better than he does he hates to admit—and she scuttles into the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth. Instead of waiting and taking his turn to do the same so they can kiss each other without bog breath and make love with bladders emptied, he gets up and throws on shorts and a T-shirt and heads downstairs and into the yard.

He needs to get a jump on the to-do list because finally their friend group is getting together again later today, and he and Jess are hosting. He’s nagged by the thought the propane level in the tank might be low and he can’t risk running out while he’s grilling. It’s hard to make love with that on your mind. The grates on the grill are crusty from the last cookout and need a good cleaning and what better time than six-thirty in the morning for that greasy chore. The patio furniture needs wiping down. And he wants to set up the telescope because tonight is a new moon and the forecast calls for clear skies and he can give their friends an opportunity to star gaze. Evan is big fan of looking at the stars and can name constellations. Nick might have something deep and philosophical to say about the universe.

Frank came up with the idea for the get together, and Jess agreed it was time to establish a new normal and socialize with their friends again. Ever the host, Frank is. Loves parties, telling tales and listening to his guests tell theirs, ready to go the distance and be the last one standing, hospitality always top of mind: whose glass is empty, who needs a place to sit, who’s standing alone without a conversation partner? Pair Frank with Jess, who instinctively tunes into the desires of others, add a lakeside house with an ideal setup for entertaining—patio, outdoor sink and bar, seating under a pergola, firepit, grill, cabana to change into your swimming wear—and you’ve got a Fourth of July cookout or Labor Day party you don’t want to miss. Or simply a lowkey get together that stretches into the night with the six of them. Well, now the five of them without Shauna. But they’ll have a sixth this afternoon because Nick and Steph’s father, Don Biel, is joining.

He opens the metal door at the bottom of the grill cabinet. The gauge on the tank is pointing towards empty. See, he was right. There might be enough fuel to get through one more grilling, but maybe not. Can’t risk it. He’ll get the spare tank filled this morning on his way to the grocery store. That’s a third stop: supermarket, liquor store, hardware store. Fourth stop: dispensary. Although Nick will probably bring weed—edibles, vape pens, pre-rolls. He’s always got something on him.

He runs the brush over the grates, gently at first because the scraping might disturb the neighbors this early in the morning. One thing about lakefront property: you get the incredible water view but the lots are narrow and your neighbors tight on either side. When he and Jess moved to Lake Evient for Frank’s work, he insisted they buy a waterfront home. There weren’t many available and the prices were jaw-dropping, but they eventually found a house on the preferred eastern shore. Having a house on Lake Evient was like living at a resort—one they had to maintain, one where they had to provide for their own amenities, but one that gave them deep pleasure and satisfaction and offered them the perfect setting for hosting their friends: swimming in the summer, ice skating in the winter, colorful views in the fall.

He forgets about making too much noise and adds rigor to his brushing motion, then runs the scraper over the grates to remove all the crust on the sides. He wipes away the grease with a rag. When finished, he replaces the grates over the burners and cleans his hands on a second rag, then tosses both rags into a pail by the side of the grill. His phone chimes and he checks the message. His stomach flares. Uncertainty consumes him, an alien sensation he hasn’t learned to manage given his decisive nature. No one would describe Frank as wishy-washy. He has to answer the text, but at that moment Jess appears with two mugs in her hands. He places his phone face down and jumps up to help her. She doesn’t need his help. She sets both mugs down on the coffee table between two patio chairs.

“What, did I catch you texting with your girlfriend?”

“You’re my only girlfriend, sweetheart, forever and ever.”

“Look me in the eye when you say that.”

He chuckles, but barely glances at her. Guilt prevents him from connecting with her in any authentic way. He doesn’t have a girlfriend, and he doubts Jessica believes he does, but his recent inability to show up for his wife manifests in deep feelings of shame and inadequacy he does his best to hide or pretend don’t exist.

“Why did you get up?” she asks.

“I thought you weren’t coming back to bed.”

“I was just in the bathroom.”

“You should have said something.”

Of course he knew she was coming back to bed, and they would make love like they do every Saturday morning, except not for the last three because for one of them Frank was on call and had to go into work the previous overnight and by the time he got home was spent; on another he mentioned he wasn’t feeling well and that part was true, could be true at almost any time these days—his vigor, his verve, has gone MIA; and on the third Saturday, Anthony had knocked on the bedroom door and said his car wouldn’t start and he had to get to the marina, and so Frank got up to help him even though he knows squat about cars, and after both of them turned the starter over few times and agreed it might be a battery issue, Frank let Anthony use his car to get to work. And this morning makes a full month because when Jess got up to pee, Frank darted out.

Two fishermen troll in a motorboat a hundred yards out on the lake. Their voices carry across the unbroken expanse. The angled morning sun glints like crystals on the water’s flat surface.

“Frank, what is it? What’s bothering you?”

He shoots up from his chair. “You want to go back to bed right now?” He holds out his hand for her. “Come on, let’s go, baby! Let’s fuck! We have time!”

She fakes a laugh and dismisses him with a flick of her hand. “That’s so romantic. You’re sweeping me off my feet.”

After his showy display, Frank sits back down. That was a stupid gesture, like a bad play call at a pivotal moment in a game.

“I feel like you’re avoiding me,” she says. “What’s going on?”

She’s your wife. Your life partner. Look at her and answer. “Nothing, really,” he says. “Just bad timing. There’s a lot to do and I want to get to the store before it gets crowded. It’s mobbed on Saturdays. Have you written out a list?”

She doesn’t press him further. “Are we still grilling salmon and steaks?”

“And I’ve got that rack of ribs I’ve been meaning to cook. But don’t worry, I’ll do the grilling outside.”

Jess hesitates, then gets the reference. “I still can’t believe Don did that. The weird thing is when Steph called she didn’t sound that surprised about what happened.”

“Does anything ever faze that woman?”

“She was kind of blaming herself. Said she missed the signs of her father’s decline and should have been paying more attention.”

“Steph thinks she has to be perfect all of the time.”

“She mostly is. She said Don’s been to a neurologist and is on meds.”

“For dementia?”

“She didn’t use that word. She said cognitive decline.”

Docs are careful about using the word dementia, which is a general term for the impaired ability to remember, think, or make decisions. The word was frightening to patients. So they say cognitive impairment, or progressive cortical disease, and eventually dementia is mentioned and the dreaded A-word might be used, which was every bit as terrifying as the C-word.

“I’ve always liked Don,” Frank says. “He’s a good storyteller. I love hearing about some of the guys he’s defended. The Mafia guys. The white collar crooks.”

“I don’t know how he was able to represent some of those people. I’d find it very problematic.”

“Everyone deserves a fair trial in our justice system. Innocent until proven guilty, right?” Maybe that’s why he isn’t opening up to Jess: she’ll confirm his suspicions that he is guilty of some transgression—a previously hidden character flaw, a negative outlook, a foolish decision. Not the Frank Perrone she thinks she knows.

“I wish I felt that way about Shauna,” Jess says. “I’ve judged her and have trouble giving her the benefit of the doubt. But I have this deep resentment of her, and for how she treated Nick.”

“And how she treated her best friend,” Frank reminds her.

“I wonder how long she’s staying in California. Is she ever coming back? She hasn’t reached out to me at all.”

“I guess we’ll get the update from Nick tonight,” Frank says.

“He might not know himself. And he might not be ready to talk about it.”

“Will he have any choice if he’s with us?”

“I don’t think we should press him. He just got back from Yaddo, and he and Steph are dealing with their dad. We should make things easy for everyone.”

“You’re right. Let’s make sure everyone has a good time. That’s why we’re getting together, isn’t it?”

He has seven hours to summon the friendly, easy persona that’s his trademark as a host. He doesn’t understand the roots of his unease, or how it’s grown, or why. He’s the first to admit he’s not a self-reflecting, navel-gazing type. Never had to look deep inside himself or question his purpose or path in life. Never been agitated on an existential level. That hadn’t been a word in his vocabulary—existential. But now his balance is askew. Something is about to happen, and it’s not good. Sure, it’s understandable to feel this way. He isn’t the only one in distress. Nick and Shauna’s marriage has apparently detonated. He’s heard from Jess via Stephanie that Evan is seeing a therapist now—and Frank had always thought of Evan as rock-solid. But it’s not just Frank’s friends. The whole damn country is circling the drain with its corrupt leadership and political divisions, the rampant gun culture, the increasing attacks on minorities and the marginalized, the fabricated culture wars, the looming environmental catastrophe; with its unaffordable healthcare for a population growing sicker and older by the day—and fewer physicians to provide care for them. Frank can attest to that. He’s busier than ever at work. Day after day, hour after hour in the cath lab, dressed in scrubs and apron and peering at the computer screen while he manipulates wires to ream arteries and place stents so Steve and Alice and Trevon and Jamila can buy a few more years of life. And it isn’t just older people on the table. Every week he’s stenting guys in their forties, younger than him. Until recently, he’s been perfectly satisfied performing his job, believing his work essential and life-saving; lately, he feels like an extremely well-paid plumber unclogging pipes that in most cases are destined to clog again.

But if nothing else, Frank is a soldier, and therefore conditioned to soldier on. He won’t let his mental state affect today’s plans more than they already have (i.e., not making love to his wife—another thing he doesn’t understand), and he’s determined to get his act together because he and Jess haven’t hosted their friends in too long. It’s what he needs: see their friends again, laugh, loosen up, restore the roar.

He gets the shopping list from Jess and on the way out the door he says, “I love you, my incredible wife.” He is going to treat her like royalty today—and every day henceforth. She is kind and generous and understated. She is patient with him and appreciative of all he does for their family. She is an attentive and loving mother to Anthony and Sydney. They’ve been married twenty-four years. They have little in common and he loves her unconditionally.

He reaches under the driver’s seat to retrieve the prescription bottle. A single capsule rattles against the plastic walls, causing him a flit of panic. He’s burned through his supply way too quickly, not realizing he’s been taking so many.

He’s tempted to save the last one. It’s Saturday. He doesn’t need to perform, per se, or focus his attention on work. Still, he’s grown accustomed to the boost. He swishes his tongue inside his mouth until he summons enough spit, then swallows the capsule. It pauses in his throat, then slides down his gullet. He takes out his phone, taps on the Rx app, and submits a refill request.

He’s about to back out of the driveway when he remembers the propane. He puts the transmission in park and retrieves the empty spare tank from the shed and secures it in the cargo area of the car. He still has trouble wrapping his mind around Don Biel bringing his grill inside and setting his house on fire. It’s one of Frank’s fears, weighing more on him now that he’s fifty years old—the slow, miserable, inexorable descent into the fog of dementia. Who wouldn’t fear it? Like most intense fears, his was irrational. The odds are in his favor he won’t lose himself to dementia, but the odds are in your favor in terms of contracting any given disease or suffering any malady or being in any accident. Chances are, any named specific adverse event or illness won’t happen to you. Nonetheless, at some point something is coming for each of us, and for Frank, the worst possible fate would be dementia. Every time a fact slips his mind or a memory blurs, he gets anxious, and he’s been forgetting a few things lately. Like forgetting to make love to his wife this morning. He wasn’t even thinking of it when he got out of bed.

Last week while covering an on-call shift, he performed an angioplasty on a seventy-one-year-old woman who came into the emergency room complaining of chest pains. He identified two of the most occluded coronary arteries, inflated balloons through the catheter, and placed stents. It would be enough to help stabilize her while a decision was made on bypass, but later that night the woman suffered a cardiac infarction and died. It was difficult to lose a patient, and speaking to the family left him devastated, but at the same time he couldn’t help thinking her death had prevented her and her family from long-term anguish. On her list of medications was rivastigmine, used to treat early-stage dementia. To Frank, dying suddenly from a heart attack seemed like a blessing compared to a long drawn out death sentence in a most undignified manner. He understood not everyone might see things that way, and that some people lead rewarding lives for years while managing dementia, but he hoped when his number got called, it got called quickly. He didn’t want the long goodbye. When he once mentioned this to Jess she started to cry. “Please don’t talk that way,” she said. “Why do you even think that?”

“Because we’re getting older, Jess. It’s natural to start wondering about what’s inevitable.”

He shouldn’t have said anything to her.

“You’re only fifty, Frank. You’ve got a lot of healthy years left.”

One hopes, but he’s seen plenty of fifty-year-olds dying from heart failure—even ones who exercise and maintain healthy diets— which only reinforces his belief that life is basically a craps shoot, and so you’d better prepare the best you can for when the dice don’t roll your way. Which is the reason he’s already starting to put his affairs in order—the accounts, the estate planning, the updated will. He’s getting as much done as possible without having to pull Jess in.

He’s also signing up for extra shifts in the cath lab and earning more money to supplement his already hefty salary. And yet it never feels like enough, even though he paid off the loans ten years ago and he and Jess are not extravagant spenders. But life is fucking expensive for a family like his. It’s not easy to secure a solid safety net and future for the kids in the event of a catastrophe, which is why he’s considering investing in a private equity fund that his colleague, Shamir, told him about. It’s a small, boutique fund, under the radar, and managed by Shamir’s brother, an experienced Wall Street trader. The fund is limited to twenty investors, so it’s almost like a club, and one of the members just dropped out and now there’s an opening.

“Why did they drop out?” Frank asked.

“Passed away, age seventy-six. His widow, who didn’t even know about the investment, is now a wealthy woman.”

Define wealthy. But Frank knew the difference between comfortable and locked down secure, and it’s exactly the reason he should invest—to ensure the future financial security of his family.

“A chance like this doesn’t come up often, Frank.”

“The returns are decent?”

“Averaging over twenty percent year to date, and annual returns over sixteen percent.”

“Come on. The market is down twenty-three percent this year. Is this some kind of scheme?”

“Don’t take it from me, you can speak to my brother. He’ll explain his investment strategy.”

“Okay, let me think about it.”

“Don’t think long, Frank. I can pick ten other people who’d gladly take your place. I came to you because we’re colleagues and friends.”

“Send me your brother’s number.”

Shamir did, but Frank hasn’t called him yet. That was Tuesday. It had been Shamir texting him this morning when he’d put his phone face down and Jess asked about his girlfriend. He needed Frank’s answer before the markets opened Monday morning.

If he makes the call he’ll end up investing, and the minimum investment is gulper. He can swing the buy-in if he juggles assets, but he’d have to explain the situation to their current financial adviser, and he can’t afford to lose the funds. They’ve been financially supporting Jessica’s sister, Elena, who lives in Santa Cruz and has been unable to hold down a job because she’s dealing with mental health and substance use issues after a bad divorce and has three kids in elementary school. The Lake Evient Homeowners Association fees just went up again, as did property and school taxes. They have to start paying college tuition for the twins next year. He’d have to keep his investment shenanigans from Jessica, which is doable because she leaves most financial matters to him. But this feels beyond—sneaky, almost a betrayal—and he’ll be solely responsible if anything goes upside down.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Jess about the idea, but she isn’t a risk taker, she doesn’t understand the need for bold actions. Some people didn’t think she was very sharp because she isn’t ambitious and didn’t pursue a demanding career, but she’s smarter than he is. They’d met in their first year of medical school and all that year Jessica was near the top of the class, higher ranked than Frank, but she ended up dropping out when she got pregnant. She said she’d been thinking of dropping out anyway. Didn’t really want to be a physician, she decided, and then did a one-eighty and went back to school for library science, and now works three days a week in the Lake Evient public library. That first pregnancy ended in a second-trimester miscarriage. She didn’t get pregnant again for six years. The twins were born the year he joined the Lake District Cardiology Group, the same year they bought the house.

He’s been packing his retirement account and the accounts they had set up in trust for the kids, funneling more and more money each year in hopes he could buy their way out of trouble when the time comes, but with the current market conditions the more he put in the more he lost, which makes him work harder and he knows he’s on the hamster wheel. Now that he’s an employee of Evient Health System and not a partner in a private medical practice, he’s working more hours than ever, and the work itself has become more specialized and compartmentalized. He’s not sure what he expected when he decided on interventional cardiology—he was awed by the organ’s exquisite anatomical structure and complex functionality, yes, but another side of his interest went beyond the medical domain and into the heart’s great metaphysical mystery. He often recalled a phrase attributed to Blaise Pascal he learned in high school French: Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas.

The heart has its reasons that reason doesn’t know.

That phrase alone could explain a lot of human behavior. It’s also the extent of Frank’s philosophical musings. That stuff can bog you down and grind you to a halt. Like existential.

Being a cardiologist hasn’t gotten him any closer to the mystery of our most precious organ, although he’s often experienced divine feelings for saving so many lives, and that supreme-being sensation can go to your head and make you believe in your own invincibility, when in reality you’re just another dude. He’s now in his ninth year performing cardiac interventions, and for the last two he’s had to stave off boredom. More than boredom—ennui, exhaustion. He stays motivated by obsessing over finances, anchoring to his family, and popping a slow-release Adderall capsule every morning, possibly a second one later in the day if he’s on call. But he must have been taking a lot more than he realizes because he filled a ninety-day supply just last month.

He buys everything on the grocery list and on his way out of the supermarket he passes a young woman coming in. She wears cut-off shorts and a crop top that highlights a diamond piercing in her navel. Golden hair and tanned skin. Has her face in her phone and Frank is invisible to her, but he can’t help notice her, and yet—nothing. Not slightest stirring other than a jolt of anxiety for not feeling anything else.

It’s not a fair test. Frank doesn’t pay attention to other women. He doesn’t fantasize about possibilities. Jess has always been enough for him. But has he been enough for her?

Next stop is the hardware store. The attendant fills the propane tank and returns it to the back of Frank’s car. Frank double checks to make sure the valve is shut and the tank secure. At the pharmacy, he has to wait in line. When his turn comes, he says, “Prescription for Eugene Allen, birthdate December 17, 1958.”

Former patient, now dead, health records copied and massaged.

The clerk checks her computer and says yes, there is one prescription ready and she’ll be right back.

She hands him the bag with the instruction sheet stapled to it, asks Frank if he has any questions. Many, many questions he has, but none that she can answer.

The afternoon is an advertisement for the perfect end-of-summer day: azure sky, preening sun playing hide and seek with the occasional marshmallow cloud, temps in the upper seventies. Ideal conditions for an outdoor get-together. Nick brings the fixings to make the French 75: gin, simple syrup, lemon juice, and a topping of champagne. He stands behind the bar on the patio mixing and shaking and pouring into coupes, making a show of his bartending skills, then walks around serving everyone from a tray, starting with Frank and Jess, then on to Don, Stephanie, and Evan.

Frank raises his glass and offers a toast: “To friends and family, it’s sweet to be together again.”

The others echo their assent and drink. Oh, that’s tasty.

“Good work, Nick.”

“Where has the French 75 been my whole life?”

Evan takes his usual command of the music. He connects his phone to the Perrone’s speaker system and queues the playlist he’d compiled for the occasion: an eclectic mix of Dad rock, dance music, alt-country, hip-hop, soul, reggae, and classic rock. If you’re not into one song just wait for the next. Jessica and Stephanie carry out appetizers from the kitchen: guacamole, calamari ceviche, parmesan crisps. They sit in a haphazard semi-circle of Adirondack chairs by the water, facing the lake with the late afternoon sun beaming into their faces, everyone except Don in sunglasses, Evan with a Bills hat too. Never takes that thing off—because he’s a huge fan, and is going bald, the only one among the three men to start losing his hair, although he’s compensating nicely by having a stud physique from incessant working out now that he’s not employed. If that’s what unemployment can make you look like, sign me up, Frank thinks. Yeah right. As if he’ll ever be able to stop working—or have that body type.

It doesn’t take long for their glasses to be half empty, or half full, or a third full. Get ready to mix us another round, Nick. He does. Frank moves his telescope to the shore and steadies the tripod legs on the sloped terrain. He adjusts the tube angle and the focus dial while the first joint gets passed around, a pre-roll Nick picked up from the dispensary. They all take a hit, even Don, accompanied by a hoarse cough and the watchful eye of Stephanie, who only takes a small taste because if Steph gets too stoned she’ll zone out and stare at her fingers or a blade of grass.

Cocktails. Weed. Apps. Friends. Physician, heal thyself. This is just what the doctor ordered, and Frank begins to relax, he can actually feel his tension melting, like an invisible sweat evaporating from his skin. He glances toward Jessica, who catches his eye while she’s chatting with Don, and Frank looks away. Sure, buddy, now you’re feeling good, but what about earlier this morning—why didn’t you show up then?

Evan is talking about a wind farm that Nuvon Energy is proposing to build on the Evient Ridge that rises behind the lake and stretches along the southern shore. He’s surprised Frank and Jessica aren’t up on the news, since they live on the lake and are members of the homeowner’s association.

“How did you hear about this?” Frank asks. He steps away from fiddling with the telescope and picks up his drink off the arm of the chair.

“There was a long article in the newspaper and a public notice on the town’s website. And your neighbor next door—didn’t you see the ‘Never Nuvon’ sign in their yard?”

“I didn’t know what that referred to. We don’t see them around much.”

“And I haven’t followed the news lately,” Jessica says. “It’s too upsetting.”

“The project is up for public comment at the next planning board meeting. You should go.”

“Why should we go?”

“Because if this thing gets built, you’ll be able to see the turbines from right here. It’ll ruin your view.” Evan bends over the telescope and trains the lens on the distant ridge. “Take a look.”

No one does.

“That’s pretty far away,” Jess says.

“Do you know how tall those things are? Like four hundred feet.”

“I’ve always liked seeing windmills.”

“Do you want to see them every day when you look out your window?”

“Imaginary enemies,” Nick says.

“These aren’t Don Quixote’s windmills, these are industrial grade turbines.”

“And we need more of them,” Frank says. “Wind is the most efficient form of green energy. We already pay extra on our utility bill for renewable energy. Jess drives a hybrid car. We compost. We try to avoid plastic packaging. I can’t become a NIMBY objector to a wind farm.”

“You don’t have to be against wind power to be against this specific location. There are plenty of other locations available. You’ll never not see it, Frank.”

“I’m in favor,” Steph says.

“Easy for us,” Evan says. “We live in town and won’t have to look at it.”

“NIMBY—Not-in-my-backyard,” Don says, his first contribution to the discussion. “People are all for progress, all for doing the right thing until it invades their personal space or is inconvenient, and then they start going on about liberty and their rights. Those kind of attitudes keep attorneys in business.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to be one of those people,” Frank says. “People need to focus more on their responsibilities and not their rights. The world’s on fire, we’re ruining the planet, and we have to make changes. And fast.”

“If the project’s approved, it could affect the value of your home,” Evan says.

“We own lakefront property in a town where zoning laws prevent any more waterfront residential housing being built. Our property value is going in one direction only.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter whether you’re for or against it,” Evan says. “It’s too late, anyway. Every year is hotter than the previous. And you think composting your kitchen scraps is going to move the needle?”

“That’s harsh.”

“So instead I’ll tell my kids don’t bother to recycle, don’t bother to use fewer resources, because you’re fucked regardless. Our generation destroyed the environment, but kids, you’re the ones who are inheriting this rock and are going to suffer for it, and I’ll just speed up that process as much as I can. No, I’m doing anything I can to help the next generation.”

“It seems like most of what you do is keep the outgoing generation alive longer,” Evan says.

“Speaking of the kids,” Nick says.

The twins, Sydney and Anthony make an appearance. Their presence gives Frank a lift and a welcome distraction. He was getting annoyed with Evan over this wind energy topic—he can be so know-it-all, so strident and self-assured, like his opinion is the one that counts the most, and Frank can’t muster the conviction to challenge him, except maybe this: How’s the job search going, Evan? Or are you starting your own consulting business? Can’t remember what the latest is.  

Stop it, man. Think cool thoughts, like the twins. He’s so proud of them. He and Jess both are. Do everything on behalf of the kids, that’s Frank’s navigating star. Sydney and Anthony both do excellent in school—and Evient Academy is demanding—they have intersecting circles of friends, they hold summer jobs, they help around the house. Sydney’s played on the girls varsity volleyball team for three years; Anthony volunteers as a peer tutor in the school’s writing center. She plays piano; he’s into the trumpet. Most of all, they’re kind and compassionate; they care about others, just like their mom. Sydney is entirely self-assured, maybe too much; she must have stolen some verve and confidence from her brother in the womb, who is the more tentative, vulnerable one. Frank doesn’t worry about Syd the way he does Anthony. No one is going to take advantage of Syd, whereas Anthony could be one of those people whose heart has reasons that reason doesn’t know, which might cause him to place his trust in the wrong person.

What Frank loves is that the twins have taken the initiative to come say hi to everyone before pursuing their own plans for the evening. Neither Frank nor Jess had to ask them—they know how much showing up means to their parents. They, too, remember their younger years when it was the three of their families and all the kids getting together, and while the friendships were formed due to proximity to each other, the kids all got along and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. To this day, they appreciate and respect the memory of that tradition.

“You remember Mr. Biel, Nick and Stephanie’s father?” Jessica says.

The twins had met Don Biel on other occasions when Nick or Stephanie were hosting and Don was visiting.

“How old are you two?” Don asks the twins. “You look so grown up.”

“We’re seventeen,” Sydney says.

“Starting senior year next week,” Anthony adds.

“What a great time,” Don says. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

Standard-issue questions from Steph and Evan. How was your summer? Where are you working? Ready for school to start again? Anthony and Syd take turns answering. Between speaking, Anthony scarfs down a plate of appetizers, Syd helps herself to her mom’s drink.

Stephanie asks, “Have you two decided what colleges you’re applying to?”

Syd rattles off the Colgate, Brown, Northeastern, and Skidmore.

“I’m thinking Colgate too, also Boston University, and UVM,” Anthony says.

“Claire’s planning to apply to UVM. Have you talked to her?” Steph asks.

“I thought maybe she’d come with you tonight.”

“Oh, she said she had plans,” Steph says. “Although Claire never tells us what she’s doing. She always says she’s just hanging out with friends. I think she might have a secret boyfriend or something. Anthony, you don’t keep secrets from your parents, do you?”

Anthony hesitates, flustered. Frank chuckles at his son’s discomfort. Nick steps in. “He does if he’s smart. Everyone keeps secrets. Everyone has a private, interior life, which is the way it should be.”

“We trust Anthony, even if he keeps secrets,” Frank says. “If you know what kind of kid you have, and you know that kid has good judgment, then you don’t have to worry too much what they’re up to.”

“We feel that way about Claire too,” Steph says. “We just sometimes wish she’d share more with us. I mean, we’re there for our children, right? We want to know what’s going on with them. We want to be a part of their lives, but at the same time give them space and respect their right to privacy.”

Nick says he has little idea what’s going on with Ian, and that it’s hard when you’re far apart from each other.

“I see his posts,” Sydney says.

“Me too,” adds Anthony. “Every time he scores a goal he posts a photo.”

Steph says that Hannah is the opposite of Claire. She tells her mom everything. More than Steph wants to hear? No, she’ll take it all. She loves the closeness, the trust, the honesty.

Jessica says she’ll take anything she can get from the kids. “Love you guys,” she says to the twins.

As if this were a signal, the twins say quick goodbyes and duck out. The rest of them drift up to the patio again, except Don, who remains interested in the telescope.

Frank lights the grill—oh, those clean and shining grates! Were they worth darting out of bed for? He puts the rack of ribs on the upper grate and closes the top so the meat will cook slowly and fall off the bone.

Evan and Nick join him, like primitive hunters gathering around the fire.

Frank says he agrees with Nick that everyone has a secret, interior life.

“What’s yours, Frank?” Evan asks.

“It wouldn’t be a secret if I told you.”

“Have you told your wife?”

“It’s not that interesting. Ask Nick about his instead.”

“Please don’t,” Nick says.

Frank notices Don by the water fiddling with the focus dial on the telescope, looking through the eyepiece, then moving the dial again. The gauze wrapped around the burn on his right hand makes the delicate dial work awkward. He walks over to see if Don needs help.

“Working okay?”

“Yes, I’ve got it now.”

“See anything?”

“Just the water. There’s a buoy way out in the middle.”

“That marks a shallow area for boats to stay away. After it gets dark we’ll look at the stars. There’s a new moon so we’ll be able to see a lot.”

Don backs away from the scope and stares at Frank, as if sizing him up for a competition. Frank is about to ask him if something is wrong when Don says, “You’ve heard I’m ill, that my memory loss is more than age related.”

Frank is surprised by Don’s admission, but people tell him all kinds of personal health information in all kinds of social settings. “Yes, I’m sorry to hear that. It must be difficult for you. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

Again Don gives Frank a steady, eye-to-eye gaze. “You could do something for me.”

“Sure,” Frank says, ready to help. “Anything.”

“You could write me a prescription.”

“A prescription?”

“I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“I’m sure you’re under the care of a physician who can meet your medication needs.”

“Not this need. I need something strong enough. Something that will do the job.”

Frank understands now. He speaks without looking at Don. “Oh, Mr. Biel—Don. You must be going through a lot. Have you talked to Nick and Stephanie about this?”

“You know how they would respond. They’d lock me up.”

“I understand you’re facing a very difficult situation, and I wish I could do more for you. If you’re feeling depressed, a therapist would be a good option.”

“No, please, don’t start with that,” Don says. “It’s exactly what my kids would say. I don’t need to be talked out of it; if anything, I need to be talked into it.” He stares out at the lake. Frank does too. The air is still, the water flat.

This is why New York State needs to pass a medical aid in dying law. There’s no way Frank can get involved, nor would he want to. Don is asking for the type of drug that Frank never prescribes. Beta blockers, statins, ACE inhibitors, even off-label uses of Adderall or Gabapentin—sure. But propofol or fentanyl in lethal doses? With the new guardrails that have been put up, he’d get flagged in the system.

“I’m sorry, please let me apologize,” Don says. “Let’s forget this conversation. I’m sure I will. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot.”

“No, I understand. It’s not the kind of medication I write prescriptions for.”

“Early in my career, I defended clients accused of white collar crime. Corporate malfeasance, fraud, that kind of thing. Then one day a murder and extortion case landed in my lap. It changed my career.”

Frank isn’t sure if Don is changing the subject or suggesting that Frank change his specialty or his prescribing patterns.

“I don’t regret it. Everyone deserves protection under the rule of law, even those who commit atrocities.”

“I’ve probably saved the lives of a few bad apples myself by fixing their hearts.”

Don’s chin jerks up, as if startled by what Frank said.

“You might reconsider talking about this with Stephanie and Nick,” Frank says. “They’d want to know. They’re very committed to you.”

“Yeah, one of them wants to commit me and the other wants my estate. But they’re good kids, they are. I’m fortunate to have them. But they won’t know how to deal with this.”

The question now is whether Frank will say anything to Nick or Steph. Don spoke to him in confidence, but Frank has to consider his responsibility as a physician and a friend. Of course Nick and Steph would want to know, but if the situation were reversed and Frank had shared something so personal and significant with someone else, he’d want that information stored in the vault.

Jess is signaling him from the patio. Frank excuses himself, says. “Don, we can talk about this more.”

Don doesn’t respond. He’s gone back to peering through the telescope.

Jess tells him it’s time to start cooking the rest of the food. They’ve hardly said two words to each other since the guests have arrived. That’s possible—they’re busy entertaining the others. It doesn’t mean anything beyond face value.

He heads to the kitchen and brings out the platter of steaks and salmon.

“Beer me,” he says to Nick, and Nick brings him a beer from the fridge. Frank adjusts the heat on the grill, lets it settle to a new temperature, and lays two cedar planks across the grates. The ribs are already giving off a savory, meaty aroma. He closes the cover for a few minutes and then opens it and puts on the steaks. He slides the salmon filets onto the cedar planks.

“How do you think your dad is doing?” he asks Nick.

“You know about the fire, so that gives you an indication of what we’re dealing with.”

They all know Don had dragged his gas grill into his house during the storm the other night when he was trying to cook during a torrential rainstorm. He got the grill inside and heated up. He put on his hamburger, but the grill was touching the curtain and a fire started. Don had the presence of mind to call the fire department and escape the house. The family room and roof were significantly damaged.

“That must be hard to deal with,” Frank says. “How do you think his mood is?”

“He puts up a good front, but I’m sure he’s depressed,” says Nick. “And of course embarrassed about causing the fire. Steph’s been looking into continuing care communities and getting on waiting lists. It’s probably early still, but if he keeps making mistakes like bringing a grill in the house, then we’ll have to be ready to act sooner.”

“Do you think it was a mistake?”

“What—the grill?”

“You don’t think he was trying to hurt himself, do you?”

“What an awful way that would be—setting yourself and your house on fire.”

“Some people get desperate when they envision what’s ahead of them. They don’t want to deal with it.”

He can’t bring himself to tell Nick what Don had asked of him, as if he were adhering to HIPPA privacy laws. He raises the grill top, adjusts the angle of the steaks on the grates to char a cross-hatched pattern into the meat, turns the ribs, fingers the salmon, closes the grill, drains his beer. Nick heads inside to help Jess. Evan and Stephanie set the table.

They sit down to eat under the pergola whose top slats are woven with wisteria vines that provide shade during the summer months. As usual, there’s more food than they can eat: salmon grilled on cedar planks and filet mignon wrapped with bacon. Baby back ribs with a dry spice rub. Plus Stephanie’s pasta salad, Jessica’s green salad, and grilled vegetables. Nick has given up making individual French 75s and mixes an entire pitcher he places on the table. Both Jessica and Stephanie reach for it at the same time.

“Play nice you two,” Evan says.

“And eat well,” adds Frank.

Don sits between Nick and Stephanie and across from Evan, Jess, and Frank. Evan asks him how long the repairs are expected to take on the house.

Don turns and looks at the Perrone house. Steph says, “Your house, Dad. From the fire.”

Don doesn’t miss another beat. “Two weeks, no more. The contractor is a friend of mine. Vincent Cassert. He’s doing me a special favor because I did one for him once.”

“He was Don’s client,” Stephanie says. “Defended him in a trial. It was a long time ago.”

“Did you ever defend anyone famous?” Evan asks.

“Famous?” Don hesitates. “No, no one famous. Locally known, but not famous.”

“Leonard DeFalco. Everyone around here knows that name,” Nick says.

“Of DeFalco’s Restaurant?”

“I believe it’s Ristorante.”

“We ate there just a few weeks ago,” Frank says. “Best Italian in the area.”

“You defended him?” Jess asks.

“On charges of murdering his business partner,” Nick says. “Got the acquittal too. To this day, an unsolved crime. It must have been thirty years ago because I was in high school. Everyone thought my dad was in the Mafia, although you don’t have many Biels in the Mafia I imagine.”

Don looks embarrassed and he so deftly changes the subject and leads the conversation that Frank wonders if the poor man has been misdiagnosed. It happens more often than you’d think. He remembers a situation not that long ago when a patient with cognitive issues was diagnosed with dementia, but in fact had an untreated UTI.

Don shifts the attention onto the others. He asks Frank about his cardiology practice and Jessica her thoughts on the banning of books in libraries and Evan what a computer engineer actually does. Frank isn’t sure if Don listens to the answers, but he draws everyone out with his questions. He eats heartily and drinks a beer with dinner and even takes another hit off a second joint that makes its way around when they finish eating.

The subject shifts again when Evan asks Stephanie if she locked the door when they left the house.

“That’s random,” Nick says.

“Claire was still home. She’ll lock it on her way out.”

“Did you tell her to?”

“I think she knows to do that without being reminded.”

“There’s been break-ins,” Evan says to the others. “I’ve been reading about it. A spike of burglaries in town—houses and cars both—so I think we should keep the doors locked even when we’re home.”

“Then text Claire and tell her to lock it.”

Instead of texting Claire, Evan uses an app on his phone to check the security cameras he’d installed over the front and back doors to the house. He looks at the feed. Nothing.

“Where do you think we live?” Frank says. “Some high-crime neighborhood? We’re in one of the safest communities possible but you’re worried more about break-ins than the looming environmental disaster.”

“You should install cameras too,” Evan says, ignoring the bait. “You can get alerts if anyone approaches your door.”

“Yeah, last week we were alerted when the neighbor’s cat came and sat on our porch,” Steph says. “We considered calling in the swat team.”

“The only alerts we’d get is when a package is delivered,” Jess says.

They finish dinner and clear plates, slice and eat the coconut cream cake Jessica baked, and watch the sun paint the sky amber and cast a golden glow across the lake as it melts into the horizon. Frank lights the firewood he’d arranged earlier in the pit and they sit in a circle around the flames. Evan changes the playlist. Don wanders down to the shore again. The telescope fascinates him, as if it were cutting edge technology. He’s looking through the lens again, which is trained not on the darkening sky where stars have begun to appear but on the southern shoreline where lights are blinking on along the commercial strip and on distant houses bordering the lake and in the hills on Evient Ridge.

“I’m glad your dad was able to come,” Jessica says. “He seems good considering all he’s been through. Outwardly he does.”

They all turn to watch Don fiddling with the telescope.

“Most of the time he is,” Steph says. “He’s his usual self, maybe a little forgetful, maybe repetitive, and you might not even notice anything if you didn’t know him well, but then the fire happened. That’s a game-changer.”

“It must be hard to know what to do,” Frank says. “To know when to step in and when not. Or what level of care he needs.”

“I talked with him today about the possibility of moving to a community,” Steph says. “One where you can transition to different levels of care.”

“I thought you were waiting for me for that conversation,” Nick says.

“I was, but he saw the brochures I brought home and he asked. He wasn’t argumentative at all. He probably realizes this is coming, if not next week, then likely soon.”

“He didn’t object?”

“He was calm, but then he always is. He said we’ll figure things out together.”

“He’s fortunate he has you and Nick to look after him,” Jess says. “So many older people are alone. No family or friends at all, and they end up not getting the care they need.”

“Your dad’s a great guy,” Frank says. “It’s sad to know this is happening to him.” Again, he’s tempted to say something about Don asking for a prescription, but that would break an implied confidence. Don has the right to his own life and how he decides to live it or not. But if he’s not mentally competent to make decisions . . . Hell, Frank can’t judge Don’s competency. He seems rational enough. Then again: the fire. He wishes he hadn’t had that conversation with Don.

“We’re going to take things one step at a time,” Nick says.

“Let’s have another drink,” Frank says. He’s drunk and stoned but not enough to stem the drip of dread diluting his surface buzz. His gaiety is manufactured for the occasion, not organic or genuine, and it’s not just him: something is off about this gathering of friends, and not only because Shauna is missing. Maybe they’re just out of practice. They need a spark.

He retrieves a bottle of his best bourbon from the liquor cabinet and a tray of glasses from the bar counter. He pours for Nick, Evan, and himself. Stephanie and Jessica don’t drink the dark liquors, although Shauna would knock back the whiskies with them every time and could keep pace. Way back in the day. Before she changed into a freak.  

Evan downs his bourbon and asks who wants to go swimming. No one responds. The water is plenty warm but the air temperature is cooling now that the sun has set.

“You can still take your shirt off if you want,” Nick says. “To show us how jacked you are.”

Steph laughs the loudest at this suggestion. With Evan no longer employed, Steph’s husband is hitting the gym almost every day. The physical change in him is apparent, even with his shirt on. His neck and pecs have grown and hardened and his biceps are straining the seams of his fitted t-shirt.

“Only if you guys take off yours,” Evan says.

The last thing Frank wants to do is be compared shirtless to Evan and Nick. He’s thickened up the last few years and doesn’t have Nick’s taut, wiry frame or Evan’s powerful athletic build. He’s tried working out more, but there’s no time, and motivation is elusive.

“Nick’s got to keep himself in shape if he’s back on the market.”

“Are you, Nick? Are you a player again?”

“What do you hear from Shauna?” Frank asks. He senses Jess giving him a look, but he doesn’t acknowledge her.

“Shauna who?” Steph says.

This gets a laugh from all of them.

“The prodigal wife,” Frank says.

“We’ve agreed it’s best if we don’t speak for a while.”

“She’s still finding herself out there in California?”

“I don’t think you’re using the word ‘prodigal’ right. It means to spend lavishly and recklessly,” Jessica says.

“Thanks, honey. It’s good to have my own personal librarian and bookworm. Okay, not the prodigal wife, the missing wife.”

“I have no news to report,” Nick says. “We’re not in contact right now. She needs personal space and asked that I wait to hear from her.”

At the beginning of the summer, Shauna took off for a cult in California, at least it sounded like a cult to Frank. A bunch of devoted followers of some weird psychic dude, but followers with a lot of money because it was the Cabrillan Center in Big Sur. Shauna had gotten deep into meditation (fine, healthy) and then this astral travel business (not fine, delusional)—and that was before she left. She once told Jess that she visited her through an out of body experience. Right here along the lake Shauna came by and deployed her special energy to soothe and calm Jess. When Jess told Frank about that, he said Shauna was fucking insane. And she used to be such a grounded person.

Everyone feels for Nick because of what he’s going through with Shauna—first her illness and then her transformation and finally her leaving—and so Nick’s been the priority sympathy target because he’s a spouse that got dumped on, and he’s a vulnerable type, pretty emotional for guy, but everyone forgets that Jess was Shauna’s best friend. Jess got hurt too. You lose your closest friend and there’s no replacing that, not in middle age. You just don’t go making new best friends, especially in a town where you’ve lived for twenty years and the social circles have all been drawn and secured. Stephanie has been filling in as a surrogate, but it’s not the same. She works demanding ours and she and Jess don’t get together a couple of times a week for walks and lunch and whatever the way Shauna and Jess did. Those two had the kind of connection that seemed durable, that you depend on, and then all that was suddenly gone for Jess.

Whereas Nick could go on to date another woman, or many women. A sensitive, intelligent guy like Nick, he won’t have trouble finding candidates. He’s probably already found some.

That’s something Frank never thinks about: other woman. There are plenty of women at the cardiology center, if he wants to be a bastard. Beautiful women, young women, smart women. Women who would be available to him. Not one of them excites him, because he has Jess, but he has to admit, only to himself and grudgingly at that, even Jess isn’t stirring him these days. His libido is shredded, although he’s never been driven by a relentless, powerful hormonal force the way some men are. He hadn’t been one of those pussy hounds in his younger years. In fact, he’s been with only a couple of women in his life. He had a girlfriend in college and then a brief relationship the summer after graduation. He met Jessica his first year of medical school and that was, thankfully, gratefully, the end of Frank’s dating life and sexual experimentation. He wanted to be married and settled into a long term relationship, that part of his life settled. He wanted to be loyal, he wanted the same partner day after day, year after year. Nick was a different kind of dude. That guy’s like a snake charmer when it comes to attracting women. Frank’s gotten wasted enough with Nick on occasions where Nick would tell stories about his pre-marriage exploits. He has a lot of notches on his belt, and not just due to young and drunk one-night rodeos. He dove into relationships that quickly flamed hot and then burned out three weeks or three months or ten months later. Claimed to be in love each time. Said the emotions were overwhelming, almost addicting. He was thirty-two when he married Shauna, with a lot of treadwear on his tires. It would be no surprise to Frank if Nick returns to his former lifestyle.

“How did your writing residency at Yaddo go?” Jess asks.

“The days passed, I typed. I guess that doesn’t sound very inspired.”

“Are you working on the next Rainmaker book?”

“Some, but I was also trying to write something new. Outside of the dystopian genre.”

That’s about as much as Nick ever talks about his work. He lets his books speak for themselves.

“Well, now that you’re a free man, you were probably busy bedding down other writers and artists,” Frank says. “That’s why you weren’t writing much. I heard those places are like college dorms when it comes to that.”

“Um—no. I don’t think so.”

“Come on, tell us, Nick. A personable guy like you, a successful writer, still in great shape—not Evan level shape, none of us are that, but you’re a lot better looking than him. How many, Nick? How many lasses did you seduce? I know you’re a hound at heart.”

“Frank, you’re not funny,” Jessica says.

“I’m just having an honest conversation with Nick. Can’t we open up to each other?”

“Is that what you would do if you went to a medical convention or something?” Evan asks. “Seduce the other attendees?”

“No, I see the love of my life every day.”

“What if you weren’t married? Or Jess left you? What would you do then?”

“I’d be banging surgical assistants left and right,” Frank blurts out. That’s the last thing he’d be doing.

“You’re being gross and rude,” Jessica says. “You might want to stop drinking.”

He ignores her. “Nick, if what you’re saying is true, it must be months now for you without getting laid.”

“Stop it,” Jess says. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I think you’re the one who’s not going to be getting laid for months,” Evan tells Frank.

They all laugh at Evan’s comment and the tension breaks, and in the crevice of time before they move on to another topic, Nick speaks up.

“I don’t really miss sex,” he says. “I mean, if I’m honest about it. I don’t have the energy. It’s just—yeah, I don’t have that energy. It’s definitely weird.”

“You’re worse off than I thought,” Frank says. He should have said: we’re brothers in arms.

“What about imaginary kisses, that astral stuff that Shauna likes?”

“I thought we were forbidden to mouth Shauna’s name?”

“Who decided that?”

“That’s why I referred to her as the prodigal wife.”

“I told you that’s the wrong use of prodigal.”

“Nick, it’s perfectly natural what you’re feeling,” Stephanie says, slipping into protective older sister mode. “After a trauma, things that you used to enjoy, to really want, can suddenly seem meaningless. You can’t imagine anything giving you pleasure.”

“Even getting laid?”

“I’d rather just be kissed,” Nick says. “To kiss someone, and them wanting to kiss me back. Just having that would be enough. That’s really all I want. I don’t know what that feels like anymore.”

Frank has nothing left to say. He’s already said too much. Steph and Evan sit quietly, heads down, as if mourning the deceased at a wake.

“Sorry,” Nick says. “I’m ruining the mood.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re with us. And we’re with you.”

They all stare at the fire. The logs snap and the flames cast a pattern of light and shadows across their faces. Bewildered expressions. Eyes on Nick and flicking away. Frank embarrassed for himself and for Nick. Nick’s wasn’t the first heart-baring true confession among them, but whenever one of their group gets raw and real, there follows a respectful moment of silence, a pause to get past the awkwardness and absorb the revelation and give everyone a chance to muster the necessary personal resources to express sympathy and offer support.

“Would a kiss really be enough?” Frank asks.

“Frank, please stop,” Jess says.

“I’m just asking. I want to make sure I understand.”

“I don’t know,” Nick says. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”

Jessica gets up from her chair, wobbly, steadying herself on the arm until she stands upright. They’re all drunk and stoned, not just Frank. She balances her glass in one hand. She walks around the perimeter of the fire pit behind Frank’s chair, behind Evan’s, and stops in front of Nick. She hands him her glass and says, “Hold this.” He does. Then she cups a hand behind his neck, leans forward and down, and kisses him.

That’s not a kiss between friends—a peck on the cheek or a quick smack on the lips or a gesture of sympathy. It’s a real kiss. Her mouth on his, her lips contouring to his. At first, and only at first, Nick leans back, but Jessica’s hand behind his neck urges him forward.

Frank could hear, even over the hiss and crackle of the fire, the denouement of their lips disconnecting when she pulls back.

“Whoa,” Evan blurts.

“What the fuck,” Frank says, then bursts out laughing.

Stephanie had turned away toward the lake, as if she couldn’t bear to be witness to what happened. Jessica heads straight for the house without looking back. She closes the sliding door behind her. Frank gets up and trails her. Just before he goes inside he hears Stephanie say, “Where’s Don?”

Frank’s never acted so hostile toward any of their friends, needling Nick that way. Jess has never acted so brazenly. Both of them prefer to avoid confrontation, leave things unsaid, and simmer silently when angry or upset until the tension evaporates. If there are rules to follow for constructive debate, Frank and Jess don’t know them because they seldom argue, and so they both say things they wish they could take back and hear things from the other that strike sensitive nerves.

“That was pretty special,” Frank says. “What the hell was that?”

Jessica has her back to him, loading the dishwasher, clacking the plates and tossing the silverware in the basket. Her shoulders hunch, as if she’s cowering before an expected physical blow.

“You have to answer me.” He might sob.

She visibly trembles, which he never sees from his lowkey wife.

“I’m sorry. I’ve had too much to drink. And so have you.”

“We all have. But we’re not all kissing Nick Biel.”

“I was trying to comfort our friend who’s hurting.”

“Fine, comfort him—the way friends comfort each other. Give him a hug. Offer words of sympathy. You fucking French kissed him!”

“What do you know about French kissing?” she shoots back. She reaches for an empty wine glass on the counter. He slaps at it before she can pick it up and the glass shatters on the floor.

Jessica immediately opens the closet door and gets the broom. She begins sweeping the glass into a pile. Her face is pinched and red, but she isn’t crying. He’s closer to tears than she is.

“Fuck,” Frank says. “I’ll do that.” He grabs the broom from her. Jessica stands back and watches.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have done it. I told you, I had too much to drink. And I got stoned—that weed is way too strong. I don’t even like getting high, I don’t know why I did.”

He’d gotten high, too, and had any number of drinks, and the second Adderall he’d taken before their friends arrived still illuminates his brain. He’s partied too much tonight, as if trying to make up for lost time or recapture old glory. Normally he could get away with being wasted because Jessica tended toward moderation and would be his guardian angel if he needed watching over, which he rarely did because no matter his condition he was the one who stepped up and watched over others.

“I reacted, that’s all,” Jess says. “I saw he was hurting and I responded in a way I probably shouldn’t have.”

“And?”

“And what? There’s nothing more to it. I’m explaining as best as I can. You were teasing him. You were mean asking him about sexual encounters. And insinuating what you would do if you weren’t tied down—’banging surgical assistants.’ I believe those were the words you used.”

“All right. I shouldn’t have said that. And you know that’s not true.”

“You hurt both of us.”

“So now it’s my fault.”

He finishes sweeping the glass and empties the dustpan into the trash.

“I can’t believe you did that in front of everyone. Now I have to deal with this too.”

“What do you mean, this too? What else are you dealing with? You haven’t been telling me anything. You don’t even look at me anymore. It’s like you have something bottled up inside you’re afraid to share with me.”

“You have a thing for Nick? Is there something going on between you two?”

“Frank, please. These are our friends. We’ve known them for years. He was suffering, he told us what he needed, and I gave it to him.”

“If he needed a blow job, would you give him that too?”

“Shut up, Frank. You can’t talk to me that way.”

“And you can’t do what you did!” He takes a breath to steady himself. He never yells at Jessica, at anyone.

“We should go back outside,” Jessica says. “Find out what’s going on with Don.”

“I think our friends will understand why we’re not with them at the moment.”

Jessica wipes at the counter with the dishrag. Frank picks up a mostly empty bottle of red wine and drinks the remains, straight from the bottle, in two big swallows. He wipes his mouth with his hand. His phone sounds and he checks the display. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

He blinks in rapid succession, trying to process his situation.

“I have to go into work.”

“You’re not on call tonight.”

“No, I am.”

When he was texting with Shamir this morning about the investment group and asked for more time to make a decision, Shamir in return asked if Frank could cover his on call shift that night. He had Frank cornered. It was a risk covering the shift, especially on a weekend night when people tended to get frisky and bad things happened to those with compromised hearts, but there was also a chance the ER would be quiet and he wouldn’t get called in. He didn’t tell Jess about taking the on call shift because then she’d want to postpone the get together and he didn’t want to ruin the night. Then he managed to compartmentalize his commitment and proceeded to drink and smoke with his friends, and now he has to go into work, definitely under the influence and in the middle of the worst argument he’s ever had with his wife. If he backs out, if he says he’s sick, Shamir will end up having to work his shift, and that would likely lead to Frank’s invitation to the investment group being rescinded.

“You can’t go in now,” Jess says.

“I have to.” He makes up a story for Jess about Shamir’s mother experiencing a medical emergency and Shamir having to drive to Long Island.

“Please stay home. I don’t want you to leave.”

“Apologize to everyone for me, would you? I’m not going back out there.” He grabs his keys off the hook by the refrigerator and leaves through the front door. He can hear the music coming from his back yard and can’t imagine what his friends are saying right now.

***

The overhead task light interrogates his conscience: you shouldn’t be here, you’ve ruined the get together. Beads of sweat reproduce like errant cells inside his surgical mask and cap. Twice he has to stop feeding the catheter because the salty sting in his eyes compromises his ability to see the fluoroscopy.

“Someone make it cooler in here,” Frank says.

It is cool. No one else appears uncomfortable, except for the raised eyebrow glances they cast his way.

Beneath the lead apron and gown, he’s as moist as braised meat.

On the x-ray table, his patient lay in a twilight trance, eyes one-quarter mast, the sedative drip performing as advertised. This is his second patient of the night. The first one he’d tended to as soon as he arrived at the hospital. It had gone well. A 64-year-old man who’d driven himself to the emergency room with chest pains. EKG. Angiography followed by two stents. No issues. He hadn’t time to process the risks, and he operated in a perfect zone of competence, the alcohol and THC and Adderall stimulating his system just enough and not too much to give him momentum and focus. After, he chugged coffee.

This next patient came in by ambulance. Male, fifty-nine, large body. History of hypertension and Type 2 diabetes. Poster child for diabesity. Presenting with shoulder pain, arm pain, nausea.

Frank is coming down from his chemical high, exhaustion and withdrawal announcing itself through wandering thoughts and excessive perspiration. He picks up the distant signals of a headache spawning deep in his brain. He’s afraid he smells sour from body grit and booze, but he’s wrapped in enough medical gear to hold his odor in. He’s here because he wants to preserve his invitation to Shamir’s investment club, but he has proven too much a wuss to commit.

Attention on the screen, doc. Hands steady. Feeds the pigtail catheter, follows it on the imaging screen. He’s looked up a few times to change his focal point and rest his eyes. If that wasn’t French kissing nothing was.

The left anterior descending artery looks clear, but the right coronary artery is almost totally occluded. There’s some damage to the inferior part of the heart. He threads a wire through the thrombus and beyond to the distal end of the artery. Along the wire he passes an export catheter, and then deftly backs it out to remove the clot and restore blood flow. He injects nitroglycerin to control arterial spasms. Next he threads the catheter with the balloon and stent through one narrow passage and then another. As he guides the equipment into place, the edge of the stent nips and tears the artery wall. The burst of blood on the imaging screen looks like an octopus squirting an ink cloud. The radiologist grunts. The surgical assistant says, “Oh.” The patient squints but doesn’t exhibit other signs of physical discomfort.

It’s the Pago stents. There have been reported issues with the margins of the metal meshing. Nothing has ever happened to Frank or anyone he knows, but he’s read the service bulletin. The FDA has been looking into it. Of course Bayside is continuing to use the stents because they’re cheaper.

He doesn’t panic. He never panics in the operating theater. He immediately calls for a covered stent and starts backing out the catheter, not rushing but purposeful, knowing the protocol: reinsert with a covered stent that will seal the rupture while holding the artery open.

He recovers the catheter, replaces the Pago mesh stent with a Biophon covered stent and threads it back through all while the artery bleeds into the chest cavity, but he works with precision and confidence under extreme pressure, and he completes the procedure without having to call for the surgeon.

Nine minutes later it’s over, the patient stable.

Frank makes his way into the locker room. He lowers himself onto the bench, puts his head in his hands, and releases a loud breath. He’s not crying, but he’s twitching, trembling. When the shudder passes, he sheds his damp scrubs. He removes his swampy underwear, takes a brief shower, dresses in fresh scrubs. He replays what happened with the last patient. Sure he’d been sweating and physically uncomfortable performing the procedure, and maybe his thoughts had wandered here and there, but he’d also performed in his usual steady and methodical fashion. The situation was routine, until it wasn’t. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong: he hadn’t twisted the guide wire or forced the catheter. The incidence rate of a ruptured artery during a percutaneous coronary intervention was less than .05 percent. It had never happened to Frank, but now it has.

He severed a patient’s coronary artery with the catheter. He’ll have to fill out a report. If the patient had died, Frank would be subject to an interview and a drug test as part of his contract with Bayside. He would fail the test and lose his job. His reputation would be shattered. He’d never be hired anywhere again. The hospital, and Frank personally, would be vulnerable to wrongful death lawsuits from the patient’s family. His life would come crashing down, and his family would fall with him, all because he stalled for time in deciding to join the investment group and by doing so agreed to take Shamir’s shift on the day of their get together, setting up a collision of his two worlds. Fortune favors the bold, but Frank had been meek and weak in hesitating on the investment group.

At the same time, he’d acted without hesitation or fear and saved the life of his patient.

He pulls out his phone and sees he missed a message from Jessica.

First he has one of his own to send—to Shamir: I’m in. His heart pauses for a beat, and then renews with thudding assurance.

He checks what Jessica texted him: In the ER with Anthony. He broke his arm.

Franks marks the time: 1:27 a.m., as if this were a pivotal moment in his personal history denoting the end of a before and the beginning of an after, that when his story is told, this inflection point will be studied and analyzed as a “restore the roar” transformation for Francis T. Perrone, MD, FACP, Husband, Father, Friend.

He catches the elevator down to the emergency department. Flashes his ID badge at the desk attendant who tells him Anthony Perrone is in bay twelve. He pulls back the curtain to see his son on the bed and his wife next to him in a chair, holding their son’s hand. He pays attention to Anthony first. His lower left arm, misshapen, is stabilized in a splint. Radius and ulna obviously displaced. His son is drugged to manage the pain, occasionally lowing like a whispering cow.

He whispers Anthony’s name and lays a comforting hand on the side of the boy’s face. Anthony murmurs back: Dad.

He turns to Jess. She’s had a night—eye bags, splotched mascara, pale face, her hair a damaged nest. Still, she is beautiful. His wife. His everything. He makes meaningful eye contact with her for what might be the first time in months. How blue and intent and searching her irises, how bloodshot her whites. He draws her into his arms and hugs her firmly, fully.

She tells him that Anthony was hanging onto a gutter and fell from the second story at the Hayes’s house where Anthony was with Claire.

There’s a lot to unpack in that statement, and Frank will sort things out in due time, but his priority is moving Anthony to the front of the surgery line. He returns to the ER desk, picks up the phone, and dials Benson. Five minutes later, Anthony is wheeled toward the operating rooms.

He’s overcome his earlier fatigue, and the near-disaster in the cath lab is behind him. He’s in command now. He processes the reports coming in. Not only are Jessica and Anthony at the hospital, but Stephanie, Evan, Nick, and Don also are here. The whole of their get-together gang, as if they’d moved the party here to be with Frank.

He visits another curtained bay where Don Biel sleeps. Stephanie sits next to her father. He’s not injured or ill—he’s physically spent following a marathon swim in the lake. While the rest of them were making operatic fools of themselves by the fire, Don Biel walked down to the shore, undressed, and went into the lake. He swam. He swam for at least a mile and a half in the dark, straight out into the lake, eventually veering left toward the string of lights, continuing to swim, and reaching the shallows in front of DeFalco’s Ristorante where he crawled on all fours out of the water and collapsed in exhaustion.

“He said he got disoriented in the water because it was dark and he swam in the wrong direction,” Stephanie says.

Frank studies Don. The bed is inclined at thirty degrees. Don’s face is turned to one side, his cheek and chin sprouting gray stubble, his body motionless other than the rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

“Looks like he’ll be sleeping for a while,” Frank says.

“They gave him a shot of diazepam.”

“He was agitated when he arrived?”

“Angry,” Steph says. “He didn’t want to be brought to the hospital, but what else are you going to do with a naked, struggling man who emerges from the water and passes out in front of a restaurant patio? Someone called the paramedics, and then they called me.”

“He’ll be safe here until you can sort things out.” He tells Steph that Don will likely sleep for a while and that Frank has a more comfortable place for her to wait.

He leads her back through the crowded, loud (whimpers, groans, crying, arguments, complaints, television), and likely contagious ER waiting room, where Jessica now sits between Evan and Nick. Some things had happened earlier tonight between Jessica and Nick, and then between Jessica and Frank, and voices had been raised and feelings bruised, but all of that business is overblown and inconsequential now. It’s happened to a previous version of Frank. They’ll soon enough be laughing and joking about it.

Frank motions to Jess, and he escorts his group to a private waiting room in an alcove down the hallway from the public area.

“How’s Anthony doing?” Evan asks.

“It looks like a significant break but one that should heal well. He’s in surgery now. And Don is deep asleep, so everyone who’s sticking around settle in.”

They’re all staying to keep vigil.

“It’s a waiting game at this point.”

“We’re grateful to you,” Stephanie says.

“Two doors down on this side there’s a break room. You can get coffee or soda there.”

“Thank you, love,” Jessica says.

She called him ‘love.’

“Sydney’s on her way from McKayla’s,” Jessica says.

“Now?”

“I texted her and told her what happened with Anthony. She wants to be with us.”

Frank experiences a surge of pride: his family is tight, a unit. They want to be with each other, they have each other’s backs. And they want him steering the ship. His phone sounds again. He excuses himself and steps into the hallway. Middle of the night and Shamir is responding to his text, sending Frank a link where he can set up his account and transfer his funds. He takes a deep breath and straightens his posture. He scans the faces of his wife and his friends. He can literally feel himself rising to the occasion.

A moment later Nick joins him, and they instinctively take a few steps down the hall away from the others.

“Crazy night,” Nick says.

“For sure a memorable one.”

“I want to say something, about what happened earlier. With Jess.”

“Yeah that. I shouldn’t have gone on about you bedding down other women. Completely inappropriate of me and I apologize. I know it’s been hard for you with Shauna gone.”

“I didn’t take offense. I knew you were kidding.”

“Well, Jess was pretty pissed at me, and then she took pity on you.”

Nick nods, as if considering the validity of Frank’s statement. “That’s how I saw it,” he says. “I didn’t know what to do. It was so unexpected.”

“But not unwanted?”

“Sorry?”

“You said that’s all you wanted—to be kissed. We were all sitting right there and heard you.”

“That’s what I said, and I think I meant it, but I didn’t mean I wanted Jess to kiss me.”

An attendant pushes a patient on a gurney past them. Frank waits until they turn the corner at the end of the hallway. “So you didn’t want her to? You don’t find Jess attractive?”

“Frank, no. Of course not. Jessica’s a beautiful, sweet woman. We both know that. Everyone knows it.”

“Do you think she’s a good kisser?”

Nick shifts on his feet. He glances toward the door to their private waiting room, as if hoping someone would come out and save him. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“Ha! I’m just needling you, Nick. I shouldn’t. Trying to make you feel a little uncomfortable.”

“Okay. It’s working.”

Frank’s reaction to Jessica kissing Nick, his anger, his raised voice—it must have frightened Jess. He’d blown the situation out of proportion by acting like an insecure prig. Granted, his wife had done something he wished she hadn’t, and it embarrassed him, and she did apologize to him, but if he could have a redo he’d be more sympathetic. Jess was only trying to comfort their friend, as she’d said, and her gesture crossed a line because they’d all been drinking and smoking and trying too hard to recreate one of their group’s memorable get togethers. Their inhibitions were down.

“Look, we were partying pretty hard, we had a lot of pent up demand for fun, I think,” Frank says. “We’ve been friends a long time, so let’s just move on. It’s not a big deal. Jess and I talked about it, and now you and I have.”

No, he and Jess hadn’t talked about it—they fought like dogs. They lost control of their emotions and therefore the situation. But he’s going to speak to Jessica about the kiss again. All along he thought she was the one who had to apologize, but really it’s him. Frank has been neglecting her and neglecting his own needs and allowing a black fog of negativity and worry to envelop him. Now that fog has dissipated.

“But that kiss, it was good wasn’t it?” Frank says.

Nick nods. “It was.”

“Jessica is a great kisser. She’s the best,” he says. “So you’d better remember it, buddy, because it’s never happening again.” He lightly punches Nick’s arm.

His phone vibrates—the hospital messaging system. He has a new patient. Bring it on, Frank thinks. Throw anything you can at me. I can take it.

Frank’s shift ends. Don had awakened. Stephanie had gone back to her house to get him a fresh set of clothing, and she and Evan drove Don back to their house. At one point, Nick slipped away.

Anthony is out of surgery, awake and alert, arm casted and supported in a sling. Claire Hayes had been visiting with him, and when she gets up—with a quick glance at the Perrones and an even faster exit—Frank, Jess, and Syd take her place next to Anthony. He’s moved from the bed to an upright chair.

“How’s the arm?” Frank asks.

“I don’t feel anything.”

“Did I hear this right? You were hanging from a gutter over at the Hayes’s and fell?”

Anthony nods—that’s what happened. Frank waits him out, saying nothing, a parenting tip he learned from Jess. Sure enough, Anthony speaks first. “We were in Claire’s bedroom and her dad came home.”

“So you and Claire are in a relationship?” Jess asks. “Why would you keep that secret?”

“We didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Did you think we wouldn’t approve?”

Anthony looks on the verge of tears.

“Are you in pain?” Jess asks.

“Claire wanted to keep it a secret. I didn’t care if anyone knew. I wanted everyone to know.”

“You got your wish,” Frank says. “We all know now.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re breaking up.”

“Wait, when did this get decided?”

“Mom, she made me climb out the window so her father wouldn’t find out.”

“You’re right not to let anyone treat you that way,” Frank says. He’s proud of his son for standing up for himself, for not letting Claire Hayes wield such power over him. It alleviates some of his concern that Anthony didn’t have a strong enough character to prevent others from taking advantage of him. You can’t hand your personal power to others. You have to be in control.

The sun is up on Sunday morning when Jess and Syd escort Anthony up the stairs and into his room, fussing over him, getting him settled. He’ll sleep for the day with all the drugs he’d been given.

Syd heads to her own room, but Frank catches her in the hallway and thanks her for coming to the hospital. She didn’t have to, he tells her, but the fact she did demonstrates how tightly-knit their family is, how much they care for and are devoted to each other.

“As your parent, it’s an amazing feeling,” he tells her.

Sydney shrugs, as if there could be no question she would be there for her brother, for her parents.

“Sleep well,” he tells her.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Frank heads to his room. He drops to the floor and does twenty pushups, struggling to gut out the last few and promising himself that every day he will exercise. He takes a shower, comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Jessica is lying on the bed, facing him, eyes open but unfocused. Frank realizes exactly twenty-four hours have passed since he woke up and fled a warm bed where he could have, should have, made love to his wife.

He gets closer to the bed, drops the towel, pulls back the covers.

“Hey, hon?”

“Hmmn?”

“I’m sorry about last night, the things I said to you. I overreacted. I made more out of it than it was.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry too.” She closes her eyes and lets out a sigh.

“How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted.”

Not Frank. He’s alert and energetic and amorous. He moves closer to her. He’ll show her what a real kiss is.