• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 565 0

to admit it. When it comes to love, most women insist that the emotional and physical aspects of a relationship be inextricably intertwined. To suggest to them otherwise is like trying to convince them that their children might not love them one day. Their very survival depends upon believing otherwise, no matter what history suggests to the contrary. Of course, there are plenty of women who turn a blind eye to their husbands’ indiscretions, but most of them are miserable about it. They perceive it as a tear in the fabric of their lives. But if one of those women were to look coolly into herself, when her husband comes into a restaurant a half an hour late smelling of Chanel No. 5, she’s probably more angry about being kept waiting than about the perfume on his collar. But as I say—I think we see eye to eye on all this. And that’s why I asked you here instead of Tinker. I think that you and I may come to an understanding that serves Tinker well. An understanding in which we all get what we want.

To emphasize the spirit of cooperation, Anne leaned forward and took another olive off of my stack. I put three fingers in my drink, scooped out half the olives, and dumped them in her glass.

—I’m not sure that I’m as good as you are at using people, I said.

—Is that what you think I’m doing?

Anne took an apple from the fruit bowl and held it up as if it were a crystal ball.

—You see this apple? Sweet. Crisp. Ruby red. It wasn’t always like that, you know. The first apples in America were mottled and too bitter to eat. But after generations of grafting, now they’re all like this one. Most people think this is man’s victory over nature. But it’s not. In evolutionary terms, it’s the apple’s victory.

She gestured disdainfully toward the exotics in the bowl.

—It’s the apple’s victory over hundreds of other species competing for the same resources—the same sunlight, water and soil. By appealing to the senses and physical needs of humans—we beasts who happen to have the axes and oxen—the apple has been spreading across the globe at what in evolutionary terms is a breakneck pace.

Anne leaned forward to put the apple back.

—I’m not using Tinker, Katherine. Tinker is the apple. He has ensured his survival while others have languished by learning how to appeal to the likes of you and me. And probably to some who went before us.

Some people called me Katey, some Kate, some Katherine. Anne cycled between the options as if she was comfortable with all my incarnations. She sat back in her chair adopting an almost academic pose.

—I’m not saying this to Tinker’s discredit, you understand. Tinker is an extraordinary person. Perhaps more than you know. And I’m not angry with him either. I assume that the two of you have slept together and that you might well be in love. But that doesn’t instill in me jealousy or spite. I don’t view you as a rival. I knew from the beginning that he would eventually find someone. I don’t mean a firefly like your friend. I mean someone as sharp and urbane as me but a little more contemporary . So, the two of you should know that with me it is nowhere near all or nothing. It’s quite happily some or something. All I ask is that he be on time.

As Anne was elaborating, I finally got it—the reason that I had been summoned: She thought Tinker was with me. He must have walked out on her, and she had leapt to the conclusion that I had him stashed away. For a brief moment, I considered playing along just to spoil her afternoon.

—I don’t know where he is, I said. If Tinker’s stopped answering to your whistle, it’s got nothing to do with me.

Anne eyed me cautiously.

—I see, she said.

Buying time, she walked casually to the bar and poured gin into the shaker. Unlike Bryce, she didn’t bother with the silver tongs. She put her hand in the bucket, took up a fistful of ice, and dumped it in the booze. Rattling the shaker lightly in one hand, she came back and sat at the edge of her seat. She seemed immersed in thought, weighing possibilities, recalibrating—uncharacteristically unsure of herself.

—Would you like another?