Free Fortunate Lives by Robb Forman Dew

Howells? What do you think
     about the Brazilian rain forest? Eastern Europe? The depletion of theozone layer? The stoplight they might put up on State Street?’ You begin to wonder if she ever has a single thought! A pinpoint
     of curiosity! When I try to talk to her I feel as if I’m conducting an interrogation!” She was staring down at her coffee
     as she stirred it absently, but she had looked up to see David standing behind Martin in the kitchen doorway.
    He had been so angry at his parents at that moment that it was reflected even in his stance, his shoulders tensed, his whole
     upper body seeming knotted, exactly as he had stood at age two before losing control and falling into an incoherent tantrum
     at being misunderstood or thwarted. But that night he had been alarmingly icy with unforgiveness. He had very calmly accused
     his parents of being nothing more than academic snobs, of knowing nothing of any real importance, of being incapable of understanding
     anything at all.
    Dinah had apologized profusely, but ever since she had been so uneasy around Christie in David’s presence, and so intent upon
     being fair and friendly, that her behavior had escalated into a kind of hysterical animation. Now she not only determinedly
     asked Christie all sorts of two- and three-part questions, but she answered them for her as well.
    “Are you enjoying your part in the musical, Christie? Or do you find that it just takes up so much more time than you ever
     imagined? Is Mrs. Hartwick able to direct with the same
real
authority as Mr. Walters, or is it actually better to have someone a little less arrogant? Sometimes, he was really insufferable.”
     Dinah’s questions were always multiple choice, and her answers were equally frantic and complex.
    “Of course,” she would continue, after increasingly minimal pauses during which Christie would smile at her blankly, “anyone
     would enjoy performing if they had a voice like yours even if it does eat into your life. Not your
voice
! I mean, so much rehearsing leaves you almost no time for yourself. David says you’ve had to give up Saturdaymornings and even the evenings. There’s always
some
moment to be squeezed out of the day though, I suppose, to fit in what you absolutely have to get done. They say that it’s
     the busiest people who always have a moment to spare. You’re very organized, I imagine. I had forgotten that Mrs. Hartwick
     assisted in last year’s production. She’ll probably be fine!”
    Whenever Dinah came to a full stop, Christie would sometimes smile and mutter an agreement, sometimes not. “Well!” Dinah would
     exclaim, with the air of a person who can scarcely bear to pull herself away, “I’d better get busy! I have a million things
     to do.” And she would exit the room, exhausted.
    In fact, she was rather hoping that Christie wouldn’t be able to get off work for the evening. To Dinah’s astonishment, Christie
     had gotten a much-coveted part-time job at the tourist information desk of the Freund Museum, a job usually staffed by teenagers,
     but one that was always advertised as requiring “interpersonal skills.”
    “Frankly,” David said, while still transferring plants from small green containers to the darkly troweled earth, “I’ve always
     thought this whole party is a lot more trouble than it’s worth. Christie said she would do the songs. I’m not crazy about
     having those kids fool with my guitar.”
    Dinah was surprised by David’s bad mood; he had been so cheerful yesterday. “Well, sweetie, you could use your old one. Of
     course, I didn’t mean you should let them handle the one you play.” She heard her own voice wheedling in revolting supplication
     over the space between them. When he didn’t respond, she was quiet.
She
had bought both guitars, the first one expensive, the price of the second one horrifying to think about even now. But they
     were gifts to him, she counseled herself; they were his own.