Free Heartburn by Nora Ephron Page A

Japanese man has a picture of the robber.
    “What did the Japanese man look like?” asked Detective Nolan.
    “Japanese,” I said. “You know.”
    “I know,” said Detective Nolan. “Small and Oriental and wearing a dark gray suit, with a camera around his neck.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “What kind of camera?”
    I shrugged. “I thought I was doing pretty well till we got to this part,” I said.
    “You are doing very well,” said Detective Nolan.
    “You say that to everybody,” I said.
    “No I don’t,” he said.
    “Yes you do,” I said. “I was a witness to something else recently, and the detective kept telling me how well I was doing, but I wasn’t really.”
    “What else were you a witness to?” said Detective Nolan.
    “A murder in Washington,” I said. “I wasn’t actually a witness—I just heard the shouting. Why?”
    “I just wondered,” said Detective Nolan.
    “You just wondered if I was the kind of woman who attracts criminals the way other women attract alcoholics or sadists.” (I have a friend who attracts dwarfs. Every time she turns around, a dwarf is following her. It’s very disturbing.)
    “No,” said Detective Nolan. “What made you notice the man on the subway?”
    “He winked at me,” I said.
    “I see,” said Detective Nolan.
    “It was probably my fault,” I said, “because I was smiling at the Japanese man, because I’d rather have my picture taken when I’m smiling because when I’m not smiling I look as if I’m frowning, and that’s when the robber winked at me, so I wondered if he was single, and then he winked again and I wondered if he was a mugger, and that’s when I put my diamond ring into my bra.”
    “You mean you just looked at him and automatically wondered if he was single?”
    “Well, he winked at me,” I said.
    “What made you think he might be a mugger?”
    “I didn’t really
believe
he was a mugger,” I said. “I just realized that he might not be a suitable object for fantasy. I didn’t even know if he’d gone to college.”
    “Are you sure there wasn’t some detail you can’t quite remember that alerted you in some way?”
    “Like the bulge of his revolver under his jacket?” I said.
    “Yes,” said Detective Nolan.
    “I don’t think so,” I said, “but it’s possible that he was looking at my ring before I twisted it backwards, and I knew that. Subconsciously, I mean.”
    “Subconsciously,” said Detective Nolan.
    “I just remembered something,” I said. “The Japanese man was wearing a little identification card. The kind they give you at conventions.”
    “Excellent,” said Detective Nolan, and left the room. A few minutes later he came back and sat down.
    “How long do you think it would take me?” he said.
    “To find the Japanese man?” I said.
    “To have therapy,” he said. “How long would it take?”
    “What’s wrong with you?” I said.
    “Nothing much,” he said.
    “Nine years,” I said.
    “How long did it take you?” he said.
    “Nine years,” I said. “Of course, I’ve had two years off for good behavior, but now I’m back. And there was nothing much wrong with me, either. That’s why I graduated in the first place. The ones there’s really something wrong with are in forever.”
    “Why did you start nine years ago?” asked Detective Nolan.
    “I wanted a divorce,” I said.
    “From this guy who’s being so terrible to you now?”
    “From the first one,” I said. I looked at him. “Diana told you, didn’t she? I know she did. That bitch.”
    “I’m sorry to bring it up,” said Detective Nolan. “It’s not even relevant. Although it might explain why you were wondering whether the guy on the subway was single.”
    “That’s true,” I said.
    “I was thinking of going into therapy because I can’t decide whether to have a hair transplant,” said Detective Nolan.
    “You already have an awful lot of hair,” I said.
    “It’s not mine,” said Detective Nolan.
    “It