subsided, and were reputed to be pleasant places to live. She didn’t see why being a citizen of a nation in decline should diminish her own life or make her feel personally discouraged. She was duly condemnatory of various black marks on the US historical game card—the slaughter of the Indians, slavery—but not in a way that cut close to the bone. She hadn’t herself massacred any braves or whipped Africans on plantations.
This was different.
She felt ashamed.
I told you I didn’t want to do this.”
Avery eyed her husband warily at the kitchen counter as he poured himself a girding glass of French Viognier. After he’d put up such a stink about this dinner party, she wasn’t about to let him know how much that bottle had set them back. The exchange rate with the nouveau franc must have been ghastly. To cover her tracks, she had buried the wine shop receipt in the outdoor trashcan.
“We haven’t had anyone over in two months,” she objected, “and it’s coming up on Christmas.”
“Notice we haven’t been invited to one holiday bash this year? It’s understood: if you’re raising a glass, you’re getting plastered by yourself, with the door locked.”
“But you’re the one who keeps saying this is temporary.”
“I do think this is temporary. But for the time being, we’re surrounded by people who think they’ve been ruined.”
“According to you, if only everyone would stop freaking out and act normal, the economy would settle in no time. Since I never go this long without having people to dinner, that’s what I’m doing: I’m ‘acting normal.’”
“It sends the wrong signal,” Lowell grumbled. “This town is roiling with suspicion that certain-someones got their cash out of the country in advance. Or worse, have made a fortune at everyone else’s expense. It’s not a good time to live conspicuously high on the hog.”
“Fine, we’re not having pork,” Avery said brusquely. “And there’s nothing highfalutin about the menu.”
This was not entirely true. Avery had her standards. People thought you couldn’t get bluefin tuna anymore, but you could—for a price. After all that ruckus about the bees and patchy pollination on the West Coast, tossing shaved almonds in a salad was like scattering gold leaf. Since the jet stream’s burro-belly sag over North America had frozen Florida’s crops again, the lemons and the avocadoes were from Spain; the guy stacking them reverently in the produce aisle said shipments from Europe were so extortionate that Wholemart might stop stocking citrus altogether.
Worst of all, like most cooks of her generation, Avery listed the primitive necessities of life as fresh water, shelter, clothing, and extra-virgin olive oil—preferably oil pressed in Cyprus; all the Italian stuff was fake. But when the liter went through the scanner at checkout, she objected that there must have been a mistake. Perhaps weary of this interchange multiple times a day, the surly clerk assured her that the bottle had scanned correctly, and asked if she wanted to have the olive oil put back. Embarrassment won the day, and Avery shook her head no, she’d take it. That receipt went into the outdoor can, too.
“It’s not only the risk of ostentation,” Lowell said. “I’m not in the mood. I ran into a guy from Administration today, and he said to be prepared for a big drop in enrollment next semester. Parents are pulling their kids out of school. They can’t cover the tuition—if they ever could. Lucky I got tenure. When it came through, I took it as a compliment. Now it’s a lifeline.”
“Therapists, I’m afraid, don’t get tenure,” she warned him, grating ginger. “Four more cancellations today. Those patients may never be back.”
“They’ll be back.” He smoothed a hand over her rump, wrapped in a tight little black number for the evening. “If only to get counseling over, ‘Oh, why on earth did I sell my GM stock after it took such a dive? Had I simply held my nerve, I’d be sitting pretty!’ Like my wife”—he gave her buttock a squeeze—“who can’t help but sit pretty.”
“Thanks. Listen, I do want credit: when you were so tepid about tonight—”
“Not tepid. Violently opposed.”
“When you were so ‘violently opposed,’” Avery revised, “I cut the guest list to the bone. It’s only going to be Ryan and Lin Yu, Tom and Belle.”
“My, two out of the four I can actually stand. Good odds, as dinner parties go.”
“It’s in your interest to stay on Ryan’s good side. Mark Vandermire’s a passing clown who got lucky, and given your positions you were always going to hate each other. But Ryan is your boss.”
“He’s only head of the department, in defiance of my seniority, because he threatened to take his marbles to Princeton. They should never have capitulated to blackmail.”
“That’s because Ryan Biersdorfer is a rock star. Economics doesn’t have many rock stars, so you have to make nice.”
“Your husband’s not a rock star?” He’d have tried to say this lightly, but it came out wounded.
She looped her wrists around his neck, keeping her ginger-hairy hands from soiling his shirt collar. “My husband’s more like a jazz musician. Much more careless.”
Lowell left to check on the kids upstairs. Hopefully with that butt-patting banter and grousing about the guest list, he’d pulled off a reasonable facsimile of the grumpy yet affectionate husband on an ordinary Saturday evening when he wasn’t up for company. Everything he did and said lately felt fake—like cover, or distraction. Yet he did believe fiercely: this too shall pass, and more rapidly than anyone expected. Look at the Stonage: the country sprang right back. GDP took a hit in ’24, but the market recovered lickety-split. So: all that hair-tear for basically nothing. Same cycle, all over again.
He rapped on Savannah’s door, then poked his head in. “You consider joining the grown-ups tonight?”
“Nah.” His seventeen-year-old was sprawled on the bed, hunt-and-pecking on her fleX. Savannah was one of those girls who managed to make brown hair seem exotic. He trained his eyes away from her long bare legs; she was a knockout, she had powers, but he was her father. Which made him fortunate. He’d hate to be one of the teenage boys she turned to jelly. “I want to finish this application. I can ask Mojo for an omelet.”
“Better make it yourself. Mom’s turned Mojo off for the night. She didn’t want it to bury the guests in the backyard or something.”
“There’s a new Netflix series about that, you know. About a murderous Mojo run amok.”
“Oldest sci-fi plot in the book. Goes back to 2001: A Space Odyssey.”
Savannah frowned. “Why would science fiction be set in the past?”
“Because
