I reach for the glazed ceramic dish—like everything in the Hargrove house, it is beautiful—even though Fred is more than capable of reaching it himself. This is part of the ritual. Soon I will be his wife, and we will sit like this every night, performing a well-choreographed dance.
Fred smiles at me. “Tired?” he says. In the past few months, we have spent many hours together; our Sunday dinner is just one of the many ways we have begun practicing merging our lives.
I’ve spent a long time scrutinizing his features, trying to figure out whether he is attractive, and in the end I have come up with this: He is very pleasant to look at. He is not as attractive as I am, but he is smarter, and I like his dark hair, and the way it falls over his right eyebrow when he has not had time to smooth it back.
“She looks tired,” Mrs. Hargrove says. Fred’s mother often talks about me as though I’m not in the room. I don’t take it personally; she does it with everybody. Fred’s father was mayor for more than three terms. Now that Mr. Hargrove is dead, Fred has been groomed to take his place. Since the Incidents in January, Fred campaigned tirelessly for the appointment, and it paid off. Only a week ago, a special interim committee appointed him the new mayor. He will be inaugurated publicly early next week.
Mrs. Hargrove is used to being the most important woman in the room.
“I’m fine,” I say. Lena always said that I could lie my way out of hell.
The truth is, I’m not fine. I’m worried that I can’t stop worrying about Jenny and how thin she looked.
I’m worried that I’ve been thinking of Lena again.
“Of course, the wedding preparations are very stressful,” my mother says.
My father grunts. “You’re not the one writing the checks.”
This makes everybody laugh. The room is suddenly illuminated by a brief flash of light from outside: A journalist, parked in the bushes directly outside the window, is snapping our picture, which will then be sold to local newspapers and TV stations.
Mrs. Hargrove has arranged for paparazzi to be here tonight. She tipped the photographers off to the location of a dinner that Fred arranged for us on New Year’s Eve, too. Photo opportunities are arranged and carefully plotted, so the public can watch our emerging story and see the happiness we’ve achieved by being paired so perfectly together.
And I am happy with Fred. We get along very well. We like the same things; we have a lot to talk about.
That’s why I’m worried: Everything will go up in smoke if the procedure has not worked correctly.
“I heard on the radio that they’ve evacuated parts of Waterbury,” Fred says. “Parts of San Francisco, too. Riots broke out over the weekend.”
“Please, Fred,” Mrs. Hargrove says. “Do we really have to talk about this at dinner?”
“It won’t help to ignore it,” Fred says, turning to her. “That’s what Dad did. And look what happened.”
“Fred.” Mrs. Hargrove’s voice is strained, but she manages to keep smiling. Click. Just for a second, the dining room walls are lit up by the camera’s flash. “It really isn’t the time—”
“We can’t pretend anymore.” Fred looks around the table, as though appealing to each of us. I drop my eyes. “The resistance exists. It may even be growing. An epidemic—that’s what this is.”
“They’ve cordoned off most of Waterbury,” my mother says. “I’m sure they’ll do the same in San Francisco.”
Fred shakes his head. “This isn’t just about the infected. That’s the problem. There’s a whole system of sympathizers—a network of support. I won’t do what Dad did,” he says with sudden fierceness. Mrs. Hargrove has gone very still. “For years there were rumors that the Invalids existed, that their numbers were growing, even. You know it. Dad knew it. But he refused to believe.”
I keep my head bent over my plate. A piece of lamb is sitting, untouched, next to green beans and fresh mint jelly. Only the best for the Hargroves. I pray that the journalists outside don’t take a picture now; I’m sure my face is red. Everyone at the table knows that my former best friend tried to run off with an Invalid, and they know—or suspect—that I covered for her.
Fred’s voice gets quieter. “By the time he accepted it—by the time he was willing to act—it was too late.” He reaches out to touch his mother’s hand, but she picks up her fork and begins eating again, stabbing green beans with such force, the tines of her fork make a sharp, clanging noise against the plate.
Fred clears his throat. “Well, I refuse to look the other way,” he says. “It’s time we all face this head-on.”
“I just don’t see why we have to talk about it at dinner,” Mrs. Hargrove says. “When we’re having a perfectly nice time—”
“May I be excused?” I ask too sharply. Everyone at the table turns to me in surprise. Click. I can only imagine what that picture will look like: my mother’s mouth frozen in a perfect O, Mrs. Hargrove frowning, my father lifting a bloody piece of lamb to his lips.
“What do you mean, excused?” my mother says.