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"Ms. Lambeth, this is Tina Rice from the Academy."

"Yes?"

"I wanted to let you to know that your client—"

"Hold, which client?"

"Brett Bordley-Young. We're changing plans, slightly. We'd like her to present the award for Best Screen Adaptation of a Foreign-Language Novel along with Stannie Colfax."

"Who?"

"Stannie Colfax."

"Like I said, who?"

"I'm kind of surprised you haven't heard of him. He's a very popular columnist for Tops."

"Well, that's very nice. Are you people out of your mind? A columnist? She was supposed to present with Brad Peel."

"Brad's had to bow out, unfortunately. Mr. Colfax is quite well-known. He does sports and movie reviews on the Internet. You've heard of the thumbs down? He gives 'the finger.' He has a cameo in the new Mike Myers film—"

"You know, pardon me, but I'm kind of surprised they didn't give us Mike Myers."

"Mr. Colfax scores very high on every name-recognition index. He's been on Letterman several times. He's a close friend of—"

"What I'm saying is that I think my client is a big enough name to merit presenting with an actor of some stature. I know it's too late for Cruise or Russell Crowe, but what about Tim Robbins? Cuba Gooding, Jr.? I'd even take James Garner over some damned writer."

"If your client is concerned, we're very agreeable to finding a replacement."

"For him?"

"No, for her."

"I really need to talk to somebody over there who knows what's going on."

"If you feel that way, I can have someone call you, but it may be after the weekend—"

"No, I want a call today. My other line's beeping in. Goodbye."

* * *

Across the country, Jenny Lemke stood in an upstairs bathroom of her house, putting on lipstick. She rolled it deep into the small creases of her lips, thinking that her aging skin looked more and more like art—like a mosaic, maybe: a pattern on an old church wall. How would she look in another ten years? Hag-like. She pushed her bifocals up the bridge of her nose and saw every pore magnified in the mirror to the size of a pin prick. She felt a little dizzy staring at herself. If she kept looking for a long time, she might just drift out of her body, up into the air, and watch herself from above. That would be something. To drift above and watch herself talking to a reporter, giving a speech, arguing with Sibyl about policy, cradling a baby in a car on the way to the airport.

You had to do your best with all this, even if you hated being at everybody's mercy. This was not about you: this was about it. You were just a tool, and it was worth any amount of unctuousness you had to display. But hey, that was the activist speaking, and she really couldn't stand the activist anymore. The activist was a tyrant. Jenny thought about the girl coming today and wished she could say to her, "I'm tired of fighting. I believe it all, but nothing ever changes, and I'm tired. They win."

The doorbell rang. She looked out the window, glimpsed the top of Rose's head through white dogwood blossoms, and snapped her lipstick case shut. She came down the stairs checking her clothes, looking over her bare shins to make sure the sunless tanning lotion hadn't streaked. These pants she was wearing—they'd called them "pedal pushers" when she was a kid in the fifties: now they were "Capris" or something. She couldn't wear this retro stuff without without having flashbacks, visions of her mother poking around this house in a sleeveless blouse and flat shoes, bored and smoking Pall Malls. "You damned ungrateful kids, I feel like a prison warden." Forty-five years ago.

She opened the door, smiling self-consciously. The girl on the front steps smiled back, but her eyes were tense. She wore blue jean overalls and a baggy t-shirt: her hair was pulled back in one of those huge clips: it sprouted from the top of her head like a weed. Strange choice of clothes, Jenny thought, for an interview. But then, if you were beautiful you could get away with anything. "Good again to see you again, Rose. Rose, right?"

"Yes. You're Jenny Lemke?" The girl sounded uncertain.

"Oh!" Jenny pulled off her bifocals. "I wasn't wearing these yesterday, was I? Bet you didn't recognize me."

Rose shook her head. "No, I'm afraid I'm not awake yet. And I've been driving around, lost—what a lovely old neighborhood."

"Thank you. Come in, please," Jenny held out her hand but the girl moved away from her as she stepped into the hallway. How old was she, anyway? Thirty? Odd to be calling her a "girl," but she had that girlish look.

Rose glanced around. "Have you lived here a long time?"

"A very long time," said Jenny. "This was my mother's house."

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