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45

On Tuesday evening – the night before he was to die – Timothy Van Bender made love to his wife.

It would be the last time he would do so using his old body. In less than a day, he would become the Kid – a twenty-something MBA hotshot with his whole life ahead of him, with sturdy knees and a full head of hair, with low cholesterol and high testosterone. Timothy felt like a boy the night before Christmas, when the promise of the next day's gifts seemed infinite, so much sweeter than the gifts themselves ever proved to be.

They made love differently. In the weeks since Katherine had returned as Tricia, their love-making was passionate and frenzied, and he devoured her new body, wanted to have it, to grab onto her and not let go. It was the passion of a man who didn't want to lose his wife again.

But that evening, during their final night together, it was different. Their lovemaking was slow and lingering, as if each of them wanted to remember what it felt like, his old body, with the graying chest hair and soft stomach; and she kissed each part of him, slowly and thoughtfully, and he lay back and tried to be still, to record it somewhere in his mind – so he would always have it, no matter who he was.

Afterwards, she lay quietly on his chest, listening to his heart. ‘I'm going to miss this Timothy Van Bender,' she said. And it sounded strange, that the twenty-three-year-old Tricia was wistful in a way that only comes from age.

‘We'll still be together,' he said.

‘I wonder what it will be like. I'll feel silly, being with such a young man. Like those ridiculous women you read about, the old Hollywood stars that date young boys.'

‘You sound like an old lady. Look at you. You're only twenty-three.'

She held up her arm, stared at her skin. ‘I suppose. Sometimes I forget.'

He said, ‘Everything's going to be fine.' How many times in his life had he said that, without believing it? But tonight it was important to believe it, to keep going forward, to execute the Plan. It was important that he believe, too.

They lay together, silent. She nuzzled her head under his chin. He smelled Katherine's mint shampoo, and even though it smelled foreign on Tricia's scalp, it brought back a rush of familiar memories: of summers on the veranda at the Circus Club; of sweaty kisses at mid-court, after a tennis match; of dancing on the club's ballroom floor.

She asked: ‘Do you remember our first date? In New York?'

‘Our first date?' he said. He tried to recall it. ‘How can I forget? The way we walked through Midtown, and we were so overcome by passion that we couldn't wait, and so we made love in the Port Authority restroom? I remember how that homeless man kept trying to barge into the stall, to shoot up, but we just ignored him …'

She pretended to slap him on the cheek, but her fingertips stopped midway, and it turned into a caress. ‘Stop it,' she said. ‘You're terrible.'

He smiled. More gently: ‘What about our first date?'

‘We went to a museum. It was the Met, I think.'

He remembered now: the young Katherine, still attending Smith College, confident and beautiful, striding through the marble-floored exhibition, holding his hand …

‘We were looking at a painting. By Ducreux. It was the portrait of the Count of Bougainville.'

Even before she completed the sentence, he had a sinking feeling. This was not a wife's loving reminiscence. This was a lawyer's opening argument.

She continued: ‘Except I called it Bow-Gan-Villa. I had never heard the proper French pronunciation. Remember?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you laughed and corrected me loudly, in front of all those people. And you said: “That sounds like a great Italian restaurant. We should go there.”' She mimicked his voice, made it sound deep and stupid, like a loutish football player.

She paused, turned to him in the bed. She was waiting for him to say something, but he wasn't sure what to offer. So instead he said, softly, ‘Yes.'

‘That hurt my feelings. I still remember it, to this day. It was really symbolic, I think. I mean, I probably should have known.'

And even though he understood exactly where the conversation was leading, and even though he didn't want to go there, he could not think of a reasonable way to stop it. He said: ‘Known what?'

‘That you weren't a nice man. But I was too young. And not at all confident in myself, you know? If that day in the museum had happened later – if we'd dated when I was forty instead of twenty – I probably would have just walked away, right then and there, and never given you a second thought.'

It was typical Katherine, to inject melodrama into what had been a gentle, quiet evening. But she was right. Back then, he had not been a nice man. ‘Katherine … I don't know what to say.'

‘Nothing,' she said. ‘There's nothing to say. I'm not mad.' She added: ‘Anymore.'

‘It happened twenty years ago. I was young, too. I'm not the same person I was. Things are different now.'

‘Are they?'

He laughed. It was an involuntary reflex, because her question seemed preposterous. The evidence was lying in bed with them. His wife was inhabiting his secretary's body. He was about to transfer his mind into yet another body. His career was in ruins. He was under suspicion of capital murder.

‘Yes, I'd say things are pretty different now.'

‘No,' she said. ‘I don't mean this.' She gestured at Tricia's – now her own – body. ‘I mean …' She paused, turned away from him. She repositioned herself in bed, sat up, and turned to him. Tricia's gorgeous twenty-three-year-old's breasts were inches from him, and her posture – arm extended, body turned slightly – highlighted
her smooth, well-defined abdomen. But despite this, Timothy felt nothing sexual. He felt – he realized – cowed. It was a feeling he often had when Katherine went on the attack. And the best strategy was to let the blows rain down, to absorb them. They would pass. And besides, as usual, he deserved them.

She continued: ‘I mean, now we have a second chance. Now we get to do it all over again. But will anything be different?'

‘Everything will be different.'

‘How can it be, if we're the same people we were?'

‘But we're not,' he said. ‘We're not the same people.' He thought about it. More gently now: ‘I'm not the same person. I mean, it's been twenty years, for godsakes. You think I haven't learned anything in twenty years? You think I'm the same person I was? I'm not. I've learned, Katherine.'

‘Tricia.'

‘Katherine,' he insisted. ‘I've learned. I've changed.'

‘We'll see.'

She stared at him for a long moment, as if searching for physical evidence that he had, in fact, changed. Then she called off the search and lay down on the bed. She repeated to the ceiling: ‘We'll see.'

She reached over to the nightstand lamp and turned off the light. They lay in darkness, neither speaking.

Finally, he said into the darkness: ‘I'm sorry for every mean thing I ever said to you, Katherine. I'm sorry for every time I hurt you.' Which was, in fact, true.

He waited for a reply. None came.

So he tried one more tack. ‘I love you,' he said.

To this, she did reply. ‘I love you too, Timothy. I always will love you. Remember that.'

Which was comforting enough. So he fell asleep.

46

On Wednesday night, the Kid came over for dinner.

It surprised Timothy that he had agreed to come. He thought the Kid's lawyer would warn him to stay away from Timothy, or that he would be suspicious of his motives, or even that the Kid hated him too much to spend an entire evening at the Van Bender house.

But the Kid was surprisingly gracious. ‘I would love to come,' he had said when Timothy had called two nights earlier. ‘I would love to see you and Tricia.'

So he showed up on Wednesday night at their doorstep, with a bottle of 1997 Côtes du Rhône – Timothy would need to improve the Kid's taste in wine when he had the opportunity – and smiled at Tricia, who answered the door wearing an elegant black cocktail dress.

‘Wow, look at you,' the Kid said. ‘You got dressed up.' From his tone, it sounded like he expected Tricia to be wearing spandex and glitter.

Tricia hugged the Kid. ‘Hi, Jay,' she said.

Timothy joined them in the doorway. The Kid handed him the bottle of wine and stepped into the house. ‘I didn't know what kind to get. I hope you like this.'

Timothy looked at the label. ‘It looks great,' he said. ‘I'll serve it tonight.' He shook the Kid's hand. ‘Good to see you, Jay.'

He led the Kid into the living room to sit with Tricia on the couch. Timothy said, ‘Let me get some drinks. Jay, what would you like? You want to join me and have Scotch on the rocks?'

‘That sounds great.'

Timothy turned the corner and walked into the recessed bar area. In the living room, he heard Tricia ask about what Jay was
up to these days – had he found a new job, was he interviewing, was he still living in the apartment? Timothy opened a new bottle of twenty-one-year-old Dalmore. He threw some ice in two tumblers and filled both glasses halfway with Scotch. From his pocket, he removed three blue valium tablets and dropped them into Jay's drink, then stirred the drink with his finger and waited for the tablets to dissolve.

He returned to the living room and handed the Kid the laced drink. ‘Here you go,' Timothy said. ‘To Mr. Dalmore, aged twenty-one years.' He raised his glass.

Jay stood from the couch and tapped his glass to Timothy's. ‘To old friends,' he said.

‘Who are you calling old?' Timothy protested.

At which they all laughed.

They ate in the dining room, seated around the glossy ebony table, with the chandelier dimmed low and braided candlesticks flickering on the table between them. Jay had finished his first Scotch and was now on his second – which meant that he was in the process of drinking valiums number four and five. Except for an occasional slur of the word ‘Timothy,' which came out ‘Tim-thee,' he didn't seem particularly inebriated; Timothy chalked it up to Jay's young body and hearty constitution – something that Timothy would soon be taking advantage of, perhaps while polishing off some good Cabernet the following night.

They ate steaks with arugula and parmesan shavings, and corn on the cob. It was a dinner that Timothy had chosen, as the last in his old body. The Kid wolfed down his steak.

‘I just think it's great,' the Kid said, ‘that you two are happy together. I have to admit, Timothy. I was a little jealous at first …' He pointed his fork at Timothy, who sat across the table. ‘But I see that you are both in love, and that is great.'

‘Thank you, Jay,' Tricia said. ‘That's nice to hear.'

‘Yeah,' Timothy said. ‘It is.'

‘Yeah,' Jay said, ‘I mean, love is hard to find.' He took a swig of Scotch, then put down the glass, too hard. ‘Whoo. I feel good.'

‘You okay there, Kid?' Timothy asked.

‘Oh yeah. I feel fine. Really fine. Maybe I better slow down on the Scotch for a while.'

The candlelight created flickering shadows under the Kid's eyes, made him seem haggard. Timothy noticed the Kid's forehead glistened with sweat.

‘Sure,' Timothy said. ‘This will be your last glass. Just finish it so it doesn't go to waste.'

‘Okay,' the Kid said. ‘Bottoms up.' He downed the Scotch. ‘Ahh.'

‘Good work,' Timothy said.

‘I feel a bit tired,' the Kid said. ‘You mind if I lie down?'

‘Go right ahead. The couch is over there.'

Tricia and Timothy stood and helped the Kid to the couch. He sat down and collapsed back into the cushions. ‘God, I'm sorry,' the Kid said. ‘I don't know what's gotten into me. Maybe if I just rest for a minute …'

The Kid closed his eyes.

‘Kid?' Timothy said.

The Kid was asleep. His mouth dropped open and he started to snore.

Tricia poked him. ‘Jay?'

The Kid was out cold.

‘All right,' Timothy said. ‘Let's go.'

47

They dragged the Kid to the garage and loaded him into the back seat of the BMW. The first problem was that the back seat was only five feet wide, while the Kid was six foot two. Timothy pushed the Kid's shoes up into the rear windshield in order to fit the body in the car.

‘Tim-thee?' the Kid said, dreamily.

‘Yeah, Kid. You had a little too much to drink. Me and Tricia are going to take you home.'

‘Thanks, Tim-thee.'

Timothy searched the Kid's pocket for his car keys. ‘Here,' he said, tossing them to Tricia. He glanced at his watch. ‘We're late.' The backup-and-restore cycle would take a few hours, and he needed to catch the ten o'clock red-eye to New York.

Tricia said, ‘We'll be okay. Drive slowly.'

Timothy pulled the BMW out of the garage. Tricia followed in the Kid's Jetta. They headed toward Sand Hill Road.

As Timothy drove, he looked in his rear-view mirror to make sure Tricia was keeping pace. Again, he glanced at his watch. He stepped on the gas. The speedometer needle touched forty-five miles per hour.

He looked again in the mirror. Tricia and the Jetta were falling behind him; she was refusing to speed up to maintain pace.

Timothy realized he was a bit drunk from his own glass of Scotch. It was affecting his judgment. Even without valiums in it, Dalmore packed a punch. He lightened up on the accelerator and watched the needle fall back to forty.

But it was too late. The red and blue police lights appeared behind him, with bright high beams and three quick honks of an electronic siren.

‘Damn it,' Timothy said.

Timothy pulled the BMW to the side of the road. He was on Sand Hill now, just a mile from Dr. Ho's. If only he had been a bit more careful …