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Sherry was big all right, but she seemed radiant and self-contained, stroking the hard dome of her belly as she spoke in a bright, authoritative tone about the pros and cons of midwives, birthing chairs, Pitocin, and epidurals. Jack sat beside her, jittery as a kid in church, his expression alternating between mild interest and profound boredom.

      “Poor Jack.” Sherry laughed and patted him on the knee. “He's heard all this a hundred times.”

      TRACY FLICK

      IT HAD TO HAPPEN. The sex, I mean. It was our destination. We talked about it all the time as we touched each other under and through our clothes.

      “I need to make love to you,” he whispered. “I'll go crazy if we don't.”

      “Okay.”

      “Do you want it?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Say it.”

      “Say what?”

      “What you want.”

      “I want to make love.”

      “When?”

      “Soon.”

      “Now?”

      “Soon.”

      We came within an inch of it in the darkroom one Wednesday afternoon, but I made him stop. I didn't want it to happen like that, on a cold floor in a room that reeked of developer. We decided to play hooky the next day, to do what had to be done in a safe, private place.

      MR. M.

      SOMETHING HAPPENED, he never told me what. I guess Tracy came to her senses and decided to break it off.

      Jack couldn't handle it. He put his hand through the windshield of his own car and ended up in the emergency room. He told Sherry he wanted a divorce. She was eight months pregnant at the time.

      Despite Diane's vehement objections, he spent that night on our living room couch. I heard noises around three in the morning and went downstairs to check them out.

      “Please,” he said, in a voice not really his own. “I'm a friend of hers. I have an important message.”

      I turned on the light. He was sitting on the kitchen floor in his underwear, a bottle of scotch cradled between his knees. His right arm was in a sling, the phone in his left hand.

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