tree sloths, says Trudy. But one can always hope that something one says is penetrating the ether.
Oh, I’m sure it is . . . And what else is going on? Any ventures outside the academic realm?
Not really, says Trudy. I am doing a research project that’s of personal interest, but I got funding through the university, so I guess you’d consider that academic.
Well, that depends. What’s it about?
Trudy takes a larger gulp of Bordeaux than intended and spills some of it. She licks the side of her hand.
Germans, she says. I’m interviewing Germans of my mother’s generation. To see how they’re dealing with what they did during the war.
Really, says Roger.
Yes, well, it’s still very much in the beginning stages. I just came from my first interview, in fact. And it was . . . difficult. But I thought it would be interesting—I mean, necessary—to hear about the war from live sources. There’s not much documentation of the German reaction, especially straight from the horse as it were, and it’ll be invaluable to the study of this time period to add—
Well, here’s where I leave you two, Kimberly interrupts. Trudy, super to see you again. Give me a call and we’ll do lunch, okay? So we can talk about— you know. What we were talking about before this big lug came in.
She drops a kiss on Roger’s hair, sends Trudy a final wink, and leaves.
Trudy glances at the antique railway clock over the bar.
I should probably let you go too, she says.
No, that’s all right, replies Roger. I still have a few minutes, assuming there’re no brush fires in the kitchen...So. Difficult, you said. In what way?
What?
Your interview.
Trudy raises her eyebrows at Roger. Is he just being polite? But he appears genuinely interested, so she gets up, goes behind the bar, refreshes her wine at Roger’s go-ahead nod, and returns to her stool, where she recounts Frau Kluge’s interview for him in detail.
And that’s it, Trudy says when she has finished, with a flourish that sends a tongue of Bordeaux leaping onto the floor. Interview ein. Kaputt.
She sets her glass carefully on its napkin. She is getting a little drunk.
So she never admitted she was the one turning in the Jews, Roger says.
Not outright.
And you didn’t confront her with it.
Well, no. But. It was obvious she was talking about herself.
Yes, of course, says Roger. Mmmmm. Interesting.
He props an elbow on the bar and tugs his mustache, examining Trudy with the heavy-lidded, deceptively sleepy gaze that she knows masks his keenest curiosity.
What, Trudy says.
Nothing. It’s nothing.
What it’s nothing. It’s not nothing. Not when you’re giving me the Look. What is it?
I really don’t want to get into this, Trudy.
Into what? Come on, Roger. Out with it.
It’s just still amazing to me, that’s all.
What is?
The lengths you’ll go to to avoid therapy.
What? says Trudy. What are you talking about?
Roger gazes at the ceiling as if beseeching the skies above for patience.
It is beyond me, he says, why you would waste all this time and energy on this project of yours when you could just get counseling to deal with your issues in a normal way and move on.
I am doing, says Trudy, biting off each word, empirical research.
For whom? Tell me honestly. For the academic realm? Or for yourself ?
What difference does that make, Trudy snaps.
A smile spreads Roger’s mustache, and Trudy bristles. She knows exactly what he is thinking of: their single session of marriage counseling, after which Trudy had a fit of hysterical giggles in the car over the therapist’s earnest, sweating attempts to foster rapport—Now, Roger, hold Trudy’s hands, that’s right, and look deep into her soul and tell her exactly how you feel about her—and bulging froglike eyes. She refused to go back.
Counseling is not the answer to everything, Roger, she says now. Just because you and Kimberly go to, to encounter groups and retreats and sweat lodges to, to discover your inner animal spirit guides or God knows what—
Roger’s smile curls further.
Oh, Trudy, he says.
Don’t you take that pitying tone with me.
I don’t pity you, says Roger gently. I’m trying to help you. Don’t you see, Trudy? It’s all about your mother. I still don’t know what your particular beef with her is, but any Psych 101 student could tell you the underlying pathology: you’re just like her.
Trudy is so enraged that she can’t speak. She sputters incoherently for a minute, then finally manages to come out with, Oh yeah?
Absolutely.
Trudy slides off her stool. Well, that’s exactly