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another woman. She would have preferred, however, that it stay quiet. She hadn’t seen Emily since then but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t in the future.
    “What the fuck is going on?” Nat said, picking up the tape player and threatening to throw it in the bathtub.
    “You won’t get away with it. Remember that Columbo show where the son killed off his father by dunking the radio in the tub.
    Every cop in the world is aware of that stunt.”
    “Fuck you,” Nat said. She clicked the player off and put it on the vanity. “You’re sleeping with some baby dyke down the street.”
    “And?” Hilton said, slinking back down into the tub now that her life was no longer in jeopardy.
    “And I’m pissed off.” Nat put her hands on her slim hips. She was dressed in tight black hip-hugger jeans and a low-cut red T-shirt that prominently showed her cleavage.
    “Is that like an authoritative pose?” Hilton said.
    “Yes. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    “The same thing you’re doing with the biker chick. I believe it’s called retaliatory fucking.”
    “Great term. Did you learn that in therapy?”
    Nat always reverted to therapy when she was at a loss on how to deal with Hilton. This was her way of reminding Hilton that she was not of sound mind and needed a nut ball like Nat to tell her how to behave in this savage world. Hilton had long stopped being offended.
    Therapy had been her father’s idea because he was convinced that a six-year-old seeing her mother strewn out on the beach, seaweed in her hair, and drowned was a traumatic event. It had been a shocking sight, but it was anger, not trauma, that guided her into adulthood.
    “I’m not sleeping with Sherry,” Nat said with a sigh.
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    “What are you waiting for? That special moment? Or maybe you found someone with a conscience.”
    Nat’s face flushed. “It’s not that.”
    “Look, you started all this business. You’re about to bang the biker chick and I’m doing the neighbor. What’s the big deal?”
    Hilton kept her voice even and her face placid. Nat hated these self-contained moments. She wanted tears and platitudes. She wanted a scene. Hilton refused to indulge her. She wanted to make this as painful as possible. This was what the therapist would call passive-aggressive behavior.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means maybe Sherry doesn’t want to bang a married woman, maybe she’s not comfortable doing someone else’s woman, maybe she thinks monogamy is important and you haven’t figured out a way to convince her that it’s all right,” Hilton retorted.
    Nat swung open the bathroom door. “Fuck you!” she screamed.
    Hilton had thrown the decisive blow. She was a marksman when it came to pinpointing a weak spot and hitting hard. “I can’t.
    I probably don’t have a big enough dildo to compete with the ever-hard biker chick.”
    Nat turned around and smiled. “As a matter of fact, you don’t.”
    It was Hilton’s turn to snap. She grabbed the soap and hurled it with the precision of a big-league pitcher. It nailed Nat in the back of the head.
    “God damn you,” Nat said, turning back around and going for Hilton. Liz and Jessie, who were watching reruns of Leave it to Beaver on television in the living room, heard the commotion and grabbed Nat before she got to the bathroom.
    “I think a little time out might be in order,” Liz said, putting her arm around Nat and leading her away.
    Jessie stood in the doorway of the bathroom. “Great shot!”
    Hilton rolled her eyes and got up and grabbed a towel. She dried off and put on her robe. Jessie looked on admiringly.
    “You’ve got a great body,” Jessie said, sitting down on the commode. She obviously meant to stay.
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    Hilton smiled. “The lucky sperm club is responsible for genet-ics, not character.”
    “What the hell does that mean?” Jessie asked. She