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Farley. “Make yourself comfortable.”
    I looked at the wicker love seat where he was sitting—there was maybe a foot and a half of clearance. It would be a very tight squeeze.
    â€œDr.—Beth, please, sit—”
    But Beth insisted. “I’ve been parked on my ass all day.” She said “ass” right in front of her daughter and didn’t bother to censor herself. Only Mr. Farley cleared his throat.
    I was made to sit. I pressed my knees together, so they wouldn’t knock into Ed Farley’s. I could feel his tense thighs against mine. Beth began pacing around the room, swinging her arms vigorously. Hannah did the same thing to increase circulation. Black, wiry sprouts of hair peeked out from under Beth’s arms through her sleeveless, shapeless tunic top.
    I couldn’t picture a more mismatched pair than Beth Mazer and Ed Farley. Beth looked like she was well into her forties: her face was gaunt, with yellow circles under her large, dark eyes. Blackheads studded her nose. Perhaps if Beth dyed her hair or blow-dried her frizzy strands straight, she might have minimized the age gap between them. Still, she seemed to carry herself with the confidence—and entitlement—of a younger, prettier woman.
    â€œJane!” Beth said. “We are thrilled to meet you. Tell us everything.”
    Everything?
I reached for the file folder in my bag. “Here is my résumé—”
    Beth waved it away. “We want to get to know
you
. Let’s have a conversation.”
    Weren’t we already? “Um, okay.”
    â€œYou just graduated from college, right? What was that experience like?”
    Beth’s question was oddly open-ended.
    â€œIt was good, I guess. I double-majored in finance and accounting.”
    â€œIsn’t that a shame, Beth.” It was Mr. Farley who spoke.
    â€œIgnore him, Jane. That comment was more about me than about you.” Over my head they exchanged a look. Beth went on. “I suppose the cat’s out of the bag, Jane: I have something of a predisposed bias against banker types. They
are
my mother’s people!
Clearly
I’m a self-hater. So it goes, so it goes.” Clearly Beth was an oversharer. As she spoke, her cheeks did not flush red, the way most normal people’s would when they realized they were divulging too much information.
    She went on. “But frankly, Jane, I’m surprised you’re applying for this kind of job. You seem like a bright, sensitive young woman, despite your degree.”
    It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer it.
    â€œTell us where you’re from.”
    â€œQueens. Flushing.”
    Beth called out to Devon, “Remember, sweetie? The last time we were in Queens? When I took you to see the Mets play the Giants?”
    Devon turned from her window perch. “And the Mets
lost,
” she said, scrunching her nose. “They
always
lose.”
    â€œYou’ve got to believe, sweetie.”
    People only ever have two stories about Queens: bad times at JFK and bad times at Shea Stadium.
    â€œAnd what do your parents do out there?” Beth backpedaled hastily. “That is, if you’re comfortable talking about it. I know
I
hate it when people are always like, ‘And what do
your
parents do?’ God, look at me! I’m turning into my mother.” Beth made an exaggerated shudder, presumably for comic effect, but when she finished that routine, she stared down at me, waiting for an actual answer.
    â€œMy uncle has a grocery store in Flushing.”
    â€œYour . . . uncle?”
    I found myself craving the sterility of corporate-finance interviews.
    â€œI live with his family. They—My mother died a while ago.”
    The curtains parted, and Devon came bounding across the room. She put her face right up to mine. “How did your mother die?”
    â€œDevon!” Beth said sharply. I exhaled a sigh of relief. But