She downed her coffee and put her mug in the sink. Frieda’s kitchen in the Henry Street brown-stone co-op was full of light, the orange of autumn morning. Out the window, from where she sat at the fifties-diner style green linoleum-topped table, Betty stared at the fiery red leaves of a maple tree. The tree was turning, some leaves hanging on, struggling for another day. In two weeks, they’d all be gone, and Betty would look out that window at bare-naked branches. She turned toward Frieda, who was rinsing cereal bowls and putting them in the dishwasher. Justin was complaining about the content of his lunchbox. Frieda promised him they’d go shopping after school to get the good kind of peanut butter.
Betty said to her nephew, “Don’t you have therapy after school on Wednesdays?”
“That’s right,” said Frieda. “I’ll do a food shop during lunch.”
“Therapy again?” asked Justin. “I went last week.”
“You go every week,” said Frieda.
“For how long?” asked Justin.
“Until the insurance runs out.”
Betty asked, “Do you like your therapist?”
Justin shrugged. “She’s okay. I just sit there and draw. She tries to get me to talk about my feelings. ” He said the word like it was covered in slimy mucus.
Betty, marveling how early emotional retardation started in men, asked Justin, “You don’t like to talk about your feelings?”
“Do you?” asked Justin in return.
Frieda laughed. “Insightful little beast, isn’t he?” she said.
The three of them left the apartment, and went to school. After drop-off, Betty accompanied Frieda on the short walk to her shop. Betty noticed that men on the street looked at Frieda. Men had always looked at Frieda.
Betty said, “You’ve got a birthday coming up.”
“The big three six,” said Frieda, nodding.
“Can I take you to dinner?”
“It’s not for a couple of months,” said Frieda. “You might have a hot date that night.”
Betty scoffed. “You might, too.”
“Right,” said Frieda.
They arrived at the gallery. Frieda fit the key into the lock and said, “Can you come in for a few minutes?”
Betty checked her watch. She was supposed to be at Burton & Notham in an hour. A guy was coming in from corporate to start working on audio-book-sample machines. It was a new initiative for Burton & Notham. Taking a cue from music retail superstores like Tower and HMV that had freestanding kiosks with earphones to hear sample cuts from CDs, her store, a flagship in Manhattan, was among the dozen nationwide to set up booths so customers could listen to five-minute snippets of books on tape. Betty was irked by the intrusion. She had no idea where these booths were going to go, and annoyed by the invasion of strange personnel.
“I’ve got five minutes,” said Betty. “And, actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”
Frieda held open the gallery door. Betty entered, and took her usual seat in front of the counter. She looked around the shop first, admiring the work of a new photographer.
She said, “You wouldn’t think a fresh perspective of the Brooklyn Bridge was possible,” pointing at a hanging print.
Frieda said, “It’s for sale. Two hundred bucks. But I’ll give it to you for one ninety-nine.”
“One-dollar discount for sisters?”
“I’m not in business to lose money,” she said. They both laughed. The Sol Gallery was usually in the red. But money wasn’t Frieda’s problem.
“What did you want to talk about?” asked Frieda as she took a seat behind the counter. “I have got to clean this place up. Look at this dust.” She dragged a fingertip along the top of her computer monitor.
Betty steeled herself for complete honesty. “I haven’t had a boyfriend in three years.”
Frieda nodded. “We’ve noticed.”
“Let’s leave Ilene out of this,” said Betty. “I don’t think her full-court-press approach works for someone with my subtle needs.”
“I’d say your needs