“I know what we’ll do now,” Carol said. “Let’s tell each other about our childhoods. Some of us don’t know each other well, and you can learn so much from what we did as kids.”

“Great,” Julia said, “I’d really like that.”

Russell suspected she and Carol had planned that in the kitchen, if not before. He could see Alan contemplating, Evelyn’s eyes darting. But never in Alan’s direction. He thought of making up a tale, something about setting a school lab on fire and ending up in juvenile detention. Actually, he’d fantasized doing that every day in chemistry class. The fire, not detention. Of course, he wouldn’t use that fabrication, not with Julia there, not with the way he was looking forward to the end of the dinner party and their time in bed, the house to themselves, her kids off visiting their father. He’d do nothing to spoil the evening. But he’d make notes about that idea, a tale about an alter ego.
He found himself eager to hear what Julia would reveal, with the thought of teasing something deeper, more intimate, out of her later in the dark, touching spots that would make her moan. But Carol volunteered to go first. “After all, it was my idea.”

Jerry gave her a peck on the cheek. “And I’ll fill in the details.”

“Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

He winked at the others. “I can hardly wait.”

Carol began. “When I was about to be four, I wanted nothing more than a stuffed bunny for my birthday. I asked for it at dinner one night. But my father shook his head and told me I was going to get a garbage can. He was like that—always joking around. My bother’s understood. They were older and played along with him. Not me. I insisted that I didn’t want a garbage can. He kept saying that he’d already bought one. I looked at my mother. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I burst into tears, wouldn’t stop, even after she got up and hugged me, telling me that Daddy was only fooling. And he apologized, saying he thought I understood, saying how awful he felt.”

Even though Carol was smiling, Russell suspected she was close to tears.

“Her father is a great guy,” Jerry spoke quickly. “One of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Funny too.” He reached to take Carol’s hand.

Russell couldn’t figure out why Carol wanted to reveal that memory, why she had been so eager to recommend this game. Was it a message to Jerry? Did she still resent her father? Did she expect to be spoiled if she cried? He’d ponder the possibilities.

“And did you get the bunny?” Julia asked, though Russell was sure she already knew.

“Absolutely. The very next day when he got home from work. A week before my party. I got even more stuffed animals then.”

“It wasn’t easy to get her to make up her mind,” Jerry said. “Me or that bed with all the creatures.”

“You had toys in bed as an adult?” Julia’s voice rose.

“Still does.” Jerry winked at the others. “Only now it’s me.”

“My boy toy.” Carol stroked his arm.

They really love each other, Russell thought and had to look away.

Julia volunteered to go next. “It’s hard to come up with something Carol and Russell haven’t heard before.” She looked at them. “Did I tell you about my dance recital?” They shook their heads, and Russell sensed they would even if she had.

She was supposed to have the lead role in a performance but tripped over a teammate during a gym volleyball game and wrenched her knee. Her mother wrapped the knee with icepacks for several days, keeping her home from school. Though she still had pain, she went on stage, and people—her dance teacher—told her she’d been wonderful.

“So you had a career,” Russell said, assuming she’d danced for years.

Julia shook her head. “No. I quit lessons right after that as much as my parents and my teacher wanted me to go on.”

“Why?” Evelyn spoke softly, as if her question were an intrusion.

“Because I knew I’d never be good enough.”

“Come on,” Jerry said. “You’re great.”

Russell nodded but wondered what else he didn’t know about her, unsure why he was bothered by her quitting.

Carol picked Alan to go next. He told about winning a science project as if giving a formal report, and Russell remembered that Julia said he did important research, though about what and for whom he had no idea. The project seemed to have been for a major competition, resulting in a prestigious scholarship. Alan made it all sound very dull.

Jerry’s story was about coming off the bench in a big game to replace an injured quarterback and throwing a long, long winning pass, the ball wobbling as if tossed by a five-year-old. Russell made a mental note of that detail, then tuned out the rest of what Jerry was saying, snapping back when Carol cried out, “My hero!” and wrapped arms around him. Julia clapped.

Russell realized he should take his turn. He wondered if Julia had told Carol and Jerry about his writing, if they expected something special from him, clever and inventive. But he decided not to try, fearing he would come off as pretentious. So he talked about the hours he spent drawing comics as an eight-year-old, adventures of a superhero called Bullet Man with a bullet-shaped head and bullet-shaped car that could run down gangsters. “The main problem is that I have zip drawing talent. In fact, I’m as bad now—worse—than I was then.”

Julia gave him a puzzled look as if unsure whether he was improvising on the spot. He put a hand across his heart. “Honest,” he told her, relieved when she smiled.