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mothers were talking about that woman who was killed,” Zelly said as she skinned cucumbers.
    â€œWhat woman?”
    â€œUp on Stevens campus two months ago. Somebody there knew her. She used to bring her baby to that park, you know? On Tenth Street.”
    â€œYou didn’t know her?”
    â€œNot really. I met her once. I didn’t go to that park. I was going to Church Square until two weeks ago. But I didn’t like the mothers there. And last time this two-year-old kept coming up to Mary and trying to hit her.”
    â€œWas it a boy baby or a girl baby that woman had?”
    â€œIt was a boy. God, Pat, it was in the Jersey papers for a week.”
    â€œYou know I don’t read about things like that.”
    â€œI know. Just the baseball and the book reviews. There’s a killer loose practically in our backyard, in case you’re interested—”
    â€œI’m not. The Yankee game is on tonight, you know.”
    â€œYou told me six times. You and Greg are going to ruin my dinner by putting on the baseball, aren’t you?”
    â€œNot during dinner. You’re going to ruin dinner by talking about this murder nonsense, aren’t you?” But he was smiling. Mary did a drumroll on a pot and hit her hand and cried.
    â€œYou know it’s the only thing anybody ever talks about these days,” Zelly said as she scooped her up. “When Son of Sam was in New York in the seventies—”
    â€œI know, I know. I was there. All the brown-haired girls wore kerchiefs or cut their hair, and nobody talked about anything else.”
    â€œWell, I can’t tell our guests what to talk about!”
    â€œBut that’s all you talk about yourself. Why couldn’t I have married a girl who’s into stamp collecting? Birdcalls? Coins?”
    â€œOr at least the Yankees.” Zelly laughed.
    â€œAt least.” And he smacked her ass lightly. She was pleased he’d touched her; she leaned over, about to pat his rear in return. “I just can’t believe,” he went on, “that anybody would expend so much energy on such a silly topic.”
    Zelly’s outstretched hand went stiffly to her side. He was just ragging her, like everybody else. Everyone teased her about her fascination with serial killers; they always had; when she saw her brothers and sisters at Thanksgiving or Christmas it amounted to a tribal ritual to tease her about it. Now she prickled defensively.
    â€œSilly?” Mary had stopped crying and was back on the floor trying to stick a stalk of celery through the little metal handle on one of the pots. “Silly? When there’s a pychopathic killer running around the streets—”
    â€œI doubt very much that he’s actually running around the streets at this moment.”
    â€œAt this moment he’s probably driving around. Serial killers spend a lot of time driving around their territory, fantasizing and reliving their crimes.”
    Mary was hitting Pat’s pants leg over and over with her celery. “Here’s somebody who spends all her time reliving her crimes,” Pat said, kneeling to pick her up. She laughed delightedly and hit him in the face with the celery. “Maybe tonight after everybody leaves you and I can spend some time fantasizing.”
    â€œYou make fun,” Zelly said, “but it fascinates me.” She felt a pang of unhappiness or anticipation. He talked like that—but usually he just talked. She wished she knew if he meant it. She wanted to say something back, something light and sexy. “I can’t stop people from talking,” she said instead.
    â€œWell, I wish you could,” Pat snapped suddenly, harshly, and the baby started to cry in his arms. “We shouldn’t have even invited people over, this is going to ruin the whole—oh, take her. Honey, I’m just tired. I can’t wait till everybody goes home and I have you all to