“And you’re last,” Carol told Evelyn, who seemed to be shrinking into herself under the others’ attention. “Batting cleanup,” Jerry added.

Russell looked to Alan for his reaction, but Alan seemed to be studying his distorted reflection in a coffee spoon.

“I’m not good at this,” Evelyn said, speaking so softly the others had to lean toward her. Russell was glad that Carol did not ask her to be louder and almost suggested that they let her skip. What did it matter anyway? Then he realized he was curious, especially when he saw how pale she had become, how she stared straight ahead at a blank wall.

“I wasn’t a very appealing child,” she began. “Overweight and ungainly. My parents had me late in life. It may have been the only time they had sex.”

Russell expected her to laugh, as if she had made a joke. But she didn’t, and none of the others changed expression. They seemed embarrassed, even Alan, his fingers twisted around the spoon.

Evelyn paused, and Russell thought that was it, that she had said all she would, but she swallowed and went on. “Have you ever been to a funeral home?” The others all nodded. Carol breathed out a yes. “All those undertakers in dark suits and solemn faces standing silently in doorways, never speaking above a whisper, trying to pretend they didn’t exist. Well, that’s how it was in my house. My father should have been an undertaker. But he was a small town banker, always calculating, letting others deal with people. Except on Sundays.” She repeated, “Except on Sundays,” and then stopped.

Russell realized he wanted her to go on. “What happened on Sundays?”

“Sunday is when I poured tea. They started me at the age of five. In the afternoon after church people would assemble, people like them, men in dark suits, women in gray dresses. I cringed every time the door chimes sounded. But I was already waiting in the kitchen, sitting on a stool in my starched dress, the pleats puffed over a crinoline petticoat, my Mary Janes gleaming. My mother had braided my hair, pulling so hard I wanted to scream. But I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. When everyone had arrived, my mother would speak my name. Evelyn. Just once. Never twice. And I would push out a mahogany cart with our best serving china, stopping in front of each person and asking, ‘Would you like tea?’ ‘Please,’ they all would answer, the same word in the same grim tone, and I would pour, trying not to show how terrified I was, how my hands shook.’”

Russell found himself clutching the bottom of his chair. When she paused the sudden silence was like a roar in his ears.

“But I never spilled,” Evelyn said, almost a whisper. “In all those years I never spilled.”

Russell knew he would write the story, saw in his mind print on pages in a very good magazine, but the way he would tell it the girl, the character, would smash cups in an outburst. He didn’t think he would have her run out the door. That would be too much. She’d just glare at her parents and break dishes.

Evelyn spoke again, her jaw set, loud this time. “I never spilled a fucking cup.”

Russell heard a gasp, unsure whether it came from Carol or Julia. He couldn’t look away from Evelyn’s face, grasping at every detail of her expression. “My God!” he said. “What a story.”

Evelyn pushed back from the table and stood, her face red, her body trembling. Her words were barely a whisper. “It’s not a story. It’s my life.”

The others sat in rigid silence, waiting for what would happen next. Russell knew he should say something, but before he could think of words, Evelyn bolted toward a glass door, threw it back, and ran out into the yard. Russell could see her far back in the glow of a night lamp, a dark shadow hunched and shaking. He felt sure she was weeping.

Carol and Julia stood to go to her, but Alan waved them off. “It’s better for her to be alone when she’s like this.” He stood too, smoothed his jacket. “I think we should leave now. I’ll say goodbye for Evelyn too. We’ll walk around the side of the house to our car. Thank you for inviting us.” He slid the glass door shut, carefully, waiting for a click.

Carol and Jerry just sat, hands folded on the table.

Julia looked at Russell. “That was awful,” she told him. “Cruel.”

“I’m really sorry.” At that moment he meant it. “Should I go after her and apologize?”

She shook her head. “That would be worse.”

“You know,” Jerry said, “I was thinking the same thing. A story.”

Carol nodded. “I wonder if she’s ever told other people.”

“Alan,” Julia said. “She must have told Alan.”

Russell sensed she was softening but knew not to reach for her hand. He was thinking how, in the morning, he would start the story, perhaps with an image of cups and saucers arranged on a polished cart. Or perhaps the small girl terrified to squirm in that starched dress.

Jerry reached for a cognac bottle. “Another?” The others nodded. “It’s funny,” he said as he poured. “Carol gave up stuffed animals, I gave up football, Julia gave up dancing, and Russell gave up drawing comics.”

“And Evelyn gave up pouring tea,” Carol added.

Julia smiled, and Russell knew it was all right. Soon they would go back to her house, empty of children, and they would have sex. Even now at this table he anticipated her sounds of pleasure. But he sensed that this would be the last time, that her voice would be hesitant the next time he called. And he knew he would write about her, not sure whether he would include the graphic details of their lovemaking. Those he might save for another character, some woman he created in the future.