"Pookie," he said. "Really? Your niece. Some time ago, I think." The woman waited. "Pookie, umm—her last name?"
"Willet, now. It was Kennecutt."
"Yes, of course! I remember now," Arthur said, falsely triumphant. "I thought she had great promise." He tossed his hands. "But—life—who knows?" He smiled acceptance.
"She married an idiot."
"Ah," Arthur said. She hadn't married Penn, at any rate.
"On the positive side, they have two wonderful children."
Only children don't get to be uncles. "Lucky Auntie," Arthur said. "Do give her my best. There's biology and then there's biology."
"Yes," she said. "Well, I must be going." Arthur watched her leave, wishing for a drink of water. He was fifteen years older than Penn, and Penn was a lot older than Pookie; it was absurd to be jealous. They did make a handsome couple. At least they had the one time they'd driven by in an old Porsche with the top down—Penn talking, his head turned to Pookie. He was still youthful. If anyone could manage a relationship with a big age difference it would be Penn. No doubt he worked in a hospital or a clinic surrounded by women. I forgive myself for giving her a B, Arthur thought. It should have been a C, but he had been unnecessarily cold with her in class. Let it go.
He emerged from his thoughts too late. "Chop wood, carry water," Martin said and launched into an explanation of the latest fund drive.
"Of course," Arthur said. "After the I.R.S., my gambling debts, the
Sierra Club, and Psi Upsilon, you shall have everything."