“Yes,” Angus says. “I understand, of course.” Blair barely manages to stifle a gasp. Angus clears his throat and says, “Darling, are you on the phone?” He pauses. “Blair?”

Blair presses the plastic button to disconnect, then carefully sets the receiver down and lies back in what she hopes is a believable imitation of pregnant slumber.

A second later, Angus taps on the door and Blair smells the commingled scents of Salisbury steak, peas, and apple cobbler. “Darling?”

Blair keeps her eyes shut. Angus has been seeing a call girl, a prostitute. On the one hand, this is a relief because it’s not Joanne of the turquoise eye shadow and Pat the Bunny, and it eliminates Blair’s other suspicion that Angus is involved romantically with one of the male students at the university.

On the other hand, the idea of Angus with a prostitute is sickening. It’s so seedy, so beneath him. He’s paying for sex! It’s possible he’s been paying for sex all along. This would explain how he became so skilled in the bedroom. But what about disease? Does Angus really have so little regard for Blair and for their unborn baby?

Trixie, Blair thinks. It’s gratifying to have a name to pin on her rival. The prostitute’s name is Trixie.

As Blair waits for the next mysterious phone call, the days grow hotter. Kirby swings by the apartment to say goodbye. She’s spending the summer on Martha’s Vineyard instead of Nantucket, something Blair doesn’t quite understand.

“I need to get Mom’s foot off my neck,” Kirby says. “It’s time for me to grow up.”

This, Blair wholeheartedly agrees with. Kirby lacks discipline and seems content to go whichever way the wind blows her. Blair decides not to tell Kirby that being a grown-up is overrated.

“You’re working in housekeeping?” Blair says. “Was that the best job you could find?”

“At least I have a job,” Kirby says. She rakes her eyes across Blair’s bed—food wrappers, empty pudding cups, the TV Guide, and a copy of The Love Machine by Jacqueline Susann, which is what passes for literature these days.

Blair nearly snaps back but she can see that her situation is pathetic and she doesn’t have the energy to match wits with her sister. Her brain has turned to consommé.

The role reversal is disheartening. Back in the dark days when Blair and Kirby’s father died—Blair was eight, Kirby five—Kirby used to climb, whimpering, into Blair’s bed. She was old enough to know something was very wrong but not old enough to be told exactly what, and Kate had been focused on caring for Tiger, who was only three and still a handful. Blair remembers someone—her grandmother, maybe, or Janie Beckett—telling Blair that Kirby was lucky to have her as an older sister. She could serve as a role model. Blair had taken this very seriously. Her entire life has been a master class in How to Lead by Example.

But now Kirby must be looking at Blair and thinking, I do not want to end up this way.

“I shouldn’t have quit my job,” Blair says. “I should have spent the past year teaching, but Angus wanted me home.”

“Why didn’t you stand up for yourself?” Kirby asks. “You know what Betty Friedan would say—”

“Betty Friedan isn’t married to an astronaut!” Blair nearly laughs because that statement is so absurd, and no doubt, Kirby’s next point will be that Blair isn’t married to an astronaut either—not really. “And now I’m good and stuck, aren’t I? Barefoot and pregnant. I’m bored out of my mind. I’m so bored that my imagination comes up with all of these conspiracy theories…”

“Have you figured out who killed the Kennedys?” Kirby asks.

Blair can’t bring herself to smile. She longs to tell her sister abut Angus and Trixie, but she doesn’t want to admit to another failure. Not only is Blair not working but the husband she quit her job for is cheating on her.

“Enjoy your time on the Vineyard,” Blair says. “Cleaning is honest work. I’m proud of you.”

“Awww, Blair,” Kirby says. She puts her hand on Blair’s belly and the baby kicks.

“That’s your aunt Kirby,” Blair says.

“Hey, kid,” Kirby says. “Get ready for 1969. I have some protest songs to teach you.”

The next day, Kate drops in to say goodbye before she leaves for Nantucket with Jessie and Exalta.

“Dad will be home in case of emergency,” Kate tells Blair. She sets down an assortment of magazines—Good Housekeeping, Ladies’ Home Journal, Woman’s Weekly. Nothing with any real news. Blair knows her mother wants to keep her from being shocked or upset, but Blair doesn’t want to read “Ten Cold Suppers for Summer” or “Weekend Embroidery Projects.” She needs a far less wholesome magazine with articles like “What to Do When Your Husband Is Seeing a Prostitute.” She needs Cosmopolitan.

“And I’ll be back on the first of August, like we discussed, so I can be with you for the birth.”

“I’m leaving Angus,” Blair says.

Kate doesn’t even blink. “I know he’s been working hard, sweetheart. But the moon landing—”

“Damn the moon landing!” Blair says. Liftoff for Apollo 11 is scheduled for July 16, although any one of a thousand things could delay it, pushing it back a few weeks to Blair’s due date. At this point, she hopes Angus is in Houston when the baby comes; she doesn’t want him anywhere near her. “He’s having an affair with some woman named Trixie.” She can’t bear to admit the prostitute part to Kate, but perhaps the name Trixie makes that obvious.

“Really?” Kate asks. She sounds skeptical. “Are you sure? It’s common, you know, to imagine he’s being unfaithful because you’re feeling undesirable—”

“This isn’t a figment of my imagination, Mother,” Blair says. “She called here. I heard her voice.”

“Well, I’m sure Angus will come to his senses once the baby is born,” Kate says.

Blair closes her eyes and sees red, and all she can imagine is her blood pressure spiking to such an alarming level that the baby shoots right out of her. She needs to calm down. She opens her nightstand drawer, pulls out a pack of Kents, and lights one up. “So you suggest I just wait for this to end on its own? You suggest I tolerate this?”