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“Come on,” she said skeptically.
Devine said, “I’m being serious. That’s exactly who and what they are. Both a lot older than me. Both have hit the very top in their chosen professions.”
“Oh. You must be proud of them.”
“I’m glad they’re happy.” He thirstily drank his beer down and waved to the waitress for another. “So, back to Sara. When was the last time you saw her?”
“About a week before they found her. She came to my office.”
He looked puzzled. “Why? Last night you said you two were working on different things.”
“That’s right.”
She drank her margarita after gumming the salty edges, then squeezed the lime wedge over the chips and dug into the guac. He watched her do this, and then looked out to the water for a moment before glancing back at her.
“Then why did she come to see you?” he persisted.
“What, are you playing detective or something?”
“I’m just playing a human being. So what did she say?”
“She was asking about some play or other. Whether I’d seen it.”
His interest perked up. “What was the play? Did she want a recommendation?”
Stamos fingered the drink and now she looked out toward the water, as though the answers would all be there. “Waiting for Godot. Have you seen it? I don’t know anything about it.”
Devine nodded. “I actually saw it here in New York, before I shipped out to West Point.”
“Really? I thought you’d be out binge-drinking or . . . you know . . . the girls.”
“I had a high school English teacher, Harold Simpson. I told him I was going the officer route at the Point. He told me to go see the play before I did. It happened to be on Broadway back then.”
“Why did he want you to see it? Did he not want you to join the Army?” she asked.
“I don’t think that was it. He’d served in the Army during Vietnam. He wasn’t West Point. He got drafted. He came back pissed off and against the war. But he fought. He did his job. And the country treated those vets like shit. Not fair to fight your heart out, survive, and come back to that.”
“But why would he want you to see that play in particular?” Devine sipped his fresh beer. “I really can’t explain it for you. It’s just that sort of a play. You have to see it for yourself.”
“Did you like it?”
“I’m not sure it’s a play you either like or don’t like. I’m not sure that’s the purpose.”
“Then what is the purpose?”
He took his gaze from the Statue of Liberty and placed it on her. “What to make of your own life, maybe. But if you ever see it, arrive at your own conclusion. So, you told her you hadn’t seen it. What did Sara say about that?”
“She said it might be worth going to see. That I might want to check it out.”
“So she had seen it. Which theater was it?”
“I forget. Somewhere on Broadway. And recently. But you really can’t believe that a stupid play had something to do with her killing herself?”
“It’s not a stupid play. Samuel Beckett wrote it, and he later won the Nobel Prize for literature. Are you sure she didn’t tell you more than that about her interest in it?”
Stamos looked uncertain. “I think she wanted to, but . . . she never came around to telling me. I . . . tried to get her to fill me in. But . . .”
“But what?”
