It rang a third time. A fourth. Gil put a hand on the small of Anton's back, lightly, and took it away.
On the fifth ring Anton crossed the room and picked up the receiver.
"Hello, Evelyn," he said. "It's Anton." And then, after a moment, more quietly: "Yes. I'm here. I'm in the kitchen. He painted it yellow. Did he ever tell you that?"
Delia went into the living room and pulled the kitchen door half-closed behind her, as far as the cord allowed.
---
He talked for twenty minutes. Nobody listened. Everybody listened. At eleven-forty Faye's pager went off, and she looked at it and swore and kissed everyone and went, and Nell left for the station, and when Anton came out of the kitchen his eyes were red and he was holding the receiver against his shoulder.
"She wants to say happy new year to the room," he said. "She says it's her midnight but she'll wait for ours."
So they put the phone on the counter, off the hook, with the cord stretched as far as it would go toward the living room, and at eleven fifty-eight Sam opened the champagne, and the cork hit the ceiling, and on the radio Nell's jock began to count, and in a kitchen in Dayton a woman with a broken wrist counted with them, a little behind, tinny and fierce.
Delia found herself standing next to Sam by the window without having walked there.
*Ten. Nine.*
"Sam," she said.
"You don't have to," he said. "Not tonight. I know what tonight is."
"No. I said next year. It's next year in eight seconds. I'm not going to make you wait for a sentence again."
*Six. Five.*
She took one of the forty gold hats off the table and put it on his head, and the elastic snapped under his chin, and it tilted slightly left.