Mother Mary whispers to me at night. A full moon isn’t necessary. She simply shows up, as regular as American Idol on Tuesdays. Sometimes I can’t make out what she says. But when I can, she tells me I’m safe, I’m loved, I’m beautiful. Nice things, although I wish she’d let me sleep. She talks of letting go of the past a lot.

I haven’t told my mother about Mary’s visits. I’m afraid she’ll be jealous and ask a million questions. Mom wants to believe there’s magic to it all—thunderbolts of realization and enzyme baths, fortune tellers’ messages and rose quartz crystals. But Mother Mary is very straightforward. She doesn’t carry a staff or glitter like a fountain of water. She doesn’t talk like the voices in the Bible: Thou shalt this, thou shalt that, and people begetting one another. She speaks like a normal person.

This makes sense to me. After all, it’s very strict in the Bible. When I go to my best friend Barbara’s house, her father speaks in a Bible’s voice; everything he says is a commandment, as if delivered from on top of his own personal mountain. Do your homework. Wash the dishes. Be quiet. Even if he asks a question, “Did you girls go to softball practice today?” it sounds like an order, and we’d better say yes or else.

I don’t have a father. He died eight years ago in a car accident. I was two, so I can’t remember much about him. I try.

“The goddess took him,” my mother says tonight. “I would never have discovered Her if he hadn’t died. The loss transformed me. Like you know that poem I read to you, Cara?”

From the kitchen sink, she peers over her glasses at me. She’s a librarian, and unfortunately, sometimes looks like one. Not the conventional librarian, with thin face and hair pulled back into a stingy little bun. My mother’s hair is frizzy-wild, brown and gray, her eyes, pale green. But she’s quiet like a librarian, moves around our house like a cat. And she reads. A lot. Stacks of books line the bureaus in her bedroom; she reads them aloud to me. The poem last night described two paths in a forest.

“I took the path that was spiritual,” my mother says now. “I could have been the sad widow, the victim, feeling sorry for myself.” She raises her eyes out the window, darkened by December. “Instead, I discovered the Goddess. I wish I didn’t have to lose your father to do it.” She shakes her head, returns to rinsing the Swiss chard she bought at Whole Foods that I’ll be forced to eat.

Here’s my opening to tell her about Mother Mary. Maybe there’s no reason for me to be afraid of her questions, and afraid my answers would disappoint her. Maybe she’d be thrilled by the news. After all, she wakes to the goddess, prays to the goddess, breathes with the goddess, chants to the goddess, dances with the goddess, dreams of the goddess. She tells it all. She drums, meditates, prays, burns incense—sometimes all at once. She goes to the Woman Spirit Festival twice a year, a retreat where women hang out in the woods topless and dance about a fire invoking the Feminine Spirit. We have figurines of big breasted women by the bathroom sink, along the window sills, by our beds, at the center of the kitchen table. My mother wouldn’t be shocked by my midnight meetings with the spirit world. For her, anything is possible. But I can’t tell her. My visits from Mother Mary are too simple, too straightforward. I don’t stand on a mountain top or fast for three days; I don‘t meditate or chant or light purple candles. In fact, I don’t have to do anything. Could my mother possibly understand? And if she found out how easy it is, what would happen to all of her rituals, her study groups, her spiritual accessories? My chest feels like it’s under four hundred rocks. I don’t like keeping secrets.

We’re seated at the table now, and I play with the plant on my plate, wondering why it’s so easy for her and so hard for me.
“Eat your chard,” she says. “It has wonderful vitamins.”
Vitamins. The topic of the month. My mother takes B-complex four times a day, omega-3 capsules, and acai berry supplements. But I know the vitamins won’t last. Last month, it was astrology. The month before that, crystals. Before that, flower essences. Meditation, tai chi, Tarot cards—you name it, my mother has tried it. But she still cries herself to sleep at night.

The other day, I watched a television show, and rather than batiked shirts and dangling earrings, the mother wore a pale yellow sweater and a wedding ring. Her hair was cropped short. She wasn’t the type who would dance or pray or meditate. She was very polite, very cheerful; she’d make a great replacement for that craggy-faced woman who drives the bus to school. But she was boring. My mom may be weird, but she’s never dull. The dad on the television show ate sandwiches at the kitchen table wearing a baseball cap and telling jokes. It seemed like he’d make good company.

“Mom?” I say. “Tell me that story again about when Dad was born.”

She blinks. For some reason, it surprises her whenever I ask about my father. Probably because I don’t remember him. If I did, maybe I’d feel sad about losing him and would understand all this Goddess stuff. Maybe then Mom and I could go shopping for crystals together. Maybe I’d want to meditate with her in the morning and go to the Woman Spirit festival.

My mother never talks of Mother Mary. I don’t know why. Barbara’s dad talks about her all the time. He told me the other day, “My wife rests with Mother Mary in Heaven.”

He clutched Barbara’s arm as he said this, and her body was almost knocked off balance. Still, she didn’t try to get away.

“Is that true?“ I asked her.

She nodded, eyes bright with tears. “Your dad’s there too, Cara.”

Then I knew Barbara was really my best friend.

My mother begins telling the story I requested about my father. “It was a cold December night, and Grandma Gloria felt he was coming. She told her husband, ‘Drive me to the hospital. Bartholomew’s ready.’ Her husband shook his head. ‘You must be joking. It’s too early.’ ‘Bartholomew is ready,’ she said again. ‘Take me to the hospital. Hurry up.’ He did, griping because he wanted to watch the football game.”

“What was Dad’s favorite football team?” I ask.

“The Los Angeles Rams,” my mother says. “They don’t exist anymore, but that was the team he liked.”

I try to wrap my mind around this piece of information, squeeze the taste out of it like day old gum. Nothing comes.

“Did he make sandwiches at the kitchen table?” I ask.

“Good goddess, Cara. What a question.” She laughs. I don’t, and the smile flicks off her face. “I honestly don’t remember.” She opens her hands and shrugs. “Can I go on with the story?”

“Yes, go on.”

“Okay. So Grandma Gloria gets to the hospital with her begrudging husband and tells them she’s ready to give birth. They tell her that her water hasn’t broken. She tells them the baby is coming. They tell her to go home. She shouts. They shout. She shouts louder. There’s practically a riot in the lobby, and her water breaks. She had Bartholomew by midnight.”

“Grandma Gloria’s so pushy,” I say. “But I like the shouting part.”

“You would, little Sprite.”

After my father died, my mother said that the ocean was her only solace, and we went to all the beaches along the coast of Northern California, visiting one every day for two years. She said I was transformed into a sea fairy and began calling me Sprite. It doesn’t mean much to me because all I think of is the soda. We no longer go to the ocean; it must have been another one of my mother’s temporary obsessions.

She clatters the dishes together, and carries them to the sink. Tonight, she washes, I dry. I prefer drying, wiping the water away, making each dish appear untouched again, as if it had never been used.

That night, Mary tells me that angels surround me every moment of every day. That’s how she says it, “every moment of every day.” A bright light flashes behind my eyes, and I imagine golden angels surrounding me in the bathroom, the school cafeteria, the gym locker room, and it makes me nervous. Mary’s soft voice sings of protection and love, and I think, Even in the bathroom? Is that normal? Then I remember how Ellen Harrington punched Barbara in the locker room the other day. I could use protection wherever I can get it.

“Strength lives within you,” she whispers. “The higher realms offer protection and unconditional love. But your power comes from your own heart.”

From my own heart, I think, and fall asleep.

The next day, Mrs. Fellows rehearses the manger story from the front of the room., pointing to a wood-carved depiction like a flight attendant. I practically stretch out of my seat, trying to see. But all the figurines are so small, so far away. Just before lunch, I rush to the wood-carved manger, and look at Mother Mary up close. She wears a blue robe. Her face is downcast, eyes partly closed, as she gazes at cradled Jesus in her arms. Everything about her is soft—even though she’s made of wood, and I know that it was her voice that I heard.

A week later, my mother brings a book about angels home. She’s off the vitamins. Now it’s angels. She’s also bought an angel for the top of our Christmas tree. The angel has blonde hair and wears a white dress with a gold ribbon trailing from the sleeves. Large wings extend behind her. Without them, she’d appear like a normal woman.
“The angels are our protection, surrounding us with love,” my mother says, pulling me close to her.

I shiver. This is exactly what Mother Mary told me last week. Before I open my mouth, she says, “Isn’t that good to know?”
Her eyes sparkle more than usual, and I can’t tell if it’s from the tree’s lights or her tears. “I know they surround us right now,” she adds and squeezes my shoulder. “There’s even an angel of marriage. His name is Daniel. Tonight I’m going to light a candle to him and send love to your father.”

She’s speaking very quickly, and I realize it isn’t the tree’s lights that make her eyes shine. My father, gone all these years, still makes her cry. Will she be lighting candles for him ten years from now?

“I can’t find it.” Her voice is loud, hard. With frantic hands, she rustles through the plastic bag from her favorite store, The Crystal People. The sound tears the air’s stillness. “Shit.”

“What is it, Mom?” Maybe she bought me a present.

She digs inside the bag again even though it’s empty. “The marriage candle,” she says. “It was pink. I bought it today.”

Not a present for me. A present for him. Sometimes, I just want to forget about Dad, but that doesn’t make sense. I’ve already forgotten him.

“Mother Mary was stolen from the manger today at school,” I say. “Someone stole her.”

My mother stomps into the kitchen, leaving my words hanging in the air.

“I know it was Barbara who did it,” I call. “She won’t admit it to me, but she did.”

A cabinet whaps shut. Her footsteps thump against the floor, vibrating beneath the soles of my feet. It’s not like Mom, being so loud. She feels like a stranger.

“That marriage candle was special,” she says behind the wall. “I could feel it.” The buzz of a zipper, and coins jingle as she rummages through her purse.

“Thank God,” she says. “Here it is. I must have tucked it inside my bag so it would be safe.”

In silence, she lights the candle and sets it on a nearby table. She closes her eyes, and her lips move in prayer.

That day, I’d told Barbara, “You have to put Mother Mary back.” We stood outside during recess in the drizzling rain.

“I didn’t take her.” The wind whipped her soft brown hair against her face.

“Don’t lie, Barbara. I know you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

I kicked the wall. Softly at first. Tap, tap, tap. “Who else would take her but you? I mean, your mom isn’t—”

“Shut up,” she said. Her lips, pink from the cold, quivered.

“Don’t cry,” I said. “You can put Mary back because she belongs to—“

“I’m giving her to my father!” she screamed and ran into the empty soccer field.

It takes several minutes for my mother to open her eyes. When she does, I ask, “Do the angels surround everyone?”

“Absolutely,” she says. She glides into the kitchen and unloads a grocery bag in near silence. Back to her old self again. She wears a purple skirt scattered with sequins that look like stars. We usually have a star topping the Christmas tree, but it’s all right to have an angel.

“So angels surround Barbara’s dad?” I ask.

“Mr. Hopkins is an unhappy man,” my mother says. She folds the grocery bag, slides it next to the others in the cabinet under the sink. “He can be grouchy. But he means no harm.”

“Barbara and I used to hope that since her mom was gone, and my dad was gone, you and Mr. Hopkins would get married.”

She pulls the stepping stool in front of the sink. My turn to wash the vitamin-filled vegetable nightmare. “That’s sweet,” my mother says. “But it’s not going to happen. You know that don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t want to marry him either,” I say. “Don’t you like Mr. Wheaton?”

“Who’s Mr. Wheaton?”

“My gym teacher,” I say.

My mother turns on the water, points at the pile of green leaves, and says, “Rinse.”

“He’s cute,” I say over the rushing water. “He’s not married. I asked.”

“I’m not interested in Mr. Wheaton, Cara. Do you know that he’s ten years younger than me?”

I shrug. Grown-ups are grown-ups, I don’t think about how old they are.

“It would be nice to have a dad,” I say.

I feel her flinch from across the kitchen. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. We don’t talk about any man but my father as being my dad. I’ve broken the rule. I keep my fingers moving over the spinach leaves.

“Yes,” she says. The word comes out choked, and when I turn around, she’s gone. I tiptoe down the hallway, see her slumped on her bed, holding their wedding picture. I’ve seen that photograph so many times it’s like looking at the living room couch. I don’t see my mother’s face; I don’t see my father’s face. I just see two people smiling, two people who were married once. Sometimes when I look at the picture, it’s like this couple is still married, but I don’t know them, and they don’t live anywhere near here.

Tears stream down my mother’s face. I’ve seen this before. She has taken me to the graveyard every year on my father’s birthday, and her tears fall and I look at the gravestones, wondering about all the other people who are attached to them out in the world. The trees in the distance are soft, and I try to cry too, but I can’t. I tell my dad I’m sorry, my mother can cry for me.

I stand in the doorway of her room, unsure if I should enter.
“Do you want me to get your angel book?” I ask.

She smiles, sniffles, shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I get so emotional around the holidays.”

She reaches out to me. I rush toward her, nestle into the warmth of her body. When Mother Mary whispers of feeling loved and safe, I know this is what she means—being wrapped in my mother’s arms, listening to her heart beat, feeling so peaceful I’m close to sleeping. I can’t imagine Barbara ever feeling this way with her dad. That was why she stole Mother Mary. She needed something else.

My mother sets down the photograph and opens her other hand. In her palm shines a rose quartz shaped like a heart. It’s supposed to bring more love into her life, but as she shows it to me, she shakes her head, squeaking as she cries. How long has she been holding onto it?
I lay my hand over hers, feeling the stone’s warmth against my palm, and our fingers enfold. Once again, I see Mother Mary, in her blue robe, gazing upon her own child. My mother cries a lot, and she may be slightly nuts, but she would never steal Mother Mary from the manger like Barbara did. She would go out and find another manger, just for us, to have at home. She shares everything. I squeeze her hand.

“I see Mother Mary at night,” I whisper. “She talks to me.”

“What does she say?”

“All nice things. That I’m loved, and I’m beautiful.”

“That’s true, Cara.” She faces me, pale green eyes brightened by tears. She smiles at me, and I’m so relieved, I let my head fall against her arm. We stay like that for a long time.

Every Tuesday morning, the same routine, and this Tuesday was no different.  I sipped burnt-tasting coffee in the faculty lounge and made copies from my writing workbook, optimistically entitled, Breakthroughs.  As the copy machine squeaked, the stack of mail in Rick Starling’s inbox confronted me.  A staff directory lay on top; beneath were catalogs, newsletters, and slips of paper, pink, white, and blue.  What was written on those pages?  The caffeine began its ram-tam-tam in my ears, and I wondered this morning, as I’d wondered every other morning fall semester, why this fellow teacher felt no need to retrieve his mail.  It had his name on it after all, and one never knew, perhaps there was something interesting lying within his inbox’s shadows, a Pottery Barn catalog or a vacation request approval.  Maybe even a love letter.  Why hadn’t he considered this?

Buzz-squeak, buzz-squeak, buzz-squeak, the machine droned on.  I turned away and reached into my inbox.  Cold emptiness greeted my fingertips.  Barren. The word landed between my ears like a cement block.  What was I looking for?  Funny, in the past five weeks, I’d never asked myself this question.  But now the answer came swiftly.  I wanted a love letter.  I didn’t care whether it was from a man or a woman, typed or handwritten.  But it had to be a steamy, tender-hearted missive about how wonderful I was, how beautiful, and when it came down to it, I wanted to hear that I was hot.  Sexy.  Had it going on.  I taught college students after all.  Real breasted brunettes in snug tank tops, young men with biceps and untainted smiles—every day, and for hours at a time, I encountered the simple yet unassailable lust for sex.  While I lectured on thesis statements and topic sentences, my students created an electric force field consisting of hot glances and licked lips, fingers caressing desk tops, bare feet sliding along the floor, and the ever-seductive flip of long, silky hair.  Sex, sex, sex.  It was getting to me.

In the past month, I’d checked my inbox several times a day, reaching on tiptoes to feel if something was there.  I did this obsessively (I don’t use that word easily), checking even when I knew the box was empty.  Now, I glared at my brown pointy shoes as if I were a crossing guard and ordered my feet to stay put, not move an inch toward my vacant inbox again.  My feet had their own volition lately, and could lead me places that would make returning to normal life difficult.  But what was “normal life” anyway?  As an English teacher, I should be able to define those words.  I’d clung to them five years ago when a divorced neighbor invited me over for dinner, and I’d told him no.  My son, Nicholas, had a basketball game that night; that was the routine, that was normal life.  A single mom attends her son’s games.  End of story.

Now that nice man—who had decent biceps of his own as I recall—was remarried to a blonde colon hydrotherapist, and I still had my so-called normal life.  Just the other day, they waved at me from their Pathfinder, and I smiled, waved back, thinking: He could have done better.  But standing in front of my empty inbox, I knew that my son’s basketball game was simply an excuse for a woman in her late thirties, shaken by an ugly divorce, to stay alone and safe.

But now things were different.  Now I could flee the normal routine.  Now, I could leave the college, leave my empty house, leave all the clothes and books and jewelry.  Nicholas had moved out of our home thirty-seven days earlier.  Without him, I could do anything, be anyone.  My responsibilities as mother no longer held me in place; I felt the undeniable pull of “out there”—I wasn’t sure what else to call it—that could yank me out of my usual routine of teaching literature and paying bills and combing my hair in the morning.

I gazed into Rick Starling’s inbox again.

“Miranda?”

Without turning, I knew it was Susan Daley, administrative assistant to the English department.  Whenever she spoke, she sounded like she was smiling—even when she wasn’t.  She wore a long pea-green jacket with a matching skirt that dipped below her knees.  Over six feet tall, the woman looked like a giant string bean.

“Gregory Frank called,” she said.  “He won’t be able to come to class today because his–”

“Stop,” I said, raising my hand.  “Don’t say another word.  Greg has missed over half my classes.  I’m tired of his excuses.”  I glanced inside Rick Starling’s inbox again as if it held redemption for Gregory Frank’s lies, like a note from the Vatican or a personal reference from Mother Teresa.

“But his mother died,” Susan said.

A groan escaped me.  “Please.  Last week, his sister had Leukemia; the week before that, he had to drive his aunt to the emergency room; the week before that, his brother broke his leg.  Now his mother has died?  The boy is shameless.”

Susan blinked.  “You don’t believe him?”

“Do you?”  I asked.

“He sounded sincere on the phone, really heartbroken,” she said.  “His nose was stuffed up.”

“He probably has allergies.  Believe me, it’s all excuses with him.  Excuses and lies.”  I walked to my empty inbox, lay my hand tenderly within, and allowed the cold metal to soak into my palm for a full five seconds.  “Talk is cheap.”

“But Miranda, what if it’s true?”  Susan touched her heart.  “What if—this time—he’s telling the truth, and his mother actually died?”

I returned to my post at the copy machine, stifling a sigh.  I couldn’t blame Susan: all of us creep into others’ lives and imagine things that aren’t there.  Rick and I had only spoken a few times since he joined the faculty last year, but gazing at his full inbox these past weeks, he’d suddenly become quite alive to me.  He became a confident man, one without the need for reassurance from others, a man curiously and mysteriously fulfilled.

“Do you know if…” I pointed to Rick Starling’s inbox, “he has a girlfriend?”

“That man.”  Susan shook her head.  “I distribute the mail three times a day, and he never picks it up.”

“Where’s all his mail from?” I asked, whispering now.

“I never actually look at it,” she said.

“Does he have a girlfriend?”  I asked again.

“Divorced,” she said.  “Are you interested in him too?”

“What do you mean, ‘too‘?”

“You‘re the third teacher who‘s asked me about him since he started working here.”

“Did he date any of them?”

“Fiona Adams invited him to her house for dinner, and he spoke about his mother half the night.  Absolutely devoted to her apparently.  Bored Fiona to death.“

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with a son loving his mother.“ My voice surprised me in its gruffness.  “Fiona Adams always struck me as a fool.“

Susan crossed her arms; I’d forgotten that she and Fiona were close.  “What are you going to do about Greg Frank?” she asked.  “The boy obviously needs help.“

“I’ll pretend his mother died when he shows up in class, and tell him I’m very sorry,” I said.  “How’s that?”  I was smiling at her now—I couldn’t help myself—and the more I smiled, the more grim Susan’s expression became.

“Fine,” she said.

“If he calls again,” I added, “leave the message in my inbox.  Okay?“

She tilted her head and squinted, studying me as if I were an abstract at the MOMA that everyone said was fabulous, but she was having none of it.  My elation about future mail—even if it was a message from Greg Frank—quickly dissolved.

Without another word, she left the room.

I returned my attention to the copy machine.  The image of my son, Nicholas, lying in his dorm room at Princeton, feeling lonely, gripped my heart and squeezed.  Would he attach himself to some female teacher for support?  Would she look like me, act like me, talk like me?  Or would she be completely different?  His last e-mail was rushed, and displayed the horrific era of text messaging:

hi, mom. school’s gd. food’s carbo-fried terror. rmmate does bong hits b-4 class. don’t worry. i don’t. very cool ptry rding last nt.–u would have liked it.  lv, nic

I cried when I read it.  It was only the second time that I’d heard from him in four weeks, and I needed him to say more.  To say that he missed me. To say that I was wonderful.  To say something, anything, that would tell me that I hadn’t lost him completely.  He’d even abbreviated the word ‘love.’ I printed out the short note yesterday, and laid it on the kitchen table.  Have I been a good mother? I asked the nearly blank page.  Had my focus upon him all these years been worth it?  I wasn’t speaking to Nicholas; I was speaking to time, past time, a place that would not change no matter how many questions I asked.  Did I really want to hear its answers?

Nicholas had delayed a year before leaving for Princeton, simply stating, “I’m going to take a year off, then go experience winter.”

My son had a curious way of speaking.  He loved using words like “dimension” and “experience” and “concept.”  A frigid East Coast winter wasn’t a season to be endured, but something that could enlarge his life, expand upon it.  Since he was two years old, Nicholas had begged me to drive him places; he was always yearning to see something different, experience something new.  We took day trips on Sundays—our own church service—driving along the rumbling waves of the California coast or into the Redwoods of the Sierras; sometimes we drove through the vineyards of Napa Valley.  Nicholas would tell me his impressions; I’d tell him mine.  The colors of the trees.  The scent of the air.  The way the place felt against our skin.  In three different Toyotas, over a period of fifteen years, we painted a canvas together with our words.  After returning home, we laughed because we couldn’t remember most of  what we’d said.  It was a sweet dream that faded in the light of day.

The Xerox machine rattled with strain as my copies squeezed into the output tray.  The machine was tired.  I was tired.  Seven more perfectly articulate yet arguably pointless handouts to go.  Once again, I gazed at the pile in Rick Starling’s overflowing inbox as if it were the promised land.  Before I knew it, my newborn copies were ready.  I snatched them from the output tray and reached into Rick’s inbox to retrieve his mail.  I had no business putting my hands there, and half expected them to be burned.  But I also felt the giddiness of a teenager, attaching such importance to this gesture, as if I were braving the fires of hell for my sin. The caffeine assisted in rumbling my anxious heart.

I rushed down the hallway, now allowing my feet to run, run, run as they’d been urging me to do since Nicholas left.  My stomach felt like I’d swallowed a brick.  With sick guilt, I glanced at the recycle bin, a green plastic box set randomly against the wall, and imagined dropping Rick Starling’s mail there.

A young, freckle-faced man, eyes pale blue, stepped aside to let me pass along the narrow hallway.  “Have a wonderful day!” I sang, clutching the mail tightly to my chest, as if holding Rick’s deepest secrets.

“You too,” was his faint response.

I hurried downstairs, anxious to get to the Writing Center, where I imagined Rick Starling assumed his requisite duty soldiering about the room, sea-glass green eyes flashing upon the monitors to make sure none of the students visited myspace.com or pornographic web sites.

One minute later, I discovered him doing precisely that, and felt the pure rush of victory through my veins.  I knew the man—at least at the most superficial level.  He wore navy corduroys, and they rustled between his tree-trunk legs, firm and quite wonderful.  I waited by the desk at the front like a student.  There were two dozen heads gazing into monitors, clicking sounds from the keyboards, and the gentle whirring of an overhead fan.  Eventually, Rick glanced at me, and a smile exploded from my face.  I was close to laughter although I couldn’t explain why.

He approached, smiling.  “What is it, Miranda?”

“Here’s your mail.”  I extended the pile of catalogs and unread letters as if it were a delicate parcel of china.

He took the pile without removing his eyes from my face, which I wouldn’t have minded, except there was a faint starkness about his features indicating shock.  Still, I was undaunted.

“I may seem strange to you, Rick,” I said, “but I stand at the copy machine every other morning, and see how your inbox is so full, and mine is so empty.”   I began to laugh, covering my mouth in an attempt to stifle my hysterics and gasped, hunched over, quivering, realizing all the time that I was making a complete fool of myself.  Without my permission, tears rolled down my cheeks.  Millions of kids go to college.  It was nothing new.  Maybe that was why I’d carried on so resolutely, telling myself nothing had changed, even though Nicholas was gone.  Now, I was having a breakdown—in front of the most handsome single man in the English department.

“You touched my mail?”  Rick said, then glanced about the room as if someone had called his name.  A few students watched us from behind their monitors, intent as deer, sensitive to our every movement.  I wiped my tear-streaked cheeks, imagining the front page of the campus newspaper: Miranda Stevens Breaks Down in the Writing Center.

I said, “It’s hard to explain.” Air fluttered within my chest.  I placed a firm hand over my solar plexus, and the mother in me said, It’s all right, Miranda.  Nicholas will move home once he graduates.

“What’s hard to explain?” Rick said.

“I can’t say,” I began, horrified that words had escaped me.  An inarticulate English teacher was a sorry excuse for a human being as far as I was concerned.  “What I mean is, I really don’t know—“

“Let’s step outside for a minute, okay?”

I nodded.  With a sure hand, Rick steered me toward the door; his touch, warm and paternal, felt exactly how I guessed it would.

The hallway smelled of ammonia—something I’d never noticed before.  Rick faced me, but because of my short stature, my eyes met his chest.  The buttons on his flannel shirt had the faint opalescence of seashell, and I imagined slipping each one between its neat, evenly spaced slit, my hands traveling this sweet road of undoing, opening, vulnerability.  Was his skin warm?  Smooth to the touch?

“I always check my inbox,” Rick said.  “But there’s nothing in there I ever want, so I put it back.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.  I’d never considered this possibility.  The man didn’t use the recycle bin?

Rick kept his eyes on my face.  Cheeks flushed, he wore a pained expression, eyes sparkling beneath a thundercloud brow.  Suddenly, he squeezed my shoulder.  “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered.  “Whatever it is.”

The warmth from his hand flowed down my torso, through my legs.  I felt the pressure of the floor, sturdy beneath my feet.  Students rustled past, through the great swinging door of the Writing Center, in and out, in and out, an endless stream of human activity, thought, movement.

“I want you to come over my house for dinner,“ I announced.

“Really?”  His eyes flashed.  “Jesus Christ.  I’d love to.”

I felt the need to explain myself—why do teachers always feel this is necessary?  “My son left for college thirty-seven days ago.  And he’s not going to come home again.  Not to live.  He won’t.  He’s not.”

Without a word, Rick cradled my elbow and guided me down the hallway, toward the glass door washed by sunlight.  Where on earth was the man taking me?  I glanced behind, but only saw a young woman with a several facial piercings yank open the door to the Writing Center and disappear.

The sun felt good on my back.  I wondered why this door, so bright with sunshine and possibility, was never used, why the students and teachers only entered through the other side of the building.  And while my mind considered this inane fact, I noticed the faint, teasing friction of my sweater against my breasts.

“Your son’s leaving means a fresh start for you,” Rick whispered.  “A lot of women begin—“

I kissed him.  His mouth opened to me, and I experienced the marvelous taste of licorice on his tongue.  Marvelous.  Rick Starling, a man who could definitely be described as marvelous.  And even though I had a Ph.D., even though I was a member of numerous highly regarded collegiate committees, even though I was clearly visible to the students, I kissed and kissed and kissed him, as if sucking the last ounce of savory sweet juice through a straw.  I could easily imagine how we looked to the students: two adults getting it on in a flourish of heat and madness. I could see our students reaction too, eyes bulging, faces lit by excitement, hands covering their mouths in surprise and glee—communicating it all without a word, their bodies saying all that was needed to say.

Monday. Sophie finds herself once again in her squeaky chair at Vintner’s Deluxe Winery. She’s worked there four years, and every day it’s the same. Type letters for Connie. Create presentations for Connie. Arrange travel itineraries for Connie. She talks to her boss more than her own mother. She even dreams of Connie sometimes. Profiled in The Wine Spectator, Wine Today, Napa Valley Style, The Wall Street Journal, Connie Brooks receives dozens of faxes, e-mails, phone calls every day of the week, and Sophie is part of it all. Yesterday, Robert Mondavi called—Connie didn’t feel like talking to Robert Mondavi, had Sophie take a message.

Now, Connie lumbers into the office, and Sophie smiles in greeting. Her boss wears a tan raincoat the size of a tarp and clutches her usual Starbucks selection: extra large toffee coffee deluxe with whipped cream and sprinkles. She doesn’t return Sophie’s smile; instead, she nods abruptly: an “I see you” gesture. Her eyes are red-rimmed and crinkled, and when she thumps past, Sophie feels the hardwood floors heave beneath her boss’s girth.

It hasn’t always been this way. Connie used to greet Sophie whenever entering the office, grateful for her loyal secretary—who, since starting the job at 18, has always been cheerful, punctual, and smartly dressed, aware of Connie’s status, and her own, as Connie’s secretary, the secretary at Vintner’s Deluxe.

Connie used to be a normal-sized woman too, tall and slim, a size eight maybe. Now she has a double chin. Her shoes squeak in protest as she walks. And those pretty blue eyes have sunken into the flesh of her face. Last week, Sophie saw a smudge of mustard on Connie’s chin and wanted to touch her boss’s hand as if she were a child and say, “It’s going to be all right.”

Connie slams her office door. Only last week did she begin shutting Sophie out, even though they’ve always worked so well together.

The phone rings. “Connie Brook’s office,” Sophie says. “How may I help you?”

“It’s Ralph Cox. Sales, East Coast. I need to speak to Connie.” 

Sophie knows Connie doesn’t want to speak to Ralph; she never takes phone calls before nine o’clock. She likes to drink her coffee and eat her chocolate glazed doughnut in peace. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cox. Connie’s in a meeting. May I take a message?”

“This will be my third message, sweetheart,” he says. “Tell Connie I want to talk to her.”

Sophie remembers Ralph from the sales meeting last August—a squat man in his mid-fifties with dark, salted hair and square-tipped fingers that he extended to every person in the room for a firm shake. Sophie scribbles down the message, but Connie won’t call him back. She told Sophie after that meeting that chauvinists like Ralph Cox were outdated pieces of furniture, and the sooner they were dropped off at the Salvation Army, the better.

Sophie wholeheartedly agrees—being called ‘sweetheart’ by a man she doesn’t know—and gives him a warm goodbye, knowing that Connie, in refusing to return his phone call, will avenge his behavior for both of them.

The second call is from Willa Robins, a journalist with Women in Business. Sophie glances at her watch. 9:07. She tiptoes to Connie’s door, taps. At this time of day, Connie hasn’t come into full force, and Sophie accommodates her boss’s sensitive time by limiting her interruptions and speaking in low tones. She peeks inside the office. Connie, at her desk, rolls a pen back and forth beneath her palm. Her face is crumpled like a tossed piece of paper, and tears stream down her cheeks. Sophie’s stomach lurches in shock. She shuts the door.

So out of breath she can hardly speak, she takes a message: “Yes, Ms. Robins, I’ll have her call you… as soon as possible… yes, yes,” all the while glancing at Connie’s closed door with the nauseating awareness that things are not what they seem. She hangs up the phone. The shining gold name plaque: ‘CONNIE BROOKS Chief Executive Officer’ taunts her. She has always prided herself on her ability to read her boss’s cues: Connie’s neck-slash swipe of “I’m not here” for certain phone calls; her heavy breathing when immersed in thought; how she sits sideways at her desk when she doesn’t want to be disturbed, and if she must be, expects Sophie to whisper. To be a good secretary, Sophie must be highly empathetic, capable of reading all of her boss’s moods. Now she chastises herself for not having seen the depth of her boss’s pain sooner.

When she was younger, she had fantasies about her mother. It began with her mother’s name, Nadine. Quite a sophisticated name, Sophie has always thought, although her mother wore a yellow-flowered apron and smeared Vaseline on her calloused hands. Sophie imagined her mother had a secret life—she wasn’t a woman who’d grown up on a cattle ranch, but was actually a fashion designer from Paris or a hardcore news reporter from New York City. She was a woman who had purpose in life outside of cleaning bathrooms and packing lunches, a woman who acted—or at least looked—like a Nadine. Now Sophie’s fantasies for her mother are gone. She doesn’t need them anymore; she works for Connie Brooks, CEO. The three letters thrill Sophie. Her mind harkens back to her cheer leading days, and she sees herself shouting into a packed stadium: Give me a C! Give me an E! Give me an O! What does it spell? The crowd roars.

But Connie is crying on the other side of the door, even with those three powerful letters behind her, holding her up, in spite of her two hundred pounds, and Sophie doesn’t know why.

Maria Diaz, the accounts payable clerk, clicks down the hallway. Her hair poofs from her face, and smells sweet, like peaches.

“What’s wrong with Connie?” Sophie whispers. “She’s crying. A CEO shouldn’t be crying.”

Maria says, “Her husband’s divorcing her.” She smiles as if this is a great joke. Behind her white teeth, a faint snap, and Sophie realizes she’s chewing gum although Connie has forbidden it. Anger flares in her chest. Not only because Maria ignores Connie’s admonitions, but because Connie is getting divorced and there are people in the world who are amused by it. No, Maria must be wrong. Sophie wants her to be wrong.

“How do you know this?” she asks.

“She called him last week, screamed into the phone about ‘the Bitch.’ Told him she’ll be taking him for all he’s worth.” Maria shrugs. “You must have been at lunch.”

“That’s awful,” Sophie says. She glances at the pale green accounting textbook on her desk; it has the forlorn look of a child whose parents have forgotten to pick up after school. A few weeks ago, Connie had pushed the book at her, commanding that she learn bookkeeping. Sophie had warmed to the idea, feeling she was talented and bright, worthy of attention, taken under Connie’s thick wing. She studied the first two chapters diligently, and day after day, placed the textbook in clear view on her desk, hoping Connie would follow up, realize her hard work, praise her. But she’d said nothing. Now the textbook appears hopeful and foolish. A one-sided love affair.

“I don’t think she can take her husband for anything,” Maria says. “With her salary?”

Sophie nods. She always made copies of Connie’s tax returns. Last year, with her bonus, Connie topped three-hundred and twenty thousand. A twenty three percent improvement from the year before, and Sophie had beamed with pride.

“Did you think her husband was good looking?” Sophie whispers.

“Better looking than her. Lately.”

The weight gain. Sophie agrees, but would never in a million years have said this aloud. A secretary should remain discreet at all times, especially in regard to her female boss’s growing obesity.

“I didn’t think he was attractive,” she says now, tilting her chin up. “Not really.”

Sophie had met David at her first company Christmas party, his dark hair square around his forehead like a Ken doll. He carried a large pink box of pastry into the conference room; Connie kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She peeked inside the box. “Did you remember the bear claws?”

“I did,” he said, blinking about him, a lipstick kiss now imprinted on his cheek. Later, when Sophie and David were introduced, she gazed at the kiss, wondering why no one told him it was there. Not even Connie.

He had shaken her hand vigorously. “Connie tells me you have such a nice working relationship.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said, feeling this to be a great compliment. After all, to be valued by her boss meant she was valuable. Especially a boss like Connie Brooks, who receives handwritten invitations from Bill Gates’ wife.

“What are you doing for lunch?” Maria asks.

Sophie doesn’t want to go to lunch with Maria, someone who rejoices in Connie’s pain. And she feels betrayed that Maria should know about Connie’s life before her. She shakes her head. “I have other plans.”

“Whatever.” Maria clicks back down the hallway. The sound reverberates in Sophie’s ears in a sinister way, like a bomb ticking.

She stares at Connie’s closed door, and feels something fall away. Maybe it’s her picture of Connie as married. Or perhaps her image of David as a nice person—a nice man doesn’t cheat on his wife. He certainly had Sophie fooled. But people can’t be trusted. At least that’s what her mother has always said, in a soft voice, as if speaking to herself. “Some people just can’t be trusted.” Sophie always thought her mother said these words as recrimination for her life as house slave to four daughters and a husband. After all, Sophie’s father never touched the laundry machine. He didn’t change diapers. As far as Sophie can remember, he has pushed his plate aside after dinner and left the table. Her mother picks up whatever he leaves behind. But over the years, Sophie has cultivated small deeds of revenge. Pouring triple the amount of bleach into her father’s wash cycle. Knocking over his can of Miller Lite when forced to serve him at table. Returning his shoes to the living room closet so he cannot find them in the early morning hours. Her father had called her stupid and transferred these demeaning tasks to one of her younger sisters. Even if he took the time to look at her face, he wouldn’t understand the glint in her eye. He was the one who was stupid.

Behind the office door, Connie’s voice rumbles, waking Sophie from her daydream. Her boss speaks loudly—one could say yelling—but that’s what Sophie has always liked about Connie. She’s unfeminine. Direct. Doesn’t care what anyone thinks. So unlike Sophie’s mother, whose voice drops in volume whenever her husband steps into the room.

The door swings open, and Connie bursts through, clutching her cell phone. “Sophie, I need last month’s financials for the Carneros label. By sales region.” Her nostrils flare like a bull’s. “Hurry up. I’m long distance.”

Sophie yanks open the cabinet door. There are her files, labels neatly typed and color coded, all in chronological order. Within ten seconds, under Connie’s discerning gaze, she finds the reports and hands them to her, trying not to look into her bloodshot eyes.

Connie scans the numbers, face rigid. “Sales aren’t even close to our projections this year,” she says into the phone. “Don’t tell me it’s my fucking problem. You’d better pull your team—“

The door slams.

Sophie falls back into her chair, a wrenching in her chest. Sales not up? She glances at the report Connie shoved back into her hands. All the numbers have negative signs, accentuated in an alarming red. Losses. She skims the past year’s reports, and to her horror, sees that almost all the numbers are red, like a terrible, scathing rash. She can barely swallow. How could she not have noticed? Not have seen? The terrible truth had been an arm’s length away, tucked into her very own filing system, and she’s the last to know.

Sophie pictures her mother, hunched over the kitchen sink, strands of hair falling around her face. It’s her mother’s fault she’s in this position. Her mother, who wrings Sophie’s lungs like an old dishrag, her mother, whose existence, at every turn, has told Sophie that her own life will be as diminished as a twenty-watt bulb. She thinks of her mother’s sighs, her perpetual gazing out of windows. Just the other day, Sophie read an article in Glamour that claimed over eighty percent of women end up like their mothers. Even when they promise themselves they won’t.

But she has work to do; she won’t let this get her down. Sophie thinks of The Little Engine That Could—her favorite book growing up—and as she turns to her computer, chants within her mind, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. She has her own business cards. She gets manicures at Avalon Day Spa. And not once has she cooked dinner for her father. When Sophie looks in the mirror, she doesn’t see her mother; she sees the possibility of sidestepping her mother’s life.

Vintner’s Deluxe is bidding on a winery in Argentina. “The land is cheap,” Connie breathed into her ear last week, and Sophie now coordinates the travel itinerary for her boss’s trip to South America next month. Equipped with Connie’s American Express, she calls the Starwood Hotel, makes all the usual arrangements. King sized bed, aisle seat in business class, a hired car, and two copies of the proposal, one for Connie’s suitcase, and one for her carry-on luggage. Connie will make the presentation. But doesn’t it matter that she’s fat? Certainly it makes a difference. After all, being attractive as a CEO is just as important as a secretary being attractive. It’s part of the territory.

Poor Connie, Sophie thinks. Bloated to two hundred pounds. Betrayed by her husband. Trying to manage a failing company. Fingertips tapping away at the keyboard, she whispers, “It’s a hard, ugly world.” Her hands drop. That’s something her mother says. “Hang in there, Sophie. It’s a hard, ugly world.”

For you, Mom, Sophie thinks. Not for me.

She stands, repeating the words in her head—not for me, not for me, not for me—and knocks at Connie’s door. A headache has glommed onto the back of her skull, and her temples beat-beat-beat with anticipation and fear. But she’s Connie’s secretary. Her most loyal ally. They can make Vintner’s Deluxe a success; she won’t let some divorce affect their standing in the world.

“What is it?” Connie barks. Harsher than her usual tone, and Sophie considers turning away and pretending she never knocked. But where was there to go?

No, she’ll go ahead. She has to. That’s what good secretaries do. They do their jobs. Connie has an awards ceremony this afternoon. She’s been nominated as President of the Viticulture Society of America. She needs to be at her best. Without Connie’s success, the phone would stop ringing, the invitations would no longer come, and Sophie would be alone in a job, empty of excitement and status, alone like her mother.

She slowly opens the door, and takes two steps inside the darkened room. It’s quite remarkable, she thinks, that although Connie’s life is in a state of upheaval, her office looks as it always has. The orchid that Sophie spritzes every day sits on the left-hand side of the desk; the glass lamp glows from its usual spot opposite. The window blinds behind Connie’s hulking body are half-opened. Sophie adjusted them this morning. She arranges everything for her. It’s as if she lives in this room too.

Connie’s eyes, directed at her, flare danger.

“Do you need anything?” Sophie asks.

“Like what?”

“Can I type a letter? Get you a coffee? Make copies?”

“What is this?” Connie asks.

“You’ve been behind this closed door all this time,” Sophie says. “I thought that rather than your coming out, I’d come in.”

She cringes beneath Connie’s laser beam stare of hate, realizing now this was a mistake. She can’t possibly help a woman with Oreos stashed in her desk and a husband who cheats on her. Connie swivels sideways, the chair groaning beneath her. On a good day, the gesture means, Leave me alone; on a bad, Get out of my face. Sophie has seen it dozens of times. But now, the skin between Connie’s eyebrows wrinkles tree-shaped—Sophie can’t tell if she’s going to laugh or cry—and she waits for some other signal that she can understand.

But Connie only sits there, a great heap of a woman, facing the wall. What size did she reach when David decided she was too fat to be his wife, too fat to love? One hundred seventy five? Two hundred? Did he make this decision while Connie sat at this desk so well tended by her secretary? Sophie suddenly feels afraid. She’s always pictured a lovely wedding for herself, a fantasy wedding, a happily-ever-after affair—something far different from her parents’. But looking at Connie, that dream feels strangled of possibility. Looking at Connie, Sophie knows she’s an absolute fool for even imagining such a thing. Her mother has been showing her the truth all along. No wonder Sophie has hated her so much.

Her boss swings forward and sighs with such vehemence that the papers on her desk shift. “I don’t need anything. From you or anyone.”

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Sophie blurts out. “Whatever happened. I’m sorry.”

Connie’s blue eyes, unnaturally dark, hook into Sophie’s chest. The room becomes very still.

“What did you say?” she whispers.

“It’s not your fault,” Sophie says. “Okay? It’s not.” She glances about the room in mad panic, searching for something that would make sense of it all. “Some people just can’t be trusted.”

Connie bursts into laughter, but there’s no joy in it. “You’re pathetic.”

Sophie flinches. She has heard Connie dismiss other employees, laugh at them, tear them to shreds, but she had never done that to Sophie, her loyal, devoted secretary. Now she realizes—it’s all too clear—that Connie doesn’t care about their “nice working relationship” as David had claimed. She sees Sophie as a servant. Nothing more. Just like her father.

“Sophie!” Connie claps. “You’re standing there like an idiot. Is there anything else? Or can I get back to work?”

“You have the awards ceremony at one o’clock,” Sophie says, returning to her familiar, breezy tone. In spite of Connie’s glare, she approaches her desk, smiling now as she crosses the line, entering her boss’s domain further, in spite of warning. Her heart slams against her skin, but she’s not a servant to anyone. She belongs in this office as much as Connie does. With a gentle hand, she straightens the orchid, noticing Connie’s eyes transfixed on her caress, her fat face hungry, filled with longing. It’s almost too easy. “Your speech has been typed,” Sophie continues. “Would you like to review it?’

“I’ll do that on the way.” Connie pulls her eyes from the orchid. “Get East Coast sales on the phone, fax the financials from last quarter to Rick in LA, and I want to speak to Joan in HR before lunch.”

All the bravado! Sophie loves it, for no matter what Connie thinks, Sophie is the one in control. She could walk out of this office today, taking all of Connie’s travel itineraries, her conference information, her passwords, her credit cards, her tax returns, her passport, her Blackberry, and her Rolodex. The woman’s entire life could be wiped away in an instant, just because Sophie chooses it. And the most wonderful part—the part that pushes Sophie to the brink of laughter now—is that Connie has bestowed all this power upon Sophie herself. Of her own free will, she’s given away crumbs of her life, bit by bit, day by day, month by month for four years. Now it’s not her life anymore.

Sophie gazes at Connie until she looks up. She will not be ignored. “Would you like for me to arrange a car?”

“Have it here by twelve-thirty,” Connie says. “Make sure it’s from—“

“Fitzgerald’s,” Sophie says. “I know.”

“Twelve-thirty. On the dot.” Connie swivels back to her computer, dismissing Sophie, but Sophie doesn’t care. Tomorrow, she’ll ask Connie for a raise, and she’ll get it. But that’s another day.

It would be quite effortless to go to his store tomorrow and confront him. Harry would be standing by the register as always, pinkish hands flat against the counter as if steadying himself amidst the sea of stationary supplies. No, Harry, I’d say. I’m not here to buy another manila envelope! He’d blink behind those circular glasses, white moustache quivering — the same expression as when I disrobed for him the first time. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t. Maybe I’d slam my fist against the counter, declare myself a free woman, one with dignity, one who has no need to sneak around Best Westerns!

But would he let me go that easily?

It would be quite effortless to pick up the telephone and call his wife, Teresa Fernandez Stone, and say in a clear voice: My name is Glenda Howarth, and I am your husband’s lover. Harry says his wife’s a great cook. That’s all he’s ever said, and after a year, I realize that’s all he’s going to say. Too often I drive by their pale blue house, crouched close to Jefferson Street as if about to lunge into the whoosh of cars. The house isn’t attractive, just as Harry isn’t, with his rumpled shirts and razor burn. But Harry’s other life resides there, one I’m excluded from, one I’d love to enter — just once — instead of scampering about its edges, a dirty secret. 

About a month ago, on one of my drive-bys, I actually saw Teresa, pruning a leggy rose bush in the corner of the yard. I parked my car across the street. She wore a turquoise shirt and white, too-tight pants. Polyester. Nothing I would ever dream of wearing. Her long, dark hair had waterfalls of gray. She worked slowly, tenderly, clipping the spent blooms. Suddenly, I remembered lying in bed at the Best Western with Harry months before, when he’d told me how they met. How he’d spied her from across the high school gym during the spring dance. How he liked the way her hair fell down her back, and how she ducked her face when smiling. How after drinking twelve cups of terribly sweet punch, he finally found the courage to ask her to dance. And when he did, she smiled straight at him — did not duck or turn away — and he felt she’d been waiting for him all along.

I spied on her from my car, looking for something I couldn’t name. Perhaps I was looking for the high school girl Harry described. Or some sign that Harry loved her, or that she was thinking of him in that moment. Whatever it was, I couldn’t find it. I started my Toyota, that familiar ache in my chest, a terrible hunger I didn’t know how to feed. Then, the oddest thing happened. She looked up. There was plenty of street noise, but she somehow heard my car. I could always read my students by looking into their eyes — if they were bitter, calm, exacting, playful, beaten at night. Always, their eyes told me what I needed to know. But I couldn’t look into Teresa’s. I couldn’t. In spite of my hunger. She remained a blur in my peripheral vision, and remains there still. 

It would be quite effortless to pack my bags, sell my house, and move to the coast. I have no one here who particularly cares. Frank passed away ten years ago. My former students don’t keep in touch. My sister lives in Santa Barbara, my brother, Fresno. I could set up a romantic bed and breakfast, and play hostess to couples, circling the edge of their lives for a few days. It’s not a situation I’m unfamiliar with.

Tonight, I pull out my wrinkled town map, find the intersection of Jefferson and Cedar, and slide my fingernail just a centimeter north, to the location of that blue house. Were they sleeping side-by-side in the darkness? Or was Harry watching the news? Was the carpet stained? What did they eat for dinner?

Mrs. Howarth? A young person’s voice, calling on me. I whip around, expecting to find one of my former students standing in my kitchen, hand politely raised. But I only confront the odd shine of the pewter candlesticks on the counter. Why haven’t I placed candles in them? They look dwarfed and strange and useless. I blink hard, trying to make out the dimensions of my half-lit kitchen. My own house is unfamiliar.

On especially effusive moments, I called my tenth graders my wildflowers. They’d blush, or giggle, or roll their eyes. But that’s what they were to me. How they fought to get into my classes! What chaos at the registrar’s office! It wasn’t in the syllabus (that some teachers begged to see) or in the books we read. It was because I loved them. Quite simple, really. But as I told my students time and time again (especially when reading Charles Dickens): Keep it simple; simplicity resonates the truth. Even after a year, I still feel myself clicking down the high school’s shiny hallways, heart full, sure of my place in the world. 

Two weeks before retirement, I walked into the principal’s office, and there stood a white-haired man, hands folded in front of his pleated pants. He blushed like an insubordinate student about to get his come-uppance. 

“You look like you’ve been up to no good,” I said.

His body let go of itself. “Selling school supplies, actually.” He extended his hand. “Harry Stone.”

He had a nice, firm shake, and even though I had plans to go to Ireland over the summer with the Retired School Teachers Association, that would only be two weeks, and what was I going to do the rest of my time? 

Now, I have two lives. One, a retired school teacher who lives on the good block of Kingsford Avenue, who bakes cookies for her neighbors at Christmas time, volunteers at the library, cooks a mean butternut squash casserole  —  always requested at church functions  —  and yes, I attend the Presbyterian church. Not to pray for forgiveness, but for some peace of mind. In my other life, I dream of another woman’s house in a dingy neighborhood, stare at a map late at night, hear voices, sneak to a motel once a week — a woman no one knows, not even Harry — who also prays for peace of mind. 

It would be quite effortless to stay at home this Wednesday night, simply not show at our regular room at the Best Western. Wednesdays are Harry’s bowling nights in a league to which he never belonged. But it gives us a few good hours. 

Last week, he appeared in the doorway holding a gigantic bowl of chili. Had he brought me dinner for some God forsaken reason? No. Teresa cooked it for an illusory pot-luck that Harry had thought added more truth to the lie we were living. The scent of cumin and cayenne pepper drifted into the room. My mouth watered, and I demanded he dump the chili. Right this instant, right this second, right now. I’d become that school teacher again who definitively and assertively declares she will not tolerate any more nonsense. I would not have something created by his wife in the same room during my three hours. A woman has her limits. Harry told me to wait, and clutching the bowl to his chest, fled.

After a precious half hour, he flew into the room panting. I thought he’d collapse or vomit, and involuntarily stood, reaching for him, but staying out of reach. He frightened me, gasping for air, clutching his plaid shirt; I wasn’t sure what he’d do, or what he was capable of. 

He’d tossed the chili into the scuffed dumpster behind Denny’s. “But the bowl!” he said. “Teresa’s favorite bowl, her mother’s bowl — it slipped from my hands. I could hardly go in there to get it, Glenda. What on earth am I going to tell her?”

I was unable to find one word of reassurance. All I could do was picture him throwing out that chili, dumping his wife’s good feeling and kindness into some foul-smelling dumpster, and it broke my heart. I was doing it, too.

“Tell her it was stolen,” I said. 

A painting hung next to the bed. Two oak trees squatting behind a low running river, the sky a murky gray, like the sole of an overused shoe. It wouldn’t in a million years pass for art. All these Wednesdays, the painting had been hanging there, and I’d never noticed it. Not once.

“Have you ever seen this before?” I asked, pointing to it.

Harry settled himself next to me, quite recovered now. He’s an agile fifty-nine. Still in good shape. He glanced at the painting, rubbed my thigh. “No, I haven’t.” 

It would be quite effortless to call him at the store, tell him I couldn’t do it anymore. The bowl, the bowl, why couldn’t I get Teresa’s bowl out of my head? Or that mouth-watering chili? She’d put bits of onion and tomato — or was it red pepper? Probably roasted red pepper, the dish had such a savory, smoked fragrance.

Nothing about Harry has been effortless. Not the whispering phone calls to his store, not hiding our cars at the furthest corner of the Best Western parking lot, not driving by his house peeking into his windows like a criminal. Harry and I are both childless, you see. I’m sure that if either of us had a baby to fuss over, or a teenager to groan about, or a grandchild to coddle, we wouldn’t need to create secret lives for ourselves. There isn’t a word for a woman who loses a child. My son came into the world silent, a stillborn. Frank and I buried him in our garden, and he lies there still, at the base of the plum tree. Also fruitless. The deep purple canopy has quadrupled in size these past thirty years, as if my son’s spirit has taken to living there instead. Would he have had Frank’s hands? My curly hair? Would he have played short-stop in little league? Would he have understood Charles Dickens? We never named him, decided to wait until he showed himself to us. Now the flat headstone simply reads “Our Son.” Simplicity resonates the truth. And I think of my students again, how they expressed all that was good in the world, all that could have been mine — and was mine, year after year, every class a collection of beautiful paintings, placed in another room in the imaginary house I was living. But I don’t live there anymore; I’m not sure where I live.

I rush into my office, wanting to get away from this truth, the cold hardness of it. On the floor lies a pile of thirty seven manila envelopes I’ve bought at Harry’s store over the past year. I’ve bought each envelope individually, just so I could see Harry for a few moments, look into his blue eyes and feel that quiver in my heart reminding me I’m alive. Now, those thirty-seven moments lie there in a heap, collecting dust. I didn’t want to throw them out before. But now, it’s clear they’re messing up a perfectly nice room with rosebud wallpaper and Venetian blinds.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

As I unpacked boxes, this poem by T.S. Eliot sang its sweet song to me. I’d graduated from UC Berkeley, and was moving into a dusty studio apartment in Napa, the town where I’d grown up. Would I know the place for the first time? Or was I missing Junco? She had printed the entire poem — not just the first stanza, which was all my mind could recall — in purple letters against a seashell pink background, and framed it next to her bed. Her parents had insisted she study to be a doctor, and she obediently turned to Biology, but her true love was literature. I’d seen her adjust the frame as a mother would a child’s pigtail ribbon, and on our mornings together, witnessed her reading the poem, body falling into such stillness I was sure her spirit had left it altogether. Surely the poem revealed a secret life, a life she held close, one apart from her parents; surely I was a part of that life, and she would come back to me. 

I started work at the library the next day. The reference desk stood in the center of the building; on my far right was the circulation desk and swishing doors, and to my left, rows upon rows of book shelves, dwarfed beneath the church-height ceilings. People sloshed between the two areas like water in a bucket. Whispers, crackling book covers, a stranger’s deep sigh, these sounds lulled me inward, and my thoughts traveled from room to room of memory just as my hands had opened box upon box the night before. 

I had two sisters, Heather and Sarah — eleven and ten years older than me — I did not know them well. Throughout my childhood, my sisters had lived in their own world. Their conversation flew above my head, up there somewhere, an auditory crossroads like telephone wires. Their interests and concerns were inexplicable. They talked at great length about shampoo. They plastered posters of men wearing make-up on their walls. When the phone rang, the floor thundered with them racing for it. On Saturdays, each sister was assigned the cleaning task of bathroom or kitchen, and I remember those as the most ferocious, and consequently, confusing days. I never had any idea what their arguments were about. They slammed doors, burst into tears, shouted “bitch” or “fuckface” in unrecognizable voices. Their emotions erupted without warning, and since I could not predict when, where, or why one would explode into a red-faced rage — occasionally they shouted at me too — I hid in my room. I had my books, after all, and the stories guided me away from that turbulent household like a raft floating downstream.

If my sisters’ raging was particularly terrible, I left the house. My favorite spot was beneath the elm tree in the back yard. Sometimes, I brought a book with me. Or I gazed into the glimmering leaves, inhaled the scent of grass, and felt even my bones soften. I often imagined myself Huck Finn, a kid without a family, but happily basking in peace and quiet of the natural world. By the time I was eight, my fantasy had transformed into sailing around the globe, exploring new lands, a solitary figure on the horizon, alone and happy. 

My mother had been a kindergarten teacher before my sisters were born, and continued as a substitute for many years after that. The key, she had said, was “damage control” and that was her approach to my sisters. She hardly looked up from her magazine when one of the girls flew into a rage about someone forgetting to relay a telephone message. I didn’t seek her help when Heather flung Sarah’s cheerleading trophy at her, and nearly hit me, an innocent bystander in the den. And I never told on my sisters smoking cigarettes in the bathroom late at night, hoarsely whispering about boys over the whirring fan. My mother didn’t want to hear it.

“Who says girls are easier to raise than boys?” she had said to me on more than one occasion. “They’re not as good as you are, Kid. That’s for sure.”

My father hardly spoke. Hair covered his bulging forearms, and his green, snake-like eyes never seemed to blink. Drinking Dewars and water in a 16-ounce Oakland Raiders cup, he watched us steadily as if a prison guard. I would look up from my mashed potatoes, and find those green eyes bearing down on me. He never changed expression when I made eye contact. At the dinner table when I was six, Heather said that eating chicken should help Sarah’s “itty bitty B-cup” (as usual, I had no idea what this meant); Sarah slammed her fist against the table, and without a word, my father picked up his plate, and went to the den to finish his meal. He didn’t look like us, talk to us, or want anything to do with us. It was as if he’d awakened one day and discovered himself captive in our four-bedroom house. 

My father died of a brain aneurism when I was ten. By that time, Heather and Sarah had gone off to college. My life had finally settled into quiet. For a few months, Mom and I went to Silverado Pines Cemetery every Sunday to place flowers on his grave. But I didn’t miss him. We’d never thrown around a baseball or discussed the birds and bees or watched John Wayne on TV. He was distant, and frankly — I had no problem admitting it now — strange. 

My mother came to life in the absence of family. Instead of hiding behind her magazines or crossword puzzles, she took literature classes at the Napa Community College. She joined a women’s bible study group. She got a manicure every week. She continued with her substitute teaching, but suddenly began inviting some of the other teachers home for lunch.

“Oh, Kid!” she liked to say. “If only those girls had left earlier! What an easy life we’d have had then.”

I had to agree.

One of my earliest memories was being awoken to a loud whap outside my window. From my bed, I peered out, and spotted Heather, sprinting across the front yard in the darkness. She was hunched down as if to hide behind something. A parked car on the street thrummed to life when she touched the door. Headlights off, it slid away from the curb. 

Night time was a place where adults lived. I got tucked into bed; they stayed awake. I had no idea what they did. All I knew was that I was excluded from it, and didn’t care unless it was Christmas Eve. Heather must have only been fourteen when I saw her sneaking away from the house. But she personified this secret world, a place I did not belong. Still, I was curious. I tried to stay awake to see her return, thinking it would reveal where she went, and why. But within a half-hour, I fell back to sleep. 

I told Heather about this memory a few days after moving into my apartment. Just like a big sister, she had invited herself over to my place to inspect my “new digs.” Now thirty-three, Heather had been married to Tom for eleven years. Her two boys, Brad and Peter, were in third and fourth grade. Like Mom, she looked tired at times. 

“I never did that!” She punched my arm. “You must have been dreaming.”

“I wasn’t dreaming. Where did you go?”

“Probably out partying someplace. Anything to get out of that house.” 

I smiled to myself; I’d felt the same way, but it was to escape from Heather. Who did she have to run from?

She stood with her hands on her hips. “So this is it. On your own now, Kid?” 

Almost six feet tall, she looked straight at me, her green eyes — a lot like Dad’s, I realized — glittered with joy. Happiness didn’t soften her presence. Feet firm beneath her wide hips, jaw lifted, Heather reminded me of a statue carved in concrete: love strong and proud and unassailable. I blushed as if I were twelve, unaccustomed to such sure attention; we had always had an agreement to ignore each other. But now I hoped that would change. Junco, the girl I thought I’d marry, had broken up with me two weeks before, and I needed Heather’s solid presence. My first job, my first apartment, I did feel on my own. And for the first time, I didn’t like it.

She called Sarah on her cell phone, and asked if she could come to my place tomorrow, three o’clock. Like Heather, Sarah had settled in Napa. She lived with her husband and their two young girls in one of the new developments where the houses, propped on top of one another, looked like dominos. 

“Sarah will be here tomorrow,” Heather announced. “We’ve got to help you with some furniture. No offense, Kid, but this place is fug.”

I nodded. I’d simply hauled old college furniture here. The armchair’s pale blue fabric had faded to gray. My mattress had a rusted-out frame. I hadn’t bought any rugs or pictures, and our voices resounded in the bare room. 

“I’m going to pick up Sarah for dinner. Do you want to come?”

“No, I’ve got some other things to do.”

“See you tomorrow then.” She waved, and thumped down the stairs.

I crept toward the phone — I had to do it; I didn’t know why — and dialed Junco’s number. She had a private line in her parents’ house in Novato, but I hoped the pink phone in her room rang loudly enough to disturb her mother. 

“Hello?” 

Junco’s voice, soft and hesitant. I wanted to think her uncertainty came from knowing it was me, that I was breaking down the wall she’d built around herself. But she’d always spoken in a cautious whisper. Unless she spoke of her mother. Then her voice flattened into statements, resolute and loud, as if she was on the debate team. 

Panting, I smothered the mouthpiece. She said nothing. But I could make her think of me, I could squirm into her life for these few seconds.

Click. 

I’d called her twice before. Now, once more, I swore I would not again. Not because it was obnoxious and weird, but because every time she hung up, I lost her one more time.

Junco had always come to my apartment in Berkeley late at night, after studying, waking me with soft kisses, her chilled fingers running along my body. We had lost our virginity to one another, and that created a pact between us, our experience untouched by anyone else. She was hungry in bed, urgent. After I met her parents, who kept their arms by their sides as she pecked each on the cheek, I understood why. 

Every other weekend, her mother called her home. Mrs. Yamamoto experienced poor health since Junco’s birth, and it seemed her daughter had to account for it by playing nursemaid. I’d find hints of the work she had done: chafed fingertips, puffiness beneath her eyes, tenderness in her lower back. In a hard, matter-of-fact voice, she mentioned giving her mother a bath or preparing her breakfast or administering diabetes shots. She never complained. But her body did. So I served her breakfast in bed. Ran steaming hot baths sprinkled with rose petals. Brushed her hair in long, gentle strokes. Anything for her return to me completely, fingertips soft, eyes clear, back supple, and speak to me in the voice I knew.

One afternoon in March, as the guy downstairs practiced scales on his oboe, I slathered oil on her back, and massaged the muscles sheathed beneath her pale, bluish skin. My thumbs pressed into the tightness along her spine; she moaned into the pillow. My hands worked her like clay, relieved her pain, re-created her. 

“You make me feel real,” I whispered. 

“You make me feel happy.” 

Yes. That was what I wanted. For Junco to be happy.

Graduation week, Berkeley sank into a heat wave. I joined the Yamamotos at Tacos La Playita for dinner. I’d seen them dozens of times — visiting Junco in Novato over the summer, spending birthdays with her family. Her mother gave me a silver key ring for graduation; her father asked after my mother’s health. As usual, Junco addressed them as “mother” and “father,” head tipped downward. Was her mother comfortable? Was her father not hungry? Shall we order something else? “I doubt anything else would be much better,” her mother snapped, and poked the enchiladas on her plate with a fork. Junco said nothing, back straight, hands clutched in her lap; she pinched the skin between her thumb and forefinger, hard. Then she did it again. And again. I laid my hand over hers. Everything would be all right as soon as her parents left, and it was just the two of us. 

She didn’t look at me when we said goodbye, but I figured she was nervous about asking them if we could live together. She didn’t return my phone calls the next day; she didn’t come to my apartment. The following morning, I squatted outside her building like a homeless guy until finally, she appeared, black hair flowing and radiant in the afternoon sun. 

She greeted me coldly. I followed her upstairs to the two bedroom she shared with another Biology major. She knocked at Alison’s door to make sure she wasn’t home, and a feeling of dread sank me into the sofa. 

“We can’t be together, Jeff. Not from your behavior the other night.” It was her other voice speaking, hard and cold. “You were terribly rude to my mother.”

“How was I rude?”

“You rolled your eyes when she commented on her eczema. I saw you! Thank God she didn’t.”

“Junco, your mother always has some kind of medical condition, and she always complains about it. On your birthday, it was her knee. At Christmas, her migraines. Before that, a hernia. Before that –“

“Shut up! My mother’s ill, and you make fun of her? She’s almost sixty years old!”

My heart beat so fast I could hardly catch my breath. “You know what she does to you isn’t fair. You’re like a slave in that house—“

She covered her ears. “Shut up! Shut up! I won’t listen to you!” 

 “Please, Junco.” My voice quivered. I’d known that if I told her the truth, she might leave me. But now there was no going back. “Please. I can take care of you. You don’t have to live like that.” 

Her hands dropped. “I’m sorry. It wouldn’t work. You can’t respect my mother’s feelings, and I can’t live with that.”

“Why should I respect her? She makes you miserable.” 

“You make a big assumption there, Jeff.” 

She hadn’t even admitted it to herself. I reached for her; she swiped her hand away. “Junco!” 

“No.” Her dark eyes were glassy, a doll’s eyes. “If you at least felt sorry then I might have forgiven you. But you haven’t even apologized.” 

I would do anything for her to love me again. “I’m sorry.”

She turned away from my tears, and left me standing in the living room alone. 

I called her the following day, and apologized again.

“I take care of my mother because she’s sick,” she said. “For whatever reason, you think that’s wrong. You can hardly love me if you see me as a ‘slave.’ Which I’m not.” 

She hung up on me for the next three days. All day long, all night long, I re-played what had happened with what should have happened: Junco falling into my arms, allowing me to care for her when she needed me most. Junco allowing me back into her life, despite my feelings about her mother. Our imagined reconciliation pulled me through my last days on campus, half-convinced me that it would happen if I thought about it hard enough. 

Now, when I called her from Napa, I could say nothing; it had all been said. But keeping in touch gave her the opportunity to jump into the silence, pour out her heart to me, return to my side. She couldn’t be happy with her mother. She couldn’t.

The following day, waiting for Heather and Sarah to pick me up to go shopping, I dialed Junco’s number again. This time, the answering machine came on: You have reached Junco Yamamoto. Sorry I’m not here to take your call… She’d changed it to such a formal announcement, I knew she must be expecting calls from prospective employers. I hated the idea of her life moving forward, further away from me. Where was Junco, my Junco? The beep resounded in my ears. I paused, cleared my throat. Yes, I’m still here. Then hung up.

Heather honked from the street. The three of us shopped at Target for an armchair, headboard, lamps, bedding, and a few throw rugs. To my astonishment, my sisters insisted on paying, actually fought over it, thrusting their credit cards at the cashier. Our mother had remarried suddenly the year before, and moved to Arizona with her new husband, but I had Heather and Sarah to take care of me. It was a new start for us. 

Heather talked to whomever would let her: salespeople, the cashier, other shoppers. As we were leaving, she spotted a former co-worker, and called “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” 

Sarah and I waited for her by the door.

“I think Heather needs to get back to work,” I said. “She doesn’t have enough people to talk to in a day.”

“Tom’s tired of her working,” Sarah whispered even though Heather was out of earshot. “She was always entertaining clients, and then came home smashed.”

“What?”

“There’s a lot of drinking in Marketing. It’s good she’s away.” She smiled, skin crinkling beneath her eyes. Sarah had the same corn-yellow hair as Heather, also cut in a straight line at the shoulders. But she folded her thin arms, and leaned away from me; so unlike Heather’s open stance, direct gaze. 

Heather approached. I must have had a funny look on my face, because she said, “Don’t worry. You’ll pay us back.” 

The three of us lugged all of the stuff into Heather’s glossy black Suburban. As usual, I climbed into the back. It began when I was small, and could squeeze into the back seat of Mom’s Toyota more easily than my sisters. 

Just as Heather swerved the truck onto Imola Avenue, Sarah said, “Remember our apartment in Davis, Heather? We never had any of this.” She motioned to the trunk full of furniture. “We were so broke!” 

“You two lived together at college?” I asked.

“Mom probably didn’t tell you,” Sarah said. “A studio infested with cockroaches. She wanted to save money. Heather had to work part time.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

Heather kept her eyes straight ahead. 

“Well, there are a lot of things you don’t know.” Sarah laughed. “We ate Ramen Pride half the time!”

“We drank all of our money,” Heather said.

“I didn’t. You did.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, Heather. You did. You had parties without even telling me. As if I didn’t live there.”

“Oh God, not this again.”

“I’m just telling you what happened. That’s all.”

I knew the routine. Now, if Heather said something — even if it was under her breath — Sarah would shriek the same lines she had as a teenager: No one listens to me. I don’t have a say in anything. I hate you. To my relief, Heather chose to remain silent. I had no idea what had held my sisters together for so long. Heather drank beer, Sarah, wine. Heather played softball, Sarah, tennis. Heather’s husband worked for PG&E, Sarah’s for Merrill Lynch. I could see them in their college apartment: Heather watching softball on television, Coors in hand; Sarah furiously vacuuming around her feet. 

“I can’t believe her,” Heather shouted after dropping Sarah home. “She bails out of helping us carry all this stuff?”

She had parked in a handicapped spot, but I dared not say anything when she was in a mood like this. She’d tell me I was ungrateful and peal off in her truck. And secretly, I was relieved that Sarah went home. She made me uneasy.

We hauled the furniture first. Heather was quite strong, and it didn’t take much time to get everything inside, if not unpacked. She fell onto my beat-up chair to catch her breath. 

“Do you have anything to drink? You should offer guests something to drink, Jeff.”

“I’m sorry.” I walked over to the refrigerator even though I knew it was bare. “How about some water?” 

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll go to PJ’s across the street, pick up a six pack. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks.”

She ran downstairs, actually skipping steps. From the bay window, I watched her cross the street. My heavy-set sister, in shorts and sneakers, half jogging to pick up beer. She looked like she did in high school. 

Six pack in hand, she returned to my beat-up chair. I unpacked the new furniture; she directed where each piece should go. Her words grew slurred after the fourth beer. Did she usually drink this much? Would she be able to drive? I wanted to call Sarah, but heat emanated from her when we dropped her off, and her goodbye was clipped. Now, if I called her, she’d blame me for allowing Heather to get like this. But what was I supposed to do?

My apartment now actually appeared inhabitable. The lamps gave the room a golden warmth, the rugs softened the floor; I relaxed into my new armchair. I imagined Junco seated on my bed, legs curled under her. She belonged here; she belonged with me. How could she be so stubborn? So foolish? 

“Thanks so much, Heather. For all of this. I actually don’t mind being here.” 

“No problem, Kid. Anytime.” She gazed out the window. It was growing dark outside. “Have you met your neighbors?” 

“Not really. Just know their faces.”

“Let’s meet some of them.” She stood.

“Heather, no. I’m not like you. I don’t want a party here every night.”

She glanced at her watch. “Shit. I’ve got to go pick up my kids anyway. Dullsville. I’m taking these.” She held up the remaining two cans of beer.

“Be careful driving.”

“Oh God, don’t worry about me.” She glanced around. “Much better. Much!” and she was gone. 

I thought about calling Sarah again, but wasn’t sure what I’d say. Heather was an adult. She could take care of herself. Dialing Junco’s number, I actually felt hopeful. You have reached the answering machine of Junco Yamamoto… 

“Junco. It’s me,” I said. “I know you’d love it here in Napa. I have my apartment all set up. And you belong here. I know you do. Remember you said I made you happy? Well, I can do it again, I’m sure of it. Please call me.”

I left my new phone number, and hung up.

Three weeks passed in stultifying silence. Junco couldn’t even lift the phone to talk to me; I was that small in her life. I droned through my days at the library, amazed how much I could get done while suffocating from depression. One night, Heather invited me out to dinner, and I gratefully accepted. I was dying to talk about Junco. But the pizza place she chose was so crowded I could smell the man’s cologne at the neighboring table. And before we’d even sat down, Heather rushed to the bar to order a beer. Threads hung from the hem of her jean shorts, and her blonde hair was brown-at-the-roots dirty. My sister had never cared about her appearance, but what I’d seen as independence of spirit now struck me as sad. It was as if she were an orphan. She downed her first beer at the bar, ordered another. God, I thought. I’d be better off in my apartment, reading a good book. 

The waitress hurried to our table, hair mussed as if she’d been tossed between tables all day. Heather detained her with small talk. I see you’ve got a new menu. Who designed them anyway? Is that firm here in town? 

I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Heather, she’s got fifteen other tables to work. Let’s just order.”

She shrugged. She’d had three beers at that point, and was too high-spirited to argue. After the waitress fled, she asked, “How’s the library?” 

“I’ve been adopted.” I shouted in the loud room. “My co-workers at the reference desk bring me apples to supplement my tuna fish sandwiches, and adjust the collars on my shirts.” 

Heather beamed. Once again, I felt my sister’s proud, unassailable love wrapping its arms around me, and I almost reached out to touch her dirty, unkempt hair, gently push it back from her face. Then her eyes drifted, and the moment was gone. 

Our pizza came. If I talked to her about Junco, would she even listen? Heather hadn’t asked if I missed Berkeley (which I did), or if I’d kept in touch with anyone from school (which I didn’t). Now, her eyes darted around the bustling restaurant searching for someone else. Where’s Tom? I wanted to ask her. Did you leave your kids at home tonight? What am I doing here? I gobbled down three slices of pizza, anxious to get away.

A week later, Heather dropped by the library, announced she was having a birthday party. 

“Next Saturday.” She flung her arm into the air. “Seven o’clock.”

It was a quiet night so I could talk to her without any problems. On her previous visits, if my boss was near, or if there was a line of patrons at the reference desk, she positioned her hand like a telephone at her ear. She never checked out any books or videos. She came by to chat. At first I was flattered she paid this much attention to me. But lately, I’d felt a strange pressure when I saw her, like stage fright. For one thing, I wasn’t always in the mood to talk. Even though most of my time at the reference desk was spent talking to patrons, it was a straightforward question and answer exchange. They didn’t care who I was; they only expected me to be polite and efficient. I helped them find what they were looking for, they thanked me warmly, and I felt satisfied, even happy. 

But I wasn’t sure what Heather wanted from me. It seemed I had very little to do with her visits; she had nothing better to do, nowhere to be.

“I’m going to be thirty-four years old,” she said. “Can you believe it?” 

No, I couldn’t. Every day she made her rounds about town as if a kid on summer break. She hung out at the Green Lantern; she wandered the mall in Fairfield for hours; she went to the movies with anyone who’d go; she and Sarah had lunch downtown every other day. I answered my phone less and less, knowing it was her, desperately seeking company and distraction. 

But she could always find me at work, and I had no excuse not to go to her party. “Should I bring anything?” I said.

“Were you going to whip something up in the kitchen, Kid?” She laughed hoarsely. A few patrons turned their heads, and I resisted the urge to tell her to keep her voice down. 

“Heather, I can cook you know. I’m not a moron.”

“Don’t get so defensive! Jeez, you sound like Sarah.” She smiled as if this was funny. “Why don’t you bring soda? Nothing caffeinated. I don’t want the kids going ballistic.”

I could smell the alcohol on her breath. She couldn’t go on like this. “Do you think you might go back to work?”

“Tom doesn’t want me to.”

I pretended to know nothing of what Sarah had told me. “Why not?” 

“He says I’m not around enough for him. Or the kids. He says I drank too much at those business dinners. Like I can’t drink when I’m not working.” She leaned on the reference desk, hands spread, and spoke to them: “He and the kids are gone all day long. What am I supposed to be doing? Baking cookies?”

“What about working part time?”

She glanced at me. “Not when you’re at my level, Kid. I was Director.”

Heather? Director? I had no idea. I’d seen her as an administrator, answering the phone, designing presentations, sending out a newsletter for the wine club. But not Director. My mother must have known about her job, but she never breathed a word about it. When I called Mom from Berkeley, she spoke of her housekeeper who couldn’t speak English, or the memoir writing class at the senior center. She told me about a seventy-year-old retired pilot who wanted to marry her. She didn’t mention Heather or Sarah at all. And I never thought to ask. 

Heather’s house was a four bedroom set against a hillside of scorched grass. Her birthday party was the first occasion I’d had to go to her house since moving back to Napa. The roof was missing shingles. The elm tree in the front yard had been chopped back so much it appeared amputated. Lugging a case of caffeine-free Pepsi, I kicked open the side gate to find Brad and Peter, Heather’s sons, thumping a volleyball along the side of the house. 

“Hi, you guys,” I said.

They stopped playing, drew close to each other. “Hi, Uncle Jeff,” one said flatly.

I smiled, anxious to get away from their forlorn faces, and motioned to the soda. “Hope you guys are thirsty!” 

In the backyard, Heather was dragging a cooler onto the patio, and when she saw me, shouted, “Perfect timing!” Sarah was already there with her husband, Charles, and their four-year-old twins, spinning into each other and giggling in pink sundresses. 

I’d seen Sarah only once since our shopping excursion. Invited by Heather, I’d joined them at The Grill for one of their lunches. “This napkin is dirty,” Sarah announced to the waitress. “I’d like another please.” The waitress apologized. “And my iced tea is way too strong.” After that, she hardly spoke. Heather glanced at me, simmering with laughter; I looked away. Sarah’s behavior wasn’t funny. It was pathetic. I didn’t join them for lunch again. 

Now, arms crossed, Sarah greeted me, but didn’t smile. I was relieved when Heather beckoned me to the far side of the yard to show me her vegetable garden. Tiny leaves sprouted in five neat lines, a black hose sputtering water into the darkening dirt. Heather jumped away to play hostess when a few friends wandered in. I looked closely at the seedlings, unable to discern which vegetables she’d planted, and thought about her comment, What am I supposed to do? Stay at home and bake cookies? But she didn’t consider a vegetable garden domestic? 

Someone lit the outdoor lights — white Christmas lights strewn along the trellis hugging the patio. Charles, as I expected, asked about the library, my new apartment, my future. As I spoke, I gazed at the milling group of twenty people — none of whom I knew — fidgeting with the painful itch that Junco should have been here with me. 

Heather’s husband, Tom, shuffled out of the house. With a half-hearted wave, he greeted Sarah, Charles, and I, who faced him like a wall, then slumped into a lawn chair. He looked cranky and worn. Not his idea for the party, I was sure. Heather dashed around as more friends arrived, getting drinks for everyone. Tom echoed her greetings, attempting to smile.

She pointed to the stack of red plastic cups next to the cooler. “I wanted to get a keg, but Tom didn’t think it was a good idea,” she said.

“Not unless we’re going to drink a ton of beer,” Tom said.

“A quarter keg, honey. It’s three and a half cases.”

“You drink enough as it is.”

Sarah said, “Heather, show me your vegetable garden.” 

“I drink enough? What’s this?” she pointed at the beer propped up on his stomach. 

“Yes, I’m having a beer. One. I can stop after one.”

“Right. But you can’t pay for it.”

He pulled himself out of the chair and disappeared into the house. After the door slapped shut, Heather said, “Sorry everybody! Marital spat. You know how it goes.” 

Some laughed reassuringly. I stood with my back against the fence; Charles looked into his can of soda. A woman in a denim dress approached me. “Jeff?” She ducked her head timidly, and smiled. “I hardly recognized you. You got so big!” 

Dark hair waved out from her sky-blue eyes. She only looked vaguely familiar. 

“Hi,” I said. 

“Honey! It’s Jeff, Heather and Sarah’s brother!” She turned back to me. “God, the last time I saw you, you were fourteen.”

“Must have been the one of the baby showers.” 

“Yes, I think it was.”

A few of the others came over, said how much I’d grown. Where do you work? The library. Where do you live? Third Street, downtown. Close to the bakery? Across from it. I caught glimpses of Heather, face pink in the brash artificial light. She swerved around people, eyes unnaturally focused as if she were blind. At one point, she stumbled, and her beer sloshed out of its cup to a loud splat on the cement. My stomach tightened like a fist. “Woops!” she sang, and breezed by Sarah’s ugly stare. 

Tom hadn’t come out of the house. The light from the television flashed against the living room curtain. Maybe I should join him? But who was I? I’d met the guy when I was ten years old; he and Heather got married three years later at some winery in the thick August heat, and I couldn’t wait to leave.

Voices circled as I sat in one of the lawn chairs, drinking my fourth Pepsi. Although it was supposed to be a barbeque, nothing had been prepared to eat, and my stomach sizzled with hunger. Across the yard, Brad and Peter’s volleyball arched into the blue-black air, and plunked into Heather’s vegetable garden, smashing the seedlings. They giggled behind the bushes; I decided to leave. I didn’t want to say goodbye to Heather, who’d protest loudly about my leaving early, and make every effort to detain me. So I grudgingly made my way over to Sarah. 

“I’m taking off,” I said. 

“Look at her.” She glared at Heather. “She’s making a complete fool of herself.” 

Heather stood amidst a group of people, circling her arms. I didn’t care whether or not she looked like a fool, I just wanted to go home.

“I’ll see you later?” I said.

“Where are you going?”

Heather’s voice grew louder, but I pretended not to hear. “Where do you think?” I forced a smile. “To my apartment.”

“Typical,” Sarah said. I wasn’t sure if she was referring to Heather or me.

“Uptight asshole!” Heather shouted toward the blinking window. “And I’m stuck with him — like a stuck pig. Only he’s the pig!”

She collapsed, sobbing. Her friends instinctively pulled away. Sarah rushed forward, and grabbed her arm, trying to help her stand straight. 

“What am I going to do?” Heather moaned. “What am I going to do?” 

Sarah hugged her. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

My head spun. It was as if my sisters had read my dreams. Here was the reconciliation that I’d envisioned for Junco and me. Worn out by her mother’s demands, she’d turn to me, and I’d wrap my arms around her and say the words Sarah had said, It’s all right. I’m here. 

Sarah guided Heather toward the house. The screen door whapped shut behind them. Two women grabbed their purses and hurried off; the others talked in quiet voices. I couldn’t keep my eyes from the door. What were my sisters saying to each other? Where were they? I’d never imagined what would happen with Junco if we had reconciled. Could we return to how it had been? I rushed toward the house. 

Tom sat unmoving in front of a baseball game, his back to me. Had he heard any of it? The television was blaring — so he may not have. And where were Heather’s kids? Or Sarah’s? Had they seen what happened? To my left, the dark kitchen, and at the far end, the laundry room. Light seeped through the half-opened door, where Sarah and Heather stood face-to-face in the semi-darkness. I tiptoed into the kitchen unseen, just close enough to catch the words. 

“Why can’t you get a divorce?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t want a divorce! I can’t live by myself, Sarah. You know that.”

“Can you talk to Tom?”

“He won’t listen! He doesn’t want me to work. Our house is falling apart, and the boys’ college tuition is gone, and he doesn’t care. He’ll leave me if I go back, and I don’t know what I’d do…” 

She choked, and began crying. Sarah rubbed her arm, and whispered, “Ssshhhhh. It will be all right.”

I fled. Why, why hadn’t I seen it? Junco would have said the same thing to me: My mother needs me, I can’t leave her. Even if she did take me back, she’d always be the good daughter first. Like Sarah, I could comfort her, massage away her pain, but she’d rush off to Novato as soon as her mother called. Could I have lived with that? 

Heather called early the next day. It was Sunday; I didn’t start work until two o’clock, so had the morning to myself. Or so I thought. 

“Sarah and I are going to have brunch. Do you want to come?” 

“That was quite a party you had last night.” 

“Well, you know me. I know how to have a good time.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in her voice. 

“Is Sarah there?”

“Yeah. She spent the night last night.”

Of course. I could just see it. Sarah, sending her husband and kids home so she could take care of Heather. Sarah, feeling important for once in her life. Sarah the savior. Just as I’d imagined myself. But I knew something now, something Sarah didn’t. You can’t save someone unless she wants to be saved.

“Could I talk to her?” My hands were shaking.

“Jeff?” Sarah sounded worried. “What is it?”

“Has Heather blacked out that whole scene last night?”

“What ‘whole scene’?”

“The way she was shouting about Tom being an asshole.”

“No, I’m sure she hasn’t. Why?”

“Because it was awful. Heather’s got to do something about her drinking.”

“Heather’s going through a lot of shit right now! She doesn’t need you and Tom huffing down her back.”

“Tell me something. Do you even want her to get better?” 

“You know what you are? A fucking brat. You think you know better than everyone else, don’t you? Aw, sweet little Kid – who got to read in his room all day while we cleaned that fucking house! Kid got his own room. Kid got to go to summer camp. You weren’t around when Dad slapped us for spilling food on the floor. So how the fuck would you know what it’s like for Heather and me?”

I couldn’t find my voice.

“No, you wouldn’t understand. And you know what? You never even tried. You were a spoiled brat then, and you’re a spoiled brat now!” 

She slammed down the phone. 

That afternoon, I hardly paid attention at work. I’d thought Sarah and Heather shared a room because they wanted to. How was I to know they hadn’t gone to Happy Lakes summer camp? I wasn’t even out of the crib. Dad had never hit me. But how could they blame me for his hitting them? 

Heather showed up at the reference desk. Her eyes were bloodshot, but I wasn’t sure if it was because she was hung-over or had been crying. I felt tired, so tired I couldn’t feel anything else.

“She didn’t mean it,” she said. 

“Of course she did.”

“Sarah was trying to protect me. That’s all. She’s very sorry.”

“Then why isn’t she telling me this?” I searched the empty library, wishing a patron would appear, ask me one of those straightforward questions, something easily handled, and easily resolved.

“Listen, Kid —“

“Don’t call me that. I’m tired of you calling me that.”

She shrugged. “You have to just let it go. I’m too tired to convince you of anything. You’ll see when you get older. Life gets complicated.”

“Actually Heather, it’s very simple. You’re drinking too much. You love your job. You’re bored out of your mind. You tell Tom, ‘I need to do go back to work’ and do it. If he leaves you, he leaves you. But you’ll have your life back.”

Tears appeared in her eyes. “It seems so easy to you, doesn’t it? You’ve never been close to a single person —” 

“That’s not true.”

“— never needed anyone. I’ve loved Tom since I was twenty-years-old. We have two sons together. I can’t walk away from that.” 

I sighed. The great proud love of Heather — I had needed it at one time, perhaps Tom needed it too. But years from now, she’d still be fighting with him about drinking or money or her job. She’d still be making her rounds about town, desperately trying to escape from herself. And Sarah would be right there with her. She was probably sitting in Heather’s Suburban right now, waiting for the next drama, the next argument, the next mess to clean up. That was what Heather had wanted. For me to say, everything’s all right, even when it wasn’t, for me to bury myself a little bit each day, lying for her sake. But I couldn’t do that. Junco was right. Things would never have worked between us.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” I said. “Better not keep Sarah waiting.”

She walked away without saying goodbye, and I flashed upon my earliest memory of her, fleeing from the house at night. Her escape had seemed so exciting and rich then, promising some kind of adventure, the kind I’d dreamed of as a kid, sailing around the world. But I hadn’t seen her stagger to the front door hours later. I hadn’t seen that she’d gone nowhere. No. I was a child, and I was sleeping. 

The next day, when Heather called, I told her I couldn’t bear her drinking. “You’re better than that, Heather. You have so much going for you —“ 

“Fuck off!” She hung up.

As I expected, two minutes later, the phone rang. But I wasn’t going to answer it; it was Sarah. The answering machine beeped, and she yelled: Who the fuck did you think you are? You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself! I hate your guts, and so does Heather! If I ever see you again, I’ll… 

I listened to that voice from across my studio, and felt the same detachment I had as a boy: as if I didn’t know her, would never know her, as if she wasn’t talking to me. My sister, Sarah. My sister, Heather. My mother. My father. And me. We had created our lives around each other, without even realizing it, and for the first time, I sensed this shared history, like a river found in the woods that had been flowing there all along.

Friday morning, and that truck wakes all of us again. The thing squeals like a mechanized hyena as Ted attempts to start it: Hee-eee-eeeeeee! Hee-eee-eeeeeee! But the joke’s on us. Ted owns Top Notch Construction, and since his divorce last year, he has — for reasons none of us are able to fathom — moved his business into our formerly peaceful neighborhood, creating our own circle of hell. 

He tries the truck again; it pitches into hysteria. That engine gave up on him about the same time his wife did last August. It was a sweltering night, and as we waited for the Godforsaken sun to set, her voice broke into our lives. “Do you love me, Ted?” We drew toward the windows. Ted faced one of his trucks that worked at the time; Karen stood in the dappled light of the magnificent oak in front of their house. “Do you?” 

Of course he loves you we all wanted to say. Just the other day, Ted had told their 15-year-old daughter that she was as beautiful as her mother, she really was.

But the air stood silent and aching. Why didn’t he say anything? He threw something into the truck’s bed, a loud thump that made the silence larger. A few minutes later, Karen swept out of their house, dark hair flying behind her, suitcase not even zipped up, and we haven’t seen her since. 

Soon after, the red geraniums at their front door dried up, the pair of birch in the back drooped in constant apology. Only that beautiful oak thrives, rising above Ted’s parched garden, oil stained driveway, and the table saw by the front door, its gleaming spikes as unsettling as an unkind word. Sorry-looking trucks barrel down the street at all times of day, an abandoned pile of cement blocks has taken up residence on his patchy front lawn, and the guys who work for him descend upon the neighborhood at six o’clock in the morning, shouting over the compressor’s hum, slamming wood into trucks, dragging metal pipes and aluminum siding and God knows what else along the sidewalk. They throw their McDonald’s coffee cups into our yards before hitching off to some construction site; we pray to the Lord for sweet mercy. 

It was never this bad, we say over the fence. We should do something, we should call zoning. We should. But we don’t call anyone or do anything; we’re not sure why.

It’s Friday afternoon, and as usual, Ted’s daughter zips down the street at sixty miles an hour in her shiny red Cabriolet. Ted bought it for her after the divorce, but the man can’t afford to fix his trucks, so how he paid for something like this we can’t imagine. As usual, The Daughter (none of us can remember her name) announces her weekly visit by lugging a stereo into the backyard and blasting the same song: I am beautiful… no matter what they say…words can’t bring me down… The words rise into the sky like a prayer.

An hour later, Ted pulls up next to one of the dumpsters he’s decided to park on our street, truck wheezing beneath the garbage in its rusted-out bed. From the blasting radio, a warped guitar wails into our consciousness like a nightmare. I am Iron Man, the voice declares. Iron Man, huh. The other night, we heard him pleading with one of his workers:

“Jim, I can’t pay you today, but please, try to understand. My daughter wants to go to Tahoe, it’s all she’s been talking about…”

Well, Jim didn’t understand. He called Ted a loser, and pealed off in his TransAm. Now, acting as his sole employee, Ted heaves rotted wood, cement blocks, random trash into the dumpster, his face pinched. Any fool knows this isn’t work for a company president. But we don’t dare say anything to him, or to each other.

Finally. He’s done. Just as the neighborhood settles down, just as we return to our lives, The Daughter screams, “He slapped my face!” and our blissful state of amnesia evaporates. A second shadow moves toward her, maybe a friend. Her response is hushed, or perhaps it’s just the breeze rustling the leaves of the oak tree.

“I hate him! Do you hear me? Hate him!” 

What a nuisance. 

“Get inside the house. Right now.” It’s Ted. “You’re getting out of hand.”

“No, I won’t!” she shouts, voice gleeful. Her performance was meant to pull him outside just as it was meant to pull every pair of eyes to the windows to see what’s going on.

Ted leans against the house. “I’m calling the police.”

“Fine! Go ahead!” she says, thrilled by the prospect of expanding the drama. 

Without a word, he walks slowly back toward the house. 

“Call them!” she shouts. “I don’t care!” She rushes after his stooped figure until we can’t hear her anymore, and secretly, we’re all relieved.

A week later, it’s July 4th and we set up for our annual street party, which includes picnic, volleyball, general gossip, and of course, bitching about Ted-the-pain-in-the-ass. The kids laugh to the plunk of the volleyball, the grills sizzle and smoke, and we sit along the sidewalk, crossed-legged, whisking away mosquitoes. Discussion drops like a heavy bucket when The Daughter drives up, the trunk of her pretty red car bashed in. 

Just as she disappears into the house, Ted exits the garage. He waves hello to the party, then whips on a chainsaw, and we realize he’s going to chop down that beautiful oak. “Ted!” we shout over the deafening drill. “Why are you cutting it down?”

“Look at it,” he says. “It’s falling apart!” 

We smile and nod as if we know what he’s talking about. He climbs the tree suspended by a cloth swing; we all hope he falls and breaks his neck. Then the oak would be saved. Then we wouldn’t have to listen to the music, the shouting, the pain. We’d have our peaceful neighborhood back. To our disgust, he whips off his shirt and smiles at us fiercely through the wood shavings, rolling through the air like a sandstorm. The grit has invaded our food, hair, and noses; the shavings cover every inch of his daughter’s open convertible – - no longer shiny red, it’s now the color of cardboard.

An hour later, he’s done. The lovely oak tree’s gone, killed, a carcass in the front yard. Whistling, Ted clunks things around in the garage; his daughter wanders out of the house, blinking as if she’s just woken up. She half falls onto the oak’s stump. Arms limp, straggly hair tucked behind her ears, she’s absolutely brazen in the open sunlight. 

Mary Webster extends a thin arm. “Come on over, sweetheart. Have a hotdog.” 

Our heads swerve at such words, such a notion! That girl and her father aren’t our kind; we don’t want them eating with us, let alone living on the same street. We snicker at her wasted effort, her idiot kindness, and flick the wood shavings from our nice, clean clothes. 

The Daughter stands slowly as if she’s going to take up Mary’s invitation, then stops, leans in a funny way. Her eyes fall to the stump. She points at it, pale finger circling the rings that we do not see. “This is the tree’s age,” she says to no one in particular. “And here,” she reaches for the center, “here’s where the heart is.”

I dig my toe into the grass. Behind, the line of eucalyptus trees fling their shadows onto the ground, a purple-black blanket ten feet from my heels, my imaginary backstop. For five years I’ve caught for my kid brother, Joe. He’s already pacing out there. All fluster and shake, Joe’s the star of the family, and he looks it now, tossing his head like a lion, yellow shirt blinding in the sun.

“Mike!” he shouts. “Hurry up, asshole.”

“You’ll never be a good pitcher if you don’t learn to be patient.”

He rolls his eyes; he’s already a good pitcher, the best that Silverado High has ever seen. Still, I make him wait a few seconds. He’ll be gone the next two weeks, so I’m going to enjoy this while I can.

I raise my mitt. Joe draws his hands together, winds up, releases. I know his every move, but like watching a river, I don’t get tired of it. As usual, we start with loopy, casual throws. Then the ball’s plunk into my mitt gets louder, quicker, and that sweet exhale of leather and dust comes, as comforting as my pillow at home. Joe’s six-foot two frame — usually loose and jiggly all over – tightens up when he pitches. He’s poised, in control, almost unrecognizable. I like seeing my brother this way; it doesn’t happen anywhere else.

When I feel restless, I take the bus to Westwood Park, and climb the hills. I never walk the same trail twice. There’s nothing but the sound of my footsteps, the scent of wet dirt, the birds calling to one another. I’d love to stay there forever. Not get lost necessarily, just live apart from the hustle and chase in the outside world that doesn’t make much sense to me. I’d take Joe, and every afternoon we’d play catch on one of those clearings at the top of the hills.

The eucalyptus’ shadows lay their cool hands on my back. I stand, and without a word, Joe and I walk a few feet forward so we’re both in the sun.

“I’m going pro, Mike. I’m going to play in the majors.” He glances into the sky as if this idea has descended upon him from someplace else. “I know it.”

The green field stretches behind him, so huge and empty I feel dizzy for a second. I raise my mitt, wanting to return to where we were before. He pulls his body sideways, gathering himself, pitches again. My palm already feels like someone’s struck a match against it.

“Throw your slider,” I say.

It swerves into my mitt, hitting the outside corner just as it’s supposed to do. Catching for Joe, I feel the ball has a life of its own. As if his pitching has nothing to do with him, that it’s directed by some unseeable, magnificent force. Like those hundred foot redwoods in the forest.

“I’m going to be the best fucking pitcher at Allendale,” he says. “You know that?”

I do, even if I try to tell myself otherwise. He’s got to take three busses to Camp Allendale in Sacramento tomorrow — unlike most of the kids whose families have cars. But he’ll shake off any shame flinging unhittable pitches from the mound, shining for all to see. They’ll want him on their team even if he has to buy used cleats and can’t afford a decent hair cut.

“Keep your mouth shut when you go,” I tell him. “I don’t want you getting your ass kicked.”

“I’ll be the best pitcher there.”

His fast ball plunks into my glove. Joe’s always pitched better when he’s put anger behind the ball. Angry we have to mix our cereal with water some mornings, angry Mom keeps her eyes on the ground half the time. The shadows creep close to my back again, cool fingers that tickle my neck. This time I don’t move. We can’t go back to where we were before.

“I’m going pro, Mike. And I’m going to get the fuck out of this place.”

He’s so tall and thin that from my distance, he looks like a sapling, newly planted, leaning slightly. Joe’s never talked about leaving us, and I realize suddenly that he’s saying goodbye. He may live at home for another year or two, but with his eye on the future, he’s already gone. And without even knowing it, that’s what I’ve been doing all this time — practicing with him, attending his games, preparing his meals — getting him ready to leave.

Two years ago, after the earthquake, I took one of my long walks in Westwood. As usual, the forest quivered with sparrows and bugs, the stellar jays shrieked into the sky. But set within the wood, I saw two redwood trees, snapped in half and lying on top of each other like kindling. The sun fell onto them full force. How had these two trees fallen while the rest of the forest remained untouched?

I didn’t think Joe would leave so soon. I thought I’d have another two years. When he’d get a scholarship to college; when he’d go into the minors; when I felt ready.

Joe’s mitt, tucked against his side, looks like an animal hugging his ribs, protected and safe. “I’m going pro,” he says.  “I’m not telling anyone but you.”

I nod. Tomorrow, his bus will speed across the bridge into Sacramento, shining like a bullet, but traveling slower than one of his own pitches. He’ll get to where he needs to go — by a force that moves the earth so that only two redwoods fall amidst a forest of standing trees, a force that spins the earth on its axis, and now draws me into the cool shadow of my future.

“Crab feeds,” my sister announces. “Forty-five dollars a person, and all the crab you can eat. Vintage High School does it. It’s the most amazing thing. They bring buckets of crab, bowls of melted butter — oh, God! My mouth melts just thinking about it! Don’t you want to go with me? Buckets and buckets of crab.” 

“Joan, Mama’s sick. She needs to see you.”

“Let me finish. You’ll love this.” Her hands push the air apart to make room for the scene. “Picnic tables are set up on the soccer fields, and last weekend, this family came all dressed up. They brought candles, flutes for their champagne, a beautiful red table cloth. Isn’t that wonderful? Tell me you think it’s wonderful.” 

She tips toward me like a baby bird chirping with hunger. What does she want from me? To tell her that I’ll go to some ridiculous crab feed? To tell her that our mother isn’t dying?  To say, “Yes! It’s wonderful!”? She’s fifty-four years old, weighs ninety pounds, and babbles about pink feathered hats and Brad Pitt and crab feeds. Besides, the word ‘wonderful’ isn’t in my vocabulary when my mother’s laid up at the hospital, sick, but not sick enough not to know she’s going to die there.

“The crab feed tonight benefits the veteran’s home. It’s for a good cause.” Joan says this like a question — she’s pleading now — and I nibble on my cinnamon bread, longing for Doug to burst through the front door, reclaim her, take her away from my table.

But he’s not coming back. I found him in his kitchen last month, stubble on his chin, unpeeling a banana with delicate fingers. He’s got musician’s hands, I thought, mesmerized by the slow tearing of the yellow skin, strip by strip, as if he had all the time in the world. “I can’t do anything for Joan,” he said in a faint voice. “I’m not enough for her… I don’t know why.” Then he disappeared into his living room to eat the banana or to cry, or maybe because he didn’t want to see me or anything else close to Joan. His screen door whapped behind me, and I remembered how Mama laughed about Joan wailing with hunger in the middle of the night until she was four years old. 

Funny, how I’d forgotten to tell him this. But even if it hadn’t slipped my mind I doubt I would have said anything. It wasn’t polite to tell other people their business, Mama always said. Or let them know yours. No, no, this world’s got enough to carry on its back without you girls harping on about your stuff. 

I took everything Mama said to heart. But lately, this “stuff’ of mine has felt like a candy sucker swishing around in my mouth, flavor gone, hard as a bead, and it just won’t melt away. Seems like one day I’ll bite down and break a tooth. 

I never told Joan I went to see him. 

Her hands have returned to their contrite folded position on my kitchen table. They twitch when I say, “Mama’s in Intensive Care. You may not have another chance.” 

I don’t say, “I won’t take no for an answer.” 

I don’t say, “You’re being selfish.”

I don’t say, “You may not have another chance with me.”

“I told you,” she says. “I’m going to the crab feed tonight. I’ll see her another time.” 

My chair screeches across the linoleum, and I swipe away her plate of cinnamon bread, even though I know she isn’t done. I’m cleaning up, clearing away, washing, drying, setting things right. As usual. That’s who I am: Alison Cohill, the younger sister who’ll go to the squeaky clean hospital tonight, make excuses for Joan, watch the pain crack through my mother’s face. And I’ll try to fix that, too. 

I look out the window, onto an eight foot fence and spindly rosemary bush. It’s not polite to tell other people their business, but Mama, that doesn’t mean this world isn’t carrying it all the same. 

The steaming hot water burns my hands as I rinse away Joan’s crumbs, dump what’s left of her snack into the garbage compacter, and grind it away. She doesn’t say a word.

Johnny lies beneath the quilt his mom made for him. She’d sewn patches of blue jeans, a faded pink blanket, worn towels, even an old dishrag from which she’d dried her hands. Eyes closed, he runs his fingers over the fabrics as if they were Braille, tries guessing which is which. He can’t feel the stitches. But he can see his mother’s hands moving beneath the whirring machine, bunched into cups, then slowly opening into suns. 

His pajama top’s soaked through, but that afternoon, Aunt Mary pulls the quilt up to his chin again. She isn’t wearing black today. She gives him two spoonfuls of hot licorice syrup, and looks out the window. A wrinkle arches from her eye like a falling star.

Johnny thinks of his mother as somewhere out the window too. A couple days ago, Dad told him Mom was in a car accident, that she went to Heaven. Heat bloomed in Johnny’s chest, the air changed to a faint yellow. When he could talk, he said, “I don’t feel good.”

His dad took his temperature, and tucked him into bed even though it was bright outside. The last thing he said: “Mommy went quickly. She didn’t feel any pain.”

That was important to his father, that she didn’t feel anything before she died. But what’s important to Johnny is where she went after that. He wants to be able to see her somewhere. She must be out the window. In the sky, or air. She might be sitting on top of a cloud.

Aunt Mary touches his cheek, moves toward the door. Johnny keeps his eyes out the window. Clouds drifting across blue in an easy wave. They remind him of sailboats.

That’s where his mom would be. In the clouds.

He drifts into sleep. The window’s light seeps into the room, swishes around him like water. A gold fountain bursts from the ground, and an angel appears, wearing all white, and a long cape. Her blonde hair shines down her back. 

You’re going to be okay, Johnny. 

Where’s my mom?

She’s with me. She’s safe.

Safe, he thinks, and falls back to sleep.

When he wakes again, his room is dark, his sheets, damp. The window glows blue. His father sits on the edge of the bed, a shadow. Johnny feels the weight of his hand on his shoulder.

“It’ll be all right,” his father says, deep voice shaky. “You get better now.”

“She’s safe.” Johnny struggles for breath. “The angel said — ” 

“Shhhhh.” He pats Johnny’s forehead with a towel, the scent of cigarette smoke on his fingers. Each night, Johnny has heard the squeak of the back door: Dad still smokes on the porch even though Mom wasn’t here to scold him. She’s outside, in the clouds.

“Goodnight, John,” his father says. “Get some rest now.” 

The door closes. Johnny looks out the window to say goodnight to his mother. The curve of blue sparkles with stars, tiny points of light, set apart from each other. No clouds. Where does she go at night? Johnny lies beneath the quilt his mom made for him and hopes for another dream.

Dad’s new girlfriend takes tiny steps down a dim hallway. The click-click of her high heels is like Coach Ryan’s stop watch, something to beat, the enemy. Dad stands at my shoulder, spiced up with cologne as usual, but too still, and I can’t see his face. Why do I have to meet her? And in her house? Is this serious? I wish he’d look at me, tell me it’s all right. But he doesn’t. 

Finally, the girlfriend surfaces — very thin, dressed in all white, feathery bleach-blonde hair. My mother’s hair, swept with gray, waves out from her round face. She has strong hands that knead dough, prune roses, always touch me hello and goodbye. Mom doesn’t wear mascara, or lipstick, or fuzzy face powder like this woman. I think my mother’s beautiful. I thought Dad thought so too.

He’s just dating her, I think. They’re not married. Nothing’s legal —

“Rick,” Dad says, “this is Sally.” He gazes at her as if she were a goddess, and now I know, for sure, he’s not going to change his mind, he’s not going to come back home. 

“Hello, Rick,” she peeps. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Hi,” I say too loudly, suddenly aware of what I’m wearing: football jersey, jeans, dirt-crusted boots, and that Dad — for some reason — is wearing khakis, penny loafers, and an unwrinkled white shirt. Before, we’d always dressed alike, and now he looks like he’s going to church.

Besides his not living at home for the past six months, nothing had changed. We’d gone to our usual 49er games, Dad explaining every play – sometimes bits of hot dog popping from his mouth. Football was his language. When my buddies came over, Dad practically knocked them over with excitement: “Charlie! See the 49er game?” Short and square, lunging forward, Dad looked like a bull, and some of the guys — inches taller — shuffled backward in alarm. But Dad, with his big grin, those dimples, and that space between his front teeth, looked absolutely harmless, and my friends sighed and smiled. “Boyish charm,” my mother had called it.

Now, staring at this strange woman, so unlike my mother, I can’t place him. Who was he really? What was happening to him? The day he left our house, he squeezed my hand so hard I thought the bones would break. “In time, you and your mother will see this is for the best, Ricky,” he said. “You’ll have to trust me on this.” 

How couldn’t I trust him? Dad gave me football: how to play, how to train, how to think about the game. “Your only opponent is you,” he’d told me, over and over. “If you do the work, you’ll be a hell of a player, Ricky. I know it. You’ve got to know it too.” Six inches taller, I’d done all Dad couldn’t do on the field. I did it for him. And he was right: I’d become a hell of a player.

“Why don’t we go sit down?” Sally stretches her arm toward a blinding white living room — the walls, couches, carpet, fireplace — all white. The only color’s the blood-red cocktail sauce in her neat arrangement of appetizers. Then I see the ballerinas. Set on random coffee tables, they’re the size of small children, skin glossy, grayish-pink. They strike poses: arms and legs stretching into the air, eyes resting on fluttering hands or bound, pointed feet. It’s like they’re floating, but frozen in that shiny skin, they’ll never move. Never. The room jiggles suddenly, and hot liquid swishes into my mouth. 

“Listen, Dad, I’ve got to go — I don’t feel good.” I glance at Sally, and start to run, afraid I’ll throw up all over her white carpet. Dad’s in front of me, clenching my arm — he says something, but I don’t hear it. I dodge him as if I’m on the field, and a voice inside my head says calmly, Your only opponent is you.

Outside, I suck in the cool air, heart pounding. It’s twilight. Driving home, I hardly see the road. All I see is Dad, floating amidst those ballerinas, just floating.