“Did Tim tell you he just got married?”
“I heard that. During visiting hours, his wife took Donna aside to give her the happy news and to say that we weren’t to slight him in any way, because he was ready, willing, and able—that was the way she said it to Donna—to assume responsibility for his mother’s well-being. She also went to the hospital this morning just after you left and caused a commotion because they’d thrown away her wedding bouquet.”
The phone call the next morning comes as a surprise. Like a telemarketer, Tim seems to be reading from a script: “Our relationship may be strained beyond redemption. When I went to the nurses’ desk and saw that you had included personal information about me on a form you had apparently already filled out elsewhere, in collusion with your doctor friend, I realized that you were yet again condescending to me and subjecting me to humiliation. I was very hurt that you had written both of our names as ‘Person to be notified in an emergency,’ but then undercut that by affixing a Post-it note saying, ‘Call me first. He’s hard to find.’ How would you know? How would you know what my teaching schedule is when you have never expressed the slightest interest? How do you know when I leave my house in the morning and when I return at night? You’ve always wanted to come first. It is also my personal opinion that you okayed the throwing out of my wife’s nosegay, which was on loan to Mom. So go ahead and okay everything. Have her euthanized, if that’s what you want to do, and see if I care. Do you realize that you barely took an insincere second to congratulate me and my wife? If you have no respect for me, I nevertheless expect a modicum of respect for my wife.”
Of course, he does not know that I’m joking when I respond, “No, thanks. I’m very happy with my AT&T service.”
When he slams down the phone, I consider returning to bed and curling into a fetal position, though at the same time I realize that I cannot miss one more day of work. I walk into the bathroom, wearing Vic’s old bathrobe, which I hang on the back of the door. I shower and brush my teeth. I call the Oaks, to see if my mother slept through the night. She did, and is playing bingo. I dress quickly, comb my hair, pick up my purse and keys, and open the front door. A FedEx letter leans against the railing, with Cora’s name and return address on it. I take a step back, walk inside, and open it. There is a sealed envelope with my name on it. I stare at it.
The phone rings. It is Mariah Roberts, 2003 Virginia Teacher of the Year for Grade Three, calling to say that she is embarrassed but it has been pointed out to her that children dressed as starfish and sea horses, dancing in front of dangling nets, represent species that are endangered, and often “collected” or otherwise “preyed upon,” and that she wants to reimburse me for materials, but she most certainly does not want me to sew starfish costumes. I look across the bedroom, to the pointy costumes piled on a chair, only the top one still awaiting its zipper. They suddenly look sad—deflated, more than slightly absurd. I can’t think what to say, and am surprised to realize that I’m too choked up to speak. “Not to worry,” I finally say. “Is the whole performance canceled?” “It’s being reconceived,” she says. “We want sea life that is empowered.” “Barracuda?” I say. “I’ll run that by them,” she says.
When we hang up, I continue to examine the sealed envelope. Then I pick up the phone and dial. To my surprise, Vic answers on the second ring.
“Hey, I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. “Really. I was going to call and see how you were doing. How’s your mother?”
“Fine,” I say. “There’s something that’s been bothering me. Can I ask you a quick question?”
“Shoot.”
“Donna Milrus said she saw you and Banderas having a fight.”
“Yeah,” he says warily.
“It’s none of my business, but what caused it?”
“Jumped on the car and his claws scratched the paint.”
“You said he was the best-trained dog in the world.”
“I know it. He always waits for me to open the door, but that day, you tell me. He jumped up and clawed the hell out of the car. If he’d been scared by something, I might have made an allowance. But there was nobody. And then as soon as I swatted him, who gets out of her Lexus but Donna Milrus, and suddenly the grocery bag slips out of my hands and splits open . . . all this stuff rolling toward her, and she points the toe of one of those expensive shoes she wears and stops an orange.”
“I can’t believe that about you and Banderas. It shakes up all my assumptions.”
“That’s what happened,” he says.
“Thanks for the information.”
“Hey, wait. I really was getting ready to call you. I was going to say maybe we could get together and take your mother to the Italian place for dinner.”
“That’s nice,” I say, “but I don’t think so.”
There is a moment’s silence.
“Bye, Vic,” I say.
“Wait,” he says quickly. “You really called about the dog?”
