in the Upper Peninsula, and maybe he could visit us on weekends. I played along, told
him it was a splendid idea. That creep had it all figured out. He’d spend Monday through Friday on Lake Merle with his other
wife, spend weekends with me,
and never the twain shall meet.
That’s what he thinks!
After Roger had plotted out our summer using hisnew calendar software, the phone rang. And rang. And rang. First it was Greta Haas from church, asking if I’d help with this
year’s Easter egg hunt. Then my mother called, just to complain about Dad’s oncologist; she says he ran down the hospital
fire escape just to avoid talking to her, and I believe it. Then a supposedly wheelchair-bound phone solicitor with Handicapped
Marketing Associates tried to sell me light bulbs that supposedly last 100 years. (I pushed the button on my new anti-telemarketer
gadget—it gives me such pleasure to use that thing—and listened delightedly as the authoritative recorded voice told the phone
solicitor to shove it.) The phone rang one more time, but whoever was on the line hung up. Caller ID registered this one as
an anonymous call. My guess is, it was the phone solicitor calling me back for spite. Or maybe it was Eddie.
By now it was 3 P . M . I told Roger I had to get my nails done. He nodded vaguely in my direction and returned his attention to
Xena.
I’m sure it didn’t even register that I’d left the house. Twenty minutes later he would call upstairs for me, starting with
a medium-range holler, gradually building up to that shrill eardrum-puncturing shriek of his. He would ask Pete to run upstairs
and find me, at which point Pete would tell him that I left to get my nails done because Pete, unlike his father, actually
paid attention when I had something to say. I imagined the stupidway Roger rubbed the side of his head whenever he was bewildered, and thanked God I wouldn’t have to live with this dog much
longer.
I took the shortcut to Lake Merle, but hit a detour—they’re digging up Crawford Road—which meant I had to take Market, putting
me twenty minutes out of my way. By the time I’d made it to the lake I had soaked through my blazer and my hands were so sweaty
I left stains on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I pulled into the subdivision, followed the road west, and found Roger’s
condo. It was the last unit at the very end of a gravel road virtually engulfed by tall pines. I parked along the curb. My
heart thumped so hard I could see the silver teapot pin on my lapel pulsating.
I stared at the condo. While most of the units had some special feature—a striped awning here, a handpainted mailbox there—this
one had nothing to distinguish it. The landscaping was sparse, almost barren. There were no painted shutters, no pretty plaque
bearing the family name or house number, no colorful wind sock. In fact, there were no signs of life. The shades and curtains
were all drawn. Visitors, it seems, were not welcome here.
I turned my ear toward the door and listened. Backstreet Boys. I heard a faint rustling, footsteps, something clanging, maybe
a pan. I took another deep breath and knocked at the door, softly at first,then harder when no one responded. I knocked again. The music stopped, and then I could hear nothing. No footsteps, no clanging.
I cupped my ear against the door now, and held my breath until it hurt.
The door opened. I lifted my eyes and saw the apprehensive face of a young girl, a small and slender Asian girl. She opened
the door a crack and stared at me. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen. She wore a plain white buttoned shirt and cheap,
shiny trousers, white socks, and flip-flops. And she was beautiful. Full lips, dark eyes. Her black hair was tied back. No
makeup except for lip gloss. She was chewing gum.
“Is the lady of the house here?” I asked her. She stared at me as if she didn’t understand.
I tried again. “Do you speak
him it was a splendid idea. That creep had it all figured out. He’d spend Monday through Friday on Lake Merle with his other
wife, spend weekends with me,
and never the twain shall meet.
That’s what he thinks!
After Roger had plotted out our summer using hisnew calendar software, the phone rang. And rang. And rang. First it was Greta Haas from church, asking if I’d help with this
year’s Easter egg hunt. Then my mother called, just to complain about Dad’s oncologist; she says he ran down the hospital
fire escape just to avoid talking to her, and I believe it. Then a supposedly wheelchair-bound phone solicitor with Handicapped
Marketing Associates tried to sell me light bulbs that supposedly last 100 years. (I pushed the button on my new anti-telemarketer
gadget—it gives me such pleasure to use that thing—and listened delightedly as the authoritative recorded voice told the phone
solicitor to shove it.) The phone rang one more time, but whoever was on the line hung up. Caller ID registered this one as
an anonymous call. My guess is, it was the phone solicitor calling me back for spite. Or maybe it was Eddie.
By now it was 3 P . M . I told Roger I had to get my nails done. He nodded vaguely in my direction and returned his attention to
Xena.
I’m sure it didn’t even register that I’d left the house. Twenty minutes later he would call upstairs for me, starting with
a medium-range holler, gradually building up to that shrill eardrum-puncturing shriek of his. He would ask Pete to run upstairs
and find me, at which point Pete would tell him that I left to get my nails done because Pete, unlike his father, actually
paid attention when I had something to say. I imagined the stupidway Roger rubbed the side of his head whenever he was bewildered, and thanked God I wouldn’t have to live with this dog much
longer.
I took the shortcut to Lake Merle, but hit a detour—they’re digging up Crawford Road—which meant I had to take Market, putting
me twenty minutes out of my way. By the time I’d made it to the lake I had soaked through my blazer and my hands were so sweaty
I left stains on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I pulled into the subdivision, followed the road west, and found Roger’s
condo. It was the last unit at the very end of a gravel road virtually engulfed by tall pines. I parked along the curb. My
heart thumped so hard I could see the silver teapot pin on my lapel pulsating.
I stared at the condo. While most of the units had some special feature—a striped awning here, a handpainted mailbox there—this
one had nothing to distinguish it. The landscaping was sparse, almost barren. There were no painted shutters, no pretty plaque
bearing the family name or house number, no colorful wind sock. In fact, there were no signs of life. The shades and curtains
were all drawn. Visitors, it seems, were not welcome here.
I turned my ear toward the door and listened. Backstreet Boys. I heard a faint rustling, footsteps, something clanging, maybe
a pan. I took another deep breath and knocked at the door, softly at first,then harder when no one responded. I knocked again. The music stopped, and then I could hear nothing. No footsteps, no clanging.
I cupped my ear against the door now, and held my breath until it hurt.
The door opened. I lifted my eyes and saw the apprehensive face of a young girl, a small and slender Asian girl. She opened
the door a crack and stared at me. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen. She wore a plain white buttoned shirt and cheap,
shiny trousers, white socks, and flip-flops. And she was beautiful. Full lips, dark eyes. Her black hair was tied back. No
makeup except for lip gloss. She was chewing gum.
“Is the lady of the house here?” I asked her. She stared at me as if she didn’t understand.
I tried again. “Do you speak
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