English?” She nodded quickly, but kept her grip on the door.
“The lady of the house. Mary Tisdale. Is she home?”
She looked at me a long time. “I am Mrs. Tisdale.”
I thought I must have heard wrong. What do you mean, you’re Mary Tisdale? Crazy thoughts popped into my head. Maybe she was
a distant cousin, from the Asian side of the family (but there is no Asian side of the family). Maybe a half sister—my father-inlaw’s
illegitimate daughter. I groped for a rational explanation. How could this be Roger’s wife?Impossible. I tried to remain composed, but my heart was now smashing around in my mouth, and I could feel my whole body flush
with panic.
“What’s your husband’s name?”
She beamed at me. “Roger Tisdale. Mister Roger Tisdale.” Jesus. She was a kid. I felt dizzy, heard my blood roaring in my
ears. I steadied myself against the door frame.
“Let me get this straight. You are married—you’re married, as in husband and wife—to Roger Tisdale?”
She nodded her head enthusiastically.
“Roger Tisdale, the playwright?”
“Yes! Yes! That’s my man!” the girl exclaimed. Her man? I had to stay clearheaded. I had to keep her talking. I suddenly regretted
that I didn’t have any M&M’s with me; she struck me as the kind of kid who could be bribed with candy.
“What’s your business?” she asked, a little suspiciously.
“My business? Oh, I live around here; just wanted to meet the neighbors and all that. I’m Mrs. Ryan.”
Mary started to smile, then remembered something and grew serious. She closed the door a little more. “I’m not supposed to
talk to anybody.”
“Why not?”
“My husband says not to. He says, ‘Stay inside and take good care, Mary.’ So that’s what I do. I stay inside and wait for
him.” She pouted. “But I miss him. He’s all the time traveling, putting on his shows.”Putting on his shows? So that’s how he explained why he’s rarely around. With me it was writers’ retreats and rehearsals.
With her, he’s putting on shows. Dandy.
A pregnant cat rubbed against her legs. She lifted it into her arms and stroked its head. “I play with Tippy. Eat. Watch TV.
Dance to music. Clean house. That’s all I do.”
I tried to be solicitous, tried to be a nice, normal, nonthreatening woman. A friend. A big sister. “Oh, I know what you mean.
Sounds like my life.” I rolled my eyes.
“Men.”
She smiled at me and echoed: “Men.”
“Listen, can I come in for a minute? I’m feeling a little sick. I think . . . I may be pregnant.” I don’t know, it just seemed
like the right thing to say. I could almost hear her interior debate: Roger told me not to talk to strangers. But this lady
seems nice. Maybe it’s okay. And Roger won’t find out anyway.
I prayed hard while she considered my request. Please make her let me in. Please, Lord. Finally, she stepped back and pulled
open the door. “I guess it’s okay,” she said.
I recognized the furniture right away. The place was filled with the crap we’d kept in the basement for the garage sale we
never had the energy to have. Roger had loaded everything into the back of a U-Haul. He said he’d deliver it to Promise House,
thebattered women’s shelter. I spotted the pair of butterfly chairs, the cheap laminate bookcases, the wicker love seat and chairs
we bought in graduate school at Pier 1. Hanging above the sofa, the amateurish still life I’d painted when I was nine months
pregnant and bored out of my skull. I’m not sure what galled me more, that he gave her something I painted or that he gave
her something so hideous. What I did not see, however, was a telephone. Leave it to Roger to lock this girl in the condo without
a connection to the outside world. “Can I use your phone?” I asked.
“Oh, we can’t have phones out here in the country,” she said matter-of-factly. “And my husband says the kind without wires
are too expensive. Is
“The lady of the house. Mary Tisdale. Is she home?”
She looked at me a long time. “I am Mrs. Tisdale.”
I thought I must have heard wrong. What do you mean, you’re Mary Tisdale? Crazy thoughts popped into my head. Maybe she was
a distant cousin, from the Asian side of the family (but there is no Asian side of the family). Maybe a half sister—my father-inlaw’s
illegitimate daughter. I groped for a rational explanation. How could this be Roger’s wife?Impossible. I tried to remain composed, but my heart was now smashing around in my mouth, and I could feel my whole body flush
with panic.
“What’s your husband’s name?”
She beamed at me. “Roger Tisdale. Mister Roger Tisdale.” Jesus. She was a kid. I felt dizzy, heard my blood roaring in my
ears. I steadied myself against the door frame.
“Let me get this straight. You are married—you’re married, as in husband and wife—to Roger Tisdale?”
She nodded her head enthusiastically.
“Roger Tisdale, the playwright?”
“Yes! Yes! That’s my man!” the girl exclaimed. Her man? I had to stay clearheaded. I had to keep her talking. I suddenly regretted
that I didn’t have any M&M’s with me; she struck me as the kind of kid who could be bribed with candy.
“What’s your business?” she asked, a little suspiciously.
“My business? Oh, I live around here; just wanted to meet the neighbors and all that. I’m Mrs. Ryan.”
Mary started to smile, then remembered something and grew serious. She closed the door a little more. “I’m not supposed to
talk to anybody.”
“Why not?”
“My husband says not to. He says, ‘Stay inside and take good care, Mary.’ So that’s what I do. I stay inside and wait for
him.” She pouted. “But I miss him. He’s all the time traveling, putting on his shows.”Putting on his shows? So that’s how he explained why he’s rarely around. With me it was writers’ retreats and rehearsals.
With her, he’s putting on shows. Dandy.
A pregnant cat rubbed against her legs. She lifted it into her arms and stroked its head. “I play with Tippy. Eat. Watch TV.
Dance to music. Clean house. That’s all I do.”
I tried to be solicitous, tried to be a nice, normal, nonthreatening woman. A friend. A big sister. “Oh, I know what you mean.
Sounds like my life.” I rolled my eyes.
“Men.”
She smiled at me and echoed: “Men.”
“Listen, can I come in for a minute? I’m feeling a little sick. I think . . . I may be pregnant.” I don’t know, it just seemed
like the right thing to say. I could almost hear her interior debate: Roger told me not to talk to strangers. But this lady
seems nice. Maybe it’s okay. And Roger won’t find out anyway.
I prayed hard while she considered my request. Please make her let me in. Please, Lord. Finally, she stepped back and pulled
open the door. “I guess it’s okay,” she said.
I recognized the furniture right away. The place was filled with the crap we’d kept in the basement for the garage sale we
never had the energy to have. Roger had loaded everything into the back of a U-Haul. He said he’d deliver it to Promise House,
thebattered women’s shelter. I spotted the pair of butterfly chairs, the cheap laminate bookcases, the wicker love seat and chairs
we bought in graduate school at Pier 1. Hanging above the sofa, the amateurish still life I’d painted when I was nine months
pregnant and bored out of my skull. I’m not sure what galled me more, that he gave her something I painted or that he gave
her something so hideous. What I did not see, however, was a telephone. Leave it to Roger to lock this girl in the condo without
a connection to the outside world. “Can I use your phone?” I asked.
“Oh, we can’t have phones out here in the country,” she said matter-of-factly. “And my husband says the kind without wires
are too expensive. Is
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