You Could Be Home by Now by Tracy Manaster Page B

“It’s okay,” she said.
    â€œIt’s light years from okay.”
    â€œGran, it’s fine.”
    â€œLook at me. You didn’t deserve any of that.”
    â€œOkay.” True, she hadn’t. But it didn’t follow that she deserved all the good things that had come her way either. Her earlobes itched, heavy with—real—gold hoops, and she felt fluttery-frantic to do something. Gran called her the Angel of the Commons and angels only ever held still and pretty on top of Christmas trees. Angels were terrible and forgiving. They wrestled, they fell, they rebelled and avenged. Angels were all about the verbs.
    Hello, Chickie-dolls. Yes, I’m back. Yes, this is the authentic Lillian , not some off-brand cotton-poly blend. Rumors of my demise/new gig as columnist for Teen Vogue /forced enrollment in one of those de-gay-ifying camps are completely and utterly cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I’d set you all straight (yes, that’s a pun. Yes, you can deal with it) but you seem to be having the time of your collective lives going feral in the comments. Besides, I’ve got something important to say, so put down your nail files and listen up, ladies and Midwestern perverts pretending to be ladies.
    We’re attractive, not dumb. We all know there are things that matter more than looks (and no, I haven’t turned into any of your mothers. Believe me, I’ve checked my mirror).
    This is one of those things.

LIKELIER THAN BARCELONA
    B EN LIKED THE SIMPLE SAMENESS of his Commons mornings. A walk with Sadie, tinkering with his espresso machine, then hunkering down at his computer to do the crossword. Every day, he and his daughter-in-law did the same one online. She’d yet to beat his time but said it didn’t matter. She liked the way it got her mind warmed up.
    Today though, Anjali might actually win; it was damned near impossible to concentrate. A news van had parked across the way. Ben watched a reporter, pretty from a distance, ring his neighbor’s bell. A cameraman hovered close, encumbered with technology. Marvin and Ed, Ben’s golf buddies, were parked in his drive and playing looky-loo, never mind their tee time in twenty minutes.
    It was the Rosko thing. Of course it had gone big. Ben had guessed it would three lines into the Crier ’s first report. Not a sure thing like another pretty housewife evaporating on the eve of a national holiday, but the odds were up there. Young kid, local grandmother getting royally screwed over, and a smug patina of judgment. There you had it. Headline stew.
    Ben finished his coffee and crunched a last bite of toast. He watched Sadie and her granddaughter saunter down the street, armed with tennis rackets. The girl swung hers in a wide, lazy arc, courting the cameras. Someone had taught her a proper grip, but she’d need more than that to land on TV, and oh boy did he know. Years ago, a summer storm had felled a century-old fir on his street in Portland, taking out a hefty percent of the city’s power grid. A news van came for footage and Ben had run into the rain with a picture of Tara. He’d asked the reporter, please, if you could broadcast this for even a second. If you could run our home phone beneath. No dice. The reporter had worn a yellow slicker, Ben remembered, a childish thing that looked like it ought to be paired with bumblebee galoshes. The one across the way was in yellow, too, a bright blouse beneath a somber, nipped-in jacket. No one real ever wore that shade. They must teach you in journalism school that it makes you stand out. The reporter rang again. Her companion did something with his camera. Ben smiled. Evidently, Mona Rosko wasn’t answering the bell.
    And good on Mona for that. Making them work for it for once. He didn’t know the lady well, but this morning he sure as hell liked her. There was a gritty brand of dignity to tending to your own troubles. Lord knew that employing