“It’s just . . . now all of a sudden you look happy. And I guess I’m just not used to that.”
Then, to his surprise, she drove them home without giving him the third degree about why.
Chapter Ten
Returns
Marilyn
When she opened the mailbox, Marilyn was gratified to see a small flat package that was almost certainly a book.
But that little elation did not last long.
The mail had been coming late. Nearly scandalously late, it seemed to her. She couldn’t help thinking, as she often did, that all her husband’s and her tax dollars over all their years should have bought better service.
The sun was nearly setting behind the lake as she carried the wrapped book up the stairs and into the house.
Sylvia was home, on the couch with her notebook computer open on her lap, as always. The younger woman looked up as Marilyn walked into the living room.
“That was fast,” Sylvia said, her eyes on the package.
She watched with only mild interest as Marilyn ripped the padded paper envelope away from the book.
“Anything for me?” Sylvia added.
“No, just this and the usual junk.”
She pulled the book free and held it in her hands, and her heart fell. It was the edition with the little mouse rowing a canoe down a river. It was not the one she had ordered.
“But this isn’t what I wanted at all.”
“What do you mean?” Sylvia said. “Let me see.”
Marilyn turned the book around to show her.
“That’s Stuart Little.”
“But it’s not the original edition. Remember how you showed me the page when you ordered it? And it was the edition with the mouse pulling down on some sort of rope. It was from 1905.”
“Well, now that I think about it,” Sylvia said, “I was making fun of the fact that a seventy-five-year-old book was being advertised as a good thing . . .”
“And?”
“Do the math,” Sylvia said.
While Marilyn struggled with those numbers in her head, Sylvia’s fingers clattered over her keyboard.
“The book was published in 1945,” Sylvia said. “Not 1905.”
“But it said 1905 on the page you showed me. I saw it with my own eyes.”
More clattering. It seemed odd to Marilyn that someone could be so utterly comfortable on one of those infernal devices. As if the real world could only be seen through the portal of its monitor, and everything around it was simply a distraction.
“You’re right,” she said. “There’s an error on the listing page.”
“Well, how dare they?” Marilyn walked a few steps to the couch and flopped down beside Sylvia, leaning over to see the page in question. “Now look at that cover. That’s not the same as what they sent me at all. You should be able to return a purchase over a thing like that.”
“You can. You can return it for just about anything, especially if there’s a mistake in the way they listed it. But are you sure you want me to? I really doubt that little egg boy will care.”
“I care. It’s the principle of the thing.”
Sylvia sighed. Then she tapped keys for quite an extended time.
“Well, good news,” she said, two minutes or so later. “They’ll issue a refund, but they don’t even need you to return the book.”
“That seems odd.”
“It was only seven dollars. They’ll do that sometimes with cheaper items. Not worth it to them to pay the return shipping. You just got yourself a free book.”
“Well, that’s nice, I suppose. But now I still need a gift for the boy.”
“Give him that one. He won’t know or care.”
“I really wanted to give him that original edition. Only . . . I really don’t know enough about the internet to find one. I can only do that if you’ll help me.”
Sylvia sighed again.
The little girl came into the room, purposely stomping her feet too loudly. She stood in front of her mother, hands on hips, arms akimbo, and frowned. As if she owned and operated the household, Marilyn thought. If not the world.
“I’m hungry,” Izzy said. “Why aren’t you making dinner?”
“It’s in the oven,” Sylvia said. “Twenty minutes.” Then, to Marilyn, “There are a bunch for sale online, but you won’t like the prices.”
“I suppose I should have known that an original edition wouldn’t be seven dollars. How much?”
“Well, this one is two hundred ninety-nine dollars.”
Marilyn felt her eyes go wide.
“That’s out of the question, then,” she said, nursing a surprisingly sharp sense of disappointment.
“Wait. Don’t give up just yet. The prices vary a lot. One forty-seven. Here’s one for only forty-nine ninety-nine.”
“Still too much.”
“Let me keep looking.”
While she looked, the little girl, who had not given up and gone away, stamped her foot dramatically. Neither adult paid her any mind.
“Cheapest one I can find,” Sylvia said, “is just under twenty dollars. Used, in good condition. What do you think?”
The little girl stamped again.
“Izzy!” Marilyn shouted. “Go play until dinner!”
The girl sulked away, clearly shocked to have been spoken to in such a tone.
“Don’t yell at my daughter,” Sylvia said.
“Well, someone needs to.”
“I was just about to say the exact same thing to her.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I can talk to her that way. She’s my daughter. Now, do you want the book or not?”
Marilyn opened her mouth, but found herself undecided and did not speak.
“I guess you have to figure out how much that little egg boy means to you.”
“He doesn’t mean anything to me,” Marilyn said. “He just did me a couple of favors is all. Yes. Get the book, please. I’ll pay you back. I really want to get him that first edition.”
“Okay, done,” Sylvia said. “But I think you’re lying to yourself. Either that or you’re lying to me. You actually care about that troublesome little boy.”
“He’s not troublesome,” Marilyn said, her voice hard.
“See? You’re only proving my point.”
The oven timer went off, and Sylvia jumped up to go check the roast chicken, leaving her computer open on the couch. It displayed a copy of the book Marilyn had just ordered.
She rose and followed Sylvia into the kitchen.
“I think you’re wrong,” Marilyn said as she walked. “But what if you’re not? It’s not a bad thing to care about someone, and I don’t know why you say it as though it is.”
Sylvia shot a withering look over her shoulder before opening the oven door.
“You don’t care a whit about my daughter, and you’ve known her much longer.”
“That’s because your daughter is . . .”
But Marilyn caught herself in time.
“What?” Sylvia asked. She had turned back to Marilyn and was standing with her hands on her hips, almost exactly the way her daughter had. Except her hands were covered with bright yellow oven mitts. “My daughter is what?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“But you did bring it up. And now I want to hear it.”
“I’m just not a fan of raising children too permissively.”
To her surprise, Sylvia turned away. Turned back toward the stove, seeming to drop the whole subject. But Marilyn heard her mutter under her breath. Something along the lines of “Like you haven’t told me that a hundred times.”
Marilyn pretended she hadn’t heard.
Thankfully, no more was said on the matter.
The boy showed up the following day after school.
He stood on the concrete stoop, panting desperately, his empty wagon abandoned at the bottom of the stairs.
“You’re earlier today,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, breathlessly. “I got here as soon as I could.”
“You finished your egg route already?”
“Yes, ma’am. I ran all the way.”
“Well, that was kind of you. But I really don’t need help babysitting today. Because the little girl isn’t here.”
Marilyn watched his face fall. He had absolutely zero talent at assuming a poker face, that sad little child. Everything he felt played out right across his face for all to see. And, in truth, Marilyn did more than just watch his emotion. She actually felt the letdown right along with him—a heavy, sinking feeling in her gut—though she could not have explained why.