As for visiting the unsuspecting Mrs. Hepworth, it helped that my father had sold insurance and had once run for Everton City Council. Knocking on strangers’ doors, asking for a vote or a few minutes of their uninsured time, was not something that gave my father pause.
My mother called me late Saturday afternoon as I was walking fast around Brown Slake Pond, music turned up but cell phone on alert. She began with “Good news! You may be all set.”
“In what way?”
“Don’t say anything until you hear the whole story. Where are you?”
When she heard “the pond,” she said, “Go back to your car while I explain so you don’t freeze.”
I ignored that, kept walking, and ten seconds later said, “I’m in the car now, nice and warm.”
“Let me begin this way. Your father’s argument was a thing of beauty.”
“Argument?”
“Not an argument, a presentation. He had perfect pitch, rhetorically speaking. I went with him just in case she was wary of a strange man ringing her doorbell. But it turns out, he’d once given her an appraisal on homeowner’s!”
“Who? Who might’ve been wary of Dad?”
“Didn’t I say that? Edith Hepworth.”
I yelped, “No, you did not! Tell me you two didn’t take it upon yourselves—”
“We didn’t just drop in! We called first. I said I was your mother, that we raised our kids on Waverly, and my husband and I wanted to pay our respects. From there, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to the big question. Had anyone told her that you would very likely lose your job at Everton Country Day because of a little miscommunication? At first, she insisted that she had not . . . Faithy? You there?”
“Barely.”
“You’re breathing hard. Are you sure you’re not still exercising?”
“I’m not exercising. I’m hyperventilating.”
“It’s all good. Dad said, along these lines: ‘Maybe someone from your husband’s beloved alma mater recently asked if you meant to write the check to Everton Country Day instead of Faith Frankel?’ So at this point, she said, ‘Now that you mention it . . .’ Dad helped her along with ‘You repeated that you wanted the money to go to Faith and her causes. Is that still the case?’
“Next thing we know, she’s hurrying off to another room and came back waving her checkbook. We said, ‘No, no. No need to write another check. Faith can endorse the other one over to the school.’?” My mother stopped there, surely expecting me to be in the throes of deep gratitude and relief.
I said, “Did you ever think that going directly to Mrs. Hepworth would get me into more trouble?”
“We fixed it! How could a friendly visit to a neighbor get you into any trouble?”
“Because I’m in the doghouse, and it’s just the kind of thing that would piss everybody off. Like I’m a baby whose parents have to fix her problems.”
“I’ve never heard such nonsense,” she said.
The next call was from my father, arriving in the time it took for my newest meltdown to boomerang from Brown Slake Pond to my mother to him, apparently in the next room.
“You have to give us more credit,” he said. “Mrs. Hepworth was so happy to have callers. I don’t suppose your mother told you that she promised she would not mention our visit when she remedied the situation?”
“Dad! Dickenson isn’t going to buy that she just woke up one morning, realized her mistake, and—what?—knew what to do and who to call?”
Did I say this aloud or only think, Am I the only one with any dignity in this family? Either way, the next thing my father said was “I’m putting Joel on.”
There was a roiling and heating inside my head, which I took to be a spike in blood pressure. “Joel’s there, too?” I asked in no one’s ear as the phone passed between collaborators.
“Hey,” my brother said, sounding wary in a single syllable.
“You let them visit Mrs. Hepworth?”
“I wasn’t consulted. They asked me to meet them there. I figured someone needed a tow. I waited in the truck. Well, for most of it.”
“Then you went in?”
“You’re not going to like this . . .”
“Just say it.”
“Look. It’s what Mom does. She asked the old lady if she had a contract with anyone to plow her driveway. She didn’t know and then remembered that the kid across the street shoveled it. So of course Mom said, ‘Well, from now on Frankel Towing and Plowing is taking care of all that!’?”
“And you just rolled over?”
“Oh, please. The woman’s like ninety. I gave her my business card and she said she’d cherish it. I kid you not, that exact word.”
“You’re doing it for free, you realize.”
“It’s no big deal. She doesn’t drive, so I can do it any old time—as opposed to every other client who wants me there at the crack of dawn.”
“Joel,” I started, but didn’t go on.
“You’re not crying, are you?”
“Maybe.”
“Where are you? Want me to come over?”
That made it worse. Mostly it was mortification and anxiety over Team Frankel’s interference. But on the other hand, who wouldn’t choke up, witnessing how much her infuriating family loved her?
14
Still Here
STUART MIGHT AS WELL have been missing. He hadn’t called me back, nor had he added a word to his blog, nor posted on Facebook, nor bared his soul on any other social medium I am acquainted with. His voice-mail box was full, so I couldn’t even leave another needy, irritated message. I confided this to no one, since it would be interpreted less as MIA and more as laughably indifferent fiancé. I considered calling the police but then asked myself, Which police? Indiana can be a very big state.
Monday, nine-ish, I was at my desk, facing an undecorated wall. Nick noticed immediately. “You took it down?” he asked.
“Who else would’ve?”
“No one,” he said too quickly.
“Were you thinking it could have been HR?”
“Only a fleeting thought.”
I told him I hadn’t heard one word, official or unofficial, about probation, which was why I was back at work. I waved three addressed envelopes containing notes already written this morning. His “well done” still sounded worried.