Wasn’t turning the damn thing off the polite thing to do? But then I heard a male voice talking in a professional manner about weather. Very bad weather. He was a meteorologist, predicting more snow, saying next that the barometric pressure was dropping and the snow would start around midnight, that the mayor had already canceled school, all schools, all day tomorrow and the next day, too.
That was our weather, our prediction: eight to ten inches’ worth. And I knew that sonorous voice. I left the bed with phone in hand, turned on the TV across the hall, flipped through the local channels on mute until the veteran steady-Eddie Boston weatherman Micky Medina was mouthing the exact words I was hearing through my phone.
I said, “Theresa . . . um. I have the same TV station on.”
Had she heard me? Did that register as the accusation I intended it to be?
“Channel seven here,” she said, all innocence, followed by silence—from her and her TV.
Nick had left the bed and was now standing next to me, looking puzzled. I held up one finger. Watch me; Perry Mason in action.
I said to Theresa, “I was originally calling with a question about ownership of my house; whether you sold it to me free and clear, i.e., did you have power of attorney? But now I have another question . . .” For drama, for the audience at my side, I waited a beat before asking, “Where are you?”
“You mean this minute?”
I said, “Yes, I mean this minute.”
“In my bedroom.”
“Where? What state?”
“Hawaii! Like always. Oh . . . were you wondering because of my area code? I never changed my cell phone number.”
I’d given no previous thought to her Massachusetts area code, never questioned it since Nick’s was still 603 and mine the old 917.
“You’re sticking to your Maui story?” I asked.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
Oh, that—the first refuge of double-talkers I have had the misfortune to challenge. “Either you’re mistaken, or they’re predicting a blizzard in Maui.”
She said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It never snows in Maui.”
“Well, that’s funny because you’re getting a nor’easter.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of satellite dishes?” she asked.
I smothered my cell in my armpit to muffle my asking Nick, “Can you get a Boston TV station in Maui with a satellite dish?”
“Doubt it,” he said.
Next she was asking, “Why would I lie about where I live?”
I chose to say as psychiatrically as my unnerved brain allowed, “I think, if Anna Lavoie were my mother, and she was being well looked after in a nursing home—or more recently in a county jail—I might pretend to live on an island in the Pacific, too far away to be her emergency contact.”
When she didn’t confirm or deny that, I took a leap, and asked, “Are you in Boston right now?”
“No, I am not in Boston.”
I said, “Maybe not in Boston proper, but I think you’re in its viewing area, watching channel seven.”
I expected her to hang up. She didn’t. In rather dignified fashion, she said, “I do have power of attorney. It was my right to sell you your house. I certainly didn’t want it! You own it, and my mother knows it. I forgot to take the key away from her. I’m surprised she showed up at the old house. I never expected her to leave ManorCare. Well, I do, eventually . . . in a box.”
Who says such a thing about her own mother? Well, now I knew: the same daughter who pretended to live five time zones away.
It wasn’t like me to hang up without some kind of good-bye, no matter how frigid. I decided against “You’re as crazy as a loon, just like your mother.” And also against “Welcome home,” since she probably never left.
The right valedictory came to mind. It would be well deserved and quite possibly news. “My boyfriend and I just returned from dinner with your half sister,” I told her.
42
Neither the Time nor the Place
I WAS FIRST RUNNER-UP, or so they told me, for the middle school teaching job. I could hardly complain since the winning candidate coached two sports to my none and had master’s degrees in both American literature and education.
Nick’s promotion went through, with the proviso he relocate to the administration building, arguably a more logical place for money to be raised, down the hall from Financial Aid. I stayed put in Sheffield Hall—HR’s unsubtle solution to our intradepartmental romance.
The school’s official announcement stated that Reggie had tendered his resignation, and lest the grateful community forget, his records for touchdown passes and yards rushed were unbroken.
He must’ve known that we understood he’d been deposed, but we pretended otherwise. “Irons in the fire,” he promised, adding that it was Pope Benedict’s resignation that had been his inspiration.
“Really?” I asked. “The pope’s?”
He explained that the pope’s stepping down made him realize that even someone in a high position, like a department head or the Holy Father, could move on and explore other options.
Nick and I indulged this; we even invited him to join us for a farewell dinner, which he accepted. I asked if there was someone, anyone, he’d like to bring.
“A date, you mean?”
“Maybe someone you’ve been seeing for a while and would feel comfortable, given the situation.”
Nick said, “Let me translate: Faith is asking if you have a girlfriend.”
For the first time ever, in a discussion of his private life, Reggie spared me the usual bluster. “I wish I did,” he said, “especially at a time like this.”
Nick said, with a sweep of his arm toward the window overlooking campus, “You’re a free man. You can ask out anyone now.”
“Any ideas?” Reggie asked, after what appeared to be a mental survey of eligibles.
“What about Ronnie what’s-her-name in Financial Aid?” I asked. “She’s at the gym every morning. You could just casually show up at the same time—”
“Except I won’t be able to use the gym after I leave. And she’s engaged.”
I asked him if he knew Tammy McManus, the real estate agent. She was divorced now. About the right age.
“Can’t,” he said. “Her ex was a running back for Everton when I was QB1. I mean, jayvee, but still.”
“Man of honor, you are,” said Nick.
“You don’t need to bring anyone,” I backtracked.