it.”
She sighed and slapped her hands on her thighs. “Anyway, look, I should go. What a joy, right? Your neighbor bringing her problems over late at night.” She slipped into a mocking voice. “Hey, neighbor, got a cup of sugar and by the way could you be my bodyguard?” She laughed, then stopped abruptly. “So, I’ll see you,” she said.
I watched her walk back to her house.
I decided not to call Ann Slocum that night. I would sleep on it. In the morning, I’d decide what to do.
When I went upstairs, Kelly was out cold in my room, curled up on her mother’s side of the bed.
Saturday morning, I let Kelly sleep in. I’d carried her back into her room the night before, and peeked in on her as I headed down to the kitchen to make coffee. She had her arm wrapped around Hoppy, her face buried into his (her?) furry ears.
I brought in the paper, scanned the headlines while I sat at the dining room table, sipping coffee and ignoring the shredded wheat I’d poured.
I wasn’t able to focus. I’d settle on a story and be four paragraphs in before I realized I wasn’t retaining anything, although one article interested me enough to read it to the end. When the country was going through a shortage of drywall—particularly in the post-Katrina building boom—hundreds of millions of square feet of the stuff that was brought in from China had turned out to be toxic. Drywall’s made from gypsum, which contains sulfur, which is filtered out in the manufacturing process. But this Chinese drywall was loaded with sulfur, and not only did it reek, it corroded copper pipes and did all sorts of other damage.
“Jesus,” I muttered. Something to be on the lookout for from now on.
I tossed the paper aside, cleaned up my dishes, went down to the study, came back upstairs, looked for something in the truck I didn’t need, came back indoors.
Stewing.
Around ten, I checked on Kelly again. Still asleep. Hoppy had fallen to the floor. Back in my office, sitting in my chair, I picked up the phone.
“Fuck it,” I said, under my breath.
No one locks my daughter in a bedroom and gets away with it. I dialed. It rang three times before someone picked up and said hello. A woman.
“Hello,” I said. “Ann?”
“No, this isn’t Ann.”
She could have fooled me. Sounded just like her.
“Could I speak to her please?”
“She’s not … who’s calling?”
“It’s Glen Garber, Kelly’s dad.”
“This isn’t a good time,” the woman said.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“It’s Janice. Ann’s sister. I’m sorry, you’ll have to call back later.”
“Do you know when she’ll be in?”
“I’m sorry—we’re making arrangements. There’s a lot to do.”
“Arrangements? What do you mean, arrangements?”
“For the funeral,” she said. “Ann … passed away last night.”
She hung up before I could ask her anything else.
ELEVEN
Sheila’s mother, Fiona Kingston, was never a fan of mine. Sheila’s death only served to reinforce that opinion.
Right from the outset, she’d believed her daughter could have done better. Way better. Fiona never came right out and said it, at least not to me. But I was always aware she thought her daughter should have ended up with someone like her own husband—her first husband—the late Ronald Albert Gallant. Noted and successful lawyer. Respected member of the community. Sheila’s father.
Ron died when Sheila was only eleven, but his influence persisted. He was the gold standard by which all prospective suitors for Fiona’s daughter were measured. Even before she’d reached her twenties, when the boys she went out with were unlikely to become lifelong companions, Sheila was subjected to intense interrogations about them from Fiona. What did their parents do? What clubs did these boys belong to? How well were they doing in school? What were their SAT scores? What were their ambitions?
Sheila had only had her father for eleven years, but she knew what she
She sighed and slapped her hands on her thighs. “Anyway, look, I should go. What a joy, right? Your neighbor bringing her problems over late at night.” She slipped into a mocking voice. “Hey, neighbor, got a cup of sugar and by the way could you be my bodyguard?” She laughed, then stopped abruptly. “So, I’ll see you,” she said.
I watched her walk back to her house.
I decided not to call Ann Slocum that night. I would sleep on it. In the morning, I’d decide what to do.
When I went upstairs, Kelly was out cold in my room, curled up on her mother’s side of the bed.
Saturday morning, I let Kelly sleep in. I’d carried her back into her room the night before, and peeked in on her as I headed down to the kitchen to make coffee. She had her arm wrapped around Hoppy, her face buried into his (her?) furry ears.
I brought in the paper, scanned the headlines while I sat at the dining room table, sipping coffee and ignoring the shredded wheat I’d poured.
I wasn’t able to focus. I’d settle on a story and be four paragraphs in before I realized I wasn’t retaining anything, although one article interested me enough to read it to the end. When the country was going through a shortage of drywall—particularly in the post-Katrina building boom—hundreds of millions of square feet of the stuff that was brought in from China had turned out to be toxic. Drywall’s made from gypsum, which contains sulfur, which is filtered out in the manufacturing process. But this Chinese drywall was loaded with sulfur, and not only did it reek, it corroded copper pipes and did all sorts of other damage.
“Jesus,” I muttered. Something to be on the lookout for from now on.
I tossed the paper aside, cleaned up my dishes, went down to the study, came back upstairs, looked for something in the truck I didn’t need, came back indoors.
Stewing.
Around ten, I checked on Kelly again. Still asleep. Hoppy had fallen to the floor. Back in my office, sitting in my chair, I picked up the phone.
“Fuck it,” I said, under my breath.
No one locks my daughter in a bedroom and gets away with it. I dialed. It rang three times before someone picked up and said hello. A woman.
“Hello,” I said. “Ann?”
“No, this isn’t Ann.”
She could have fooled me. Sounded just like her.
“Could I speak to her please?”
“She’s not … who’s calling?”
“It’s Glen Garber, Kelly’s dad.”
“This isn’t a good time,” the woman said.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“It’s Janice. Ann’s sister. I’m sorry, you’ll have to call back later.”
“Do you know when she’ll be in?”
“I’m sorry—we’re making arrangements. There’s a lot to do.”
“Arrangements? What do you mean, arrangements?”
“For the funeral,” she said. “Ann … passed away last night.”
She hung up before I could ask her anything else.
ELEVEN
Sheila’s mother, Fiona Kingston, was never a fan of mine. Sheila’s death only served to reinforce that opinion.
Right from the outset, she’d believed her daughter could have done better. Way better. Fiona never came right out and said it, at least not to me. But I was always aware she thought her daughter should have ended up with someone like her own husband—her first husband—the late Ronald Albert Gallant. Noted and successful lawyer. Respected member of the community. Sheila’s father.
Ron died when Sheila was only eleven, but his influence persisted. He was the gold standard by which all prospective suitors for Fiona’s daughter were measured. Even before she’d reached her twenties, when the boys she went out with were unlikely to become lifelong companions, Sheila was subjected to intense interrogations about them from Fiona. What did their parents do? What clubs did these boys belong to? How well were they doing in school? What were their SAT scores? What were their ambitions?
Sheila had only had her father for eleven years, but she knew what she
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