The Breakup by Debra Kent Page B

scribbled a list of herbs. I recognized a few. Black cohosh. Pennyroyal. “Please,” she begged. “We got
     to go to the store.”
    I grabbed the paper and ripped it up. “Roger lied to you,” I told her, shouting over her sobs. “He’s a liar, Mary. Don’t you
     realize that by now? Nobody is throwing you out of the country.” I told her that I would arrange for her citizenship. I told
     her everything would be okay, though I didn’t quite believe it myself.
    ’Til next time,
    V
March 5
    Dale called this morning, just when I was yanking Petey out of bed. I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
    “How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
    My heart did a little flip-flop of joy. Dale, a social worker and my closest friend when I worked at the Center, one of the
     few people who knew me in my former life. Dale knew me when I wore stockings andhigh heels, when I carried a briefcase and earned my own money.
    “I don’t know, Dale. How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
    “Fish.” He paused, waited for me to laugh. I did. “Hey,” he continued, “did you hear the one about the dyslexic-agnostic insomniac?
     He stays up all night wondering if there really is a Dog.”
    I immediately felt lighter and happier. It turns out Dale finally quit the Center. “Too much bureaucratic bullshit,” he said.
    “So what are you going to do next?”
    “Well, Eric and I were thinking of moving out to Vermont to get married, except I can’t stand those snooty New Englanders.
     So I guess we’ll just stay here and pretend we’re brothers so our upstanding neighbors keep liking us.”
    “You’re not serious. You and Eric pretend you’re brothers?”
    “We do! We say we’re twins, fraternal, which explains why we don’t look alike.”
    “Which explains why he’s black?”
    Dale laughed. “Well, the truth is, we don’t really talk to the neighbors, which is fine by me. They’re all so icky.”
    “So you might as well move to Vermont. At least you won’t have to pretend you’re brothers.”
    “Maybe. Anyway, enough about me. What’s up with you?”
    While Petey brushed his teeth, I gave Dale a quick sketch: Eddie, Diana, Roger’s pathological infidelity, Dad’s illness, Mary,
     the divorce.
    “Oh, sweetie, that’s a heavy load for one lifetime. How do you find the motivation to get out of bed in the morning?”
    “It’s called Prozac,” I told him.
    “Hey, welcome to the club.”
    “You too?” I asked, feeling like we were sharing a sly secret.
    “Yes, ma’am. Every day for the last nine months. Wouldn’t skip a dose if you paid me.”
    “Oh, Dale, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve missed you.”
    “Likewise, my friend, likewise.” We made plans to get together for lunch next week, then it was time to get Pete to school.
     “By the way,” he added, “I’ve got very juicy news about our old friend.”
    “Who?”
    “Marissa, Clarissa, whatever her name was. The hooker.”
    “Oh, God. Tell me!”
    “No. Not now. Next week. Over lunch,” he said. “This way you can’t cancel out on me.”
    Later, after Pete was down for the night, I tried to explain my feelings about abortion to Mary, feelings that have always
     been more visceral than political, which is why I hesitate to share them. I don’t thinkmost people would peg me for the anti-abortion type; I mean, it’s not like I’d ever stand in front of Planned Parenthood with
     a picket sign. Actually, it was my sister Teresa who prodded me into finally crystallizing my thoughts on the topic. We were
     in the kitchen, and I’d spotted some ants marching across the counter. Roger would have crushed them under his thumb, but
     I felt compelled to herd them into a Dixie cup and release them outside. I did the same with mice, moths, beetles, even roaches.
    “Lemme get this straight, little sister,” Teresa said. “You don’t have the heart to kill a tiny sugar ant, but killing a developing