plate,” she said.
He ushered her in. “I couldn’t let Sophie wait on your front porch, for Pete’s sake.”
“But please, take off the surgical mask.”
He slumped. Reluctantly he unhooked the mask from his ears. “Come on.”
He led her toward the living room. The mansion had high ceilings, huge windows, and a staircase with a heavy wooden banister. Jo envisioned Bette Davis at the top of the forbidding stairs, dressed as Baby Jane, ready to pitch Joan Crawford from her wheelchair. Ferd lived in the mansion as a long-term house sitter. The owners had taken a nine-month trip to Italy. They’d been gone sixteen. If the Spitzers stayed away much longer, Ferd could gain squatter’s rights.
From the living room sofa, bundled under thermal blankets, Sophie gave Jo a finger wave. Pillows were piled around her like sandbags, perhaps in the event that she exploded. A can of 7UP sat on the coffee table beside packets of moistened towelettes and a box of latex gloves. Sophie’s chocolate-chip hair curled against her forehead with sweat. Her eyes, bright with fever, looked like glazed marbles.
Perched on the arm of the sofa was Ferd’s monkey, Mr. Peebles. He had a thermometer in his busy little hands.
“And I see that today we’re playing Outbreak ,” Jo said.
Mr. Peebles shook the thermometer like a pro. He squinted at it, bared his teeth, and cooed in alarm. He must have seen Ferd do the same a hundred times. He stuck the wrong end in his mouth and posed like FDR smoking from his cigarette holder. He pulled it out again. Jo crossed the room and grabbed it before he could insert it anyplace else.
Welcome to Ferd’s palace of hypochondria.
The little capuchin, officially Ferd’s “emotional support companion,” fixed her with an unnerving stare, like he was silently adding her to his shit list. And with a monkey, that term was literal.
“Don’t get cocky,” she said. “I can outwit you just by counting to three.”
Mr. Peebles scampered across the sofa and jumped onto Ferd’s shoulder. Jo sat on the edge of the sofa and rubbed Sophie’s arm.
“Look like you hit rock bottom, champ. You hanging in?”
Sophie shrugged. Jo put the back of her hand to the girl’s forehead.
Ferd approached. “Her temp was a hundred one point three when I checked ten minutes ago.”
Sophie turned her shining eyes to Jo. “When’s my dad going to get here?”
“As soon as he can after he gets back.”
“Gets back? Where’d he go?”
Jo mentally slapped herself on the forehead. Don’t increase the kid’s anxiety, you dork. “He’s out with the Wing. But I know he’ll pick you up as soon as possible.” She brushed Sophie’s damp hair off her face. “Feel pretty lousy?”
“Hideous.”
Jo raised her eyebrows. “Not merely disgusting?”
“H-i-d-e-o-u-s. It was on my vocabulary quiz today. I barfed on the test paper.”
Jo smiled. Sophie’s sense of humor always took her by surprise. “I’ll vouch for your ability to use the word in conversation.”
Jo’s smile waned. Her day was packed to the gills and she felt like a heavy stick was prodding her between the shoulder blades.
“Think you can walk next door to my house? My guest room has a big warm bed. You can watch TV and sleep until your dad gets here.”
Sophie nodded. Ferd got her backpack and Jo helped her on with her shoes. At the door Jo turned to thank Ferd, and saw the can of Lysol in his hand. She glared. He hid it behind his back.
“Feel better, Sophie,” he said.
She replied without expression. “Wilco.”
Jo paused on the top step. “I’m glad you were home. Really.”
“It was fortunate.”
Ferd’s face, so often tangled with anxiety or dreamy with unrequited love for her, was sober. He didn’t have to say anything else. They were both thinking it. Nobody could count on good fortune.
17
J O TUCKED SOPHIE IN BED, UPSTAIRS IN HER GUEST ROOM. SHE PULLED A down comforter over the little girl and turned the television
He ushered her in. “I couldn’t let Sophie wait on your front porch, for Pete’s sake.”
“But please, take off the surgical mask.”
He slumped. Reluctantly he unhooked the mask from his ears. “Come on.”
He led her toward the living room. The mansion had high ceilings, huge windows, and a staircase with a heavy wooden banister. Jo envisioned Bette Davis at the top of the forbidding stairs, dressed as Baby Jane, ready to pitch Joan Crawford from her wheelchair. Ferd lived in the mansion as a long-term house sitter. The owners had taken a nine-month trip to Italy. They’d been gone sixteen. If the Spitzers stayed away much longer, Ferd could gain squatter’s rights.
From the living room sofa, bundled under thermal blankets, Sophie gave Jo a finger wave. Pillows were piled around her like sandbags, perhaps in the event that she exploded. A can of 7UP sat on the coffee table beside packets of moistened towelettes and a box of latex gloves. Sophie’s chocolate-chip hair curled against her forehead with sweat. Her eyes, bright with fever, looked like glazed marbles.
Perched on the arm of the sofa was Ferd’s monkey, Mr. Peebles. He had a thermometer in his busy little hands.
“And I see that today we’re playing Outbreak ,” Jo said.
Mr. Peebles shook the thermometer like a pro. He squinted at it, bared his teeth, and cooed in alarm. He must have seen Ferd do the same a hundred times. He stuck the wrong end in his mouth and posed like FDR smoking from his cigarette holder. He pulled it out again. Jo crossed the room and grabbed it before he could insert it anyplace else.
Welcome to Ferd’s palace of hypochondria.
The little capuchin, officially Ferd’s “emotional support companion,” fixed her with an unnerving stare, like he was silently adding her to his shit list. And with a monkey, that term was literal.
“Don’t get cocky,” she said. “I can outwit you just by counting to three.”
Mr. Peebles scampered across the sofa and jumped onto Ferd’s shoulder. Jo sat on the edge of the sofa and rubbed Sophie’s arm.
“Look like you hit rock bottom, champ. You hanging in?”
Sophie shrugged. Jo put the back of her hand to the girl’s forehead.
Ferd approached. “Her temp was a hundred one point three when I checked ten minutes ago.”
Sophie turned her shining eyes to Jo. “When’s my dad going to get here?”
“As soon as he can after he gets back.”
“Gets back? Where’d he go?”
Jo mentally slapped herself on the forehead. Don’t increase the kid’s anxiety, you dork. “He’s out with the Wing. But I know he’ll pick you up as soon as possible.” She brushed Sophie’s damp hair off her face. “Feel pretty lousy?”
“Hideous.”
Jo raised her eyebrows. “Not merely disgusting?”
“H-i-d-e-o-u-s. It was on my vocabulary quiz today. I barfed on the test paper.”
Jo smiled. Sophie’s sense of humor always took her by surprise. “I’ll vouch for your ability to use the word in conversation.”
Jo’s smile waned. Her day was packed to the gills and she felt like a heavy stick was prodding her between the shoulder blades.
“Think you can walk next door to my house? My guest room has a big warm bed. You can watch TV and sleep until your dad gets here.”
Sophie nodded. Ferd got her backpack and Jo helped her on with her shoes. At the door Jo turned to thank Ferd, and saw the can of Lysol in his hand. She glared. He hid it behind his back.
“Feel better, Sophie,” he said.
She replied without expression. “Wilco.”
Jo paused on the top step. “I’m glad you were home. Really.”
“It was fortunate.”
Ferd’s face, so often tangled with anxiety or dreamy with unrequited love for her, was sober. He didn’t have to say anything else. They were both thinking it. Nobody could count on good fortune.
17
J O TUCKED SOPHIE IN BED, UPSTAIRS IN HER GUEST ROOM. SHE PULLED A down comforter over the little girl and turned the television
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