pleasure—as close as a woman like her ever came to a silly grin, Jennifer thought, as she smiled too. “And then there is how it actually came about, which was in the most ordinary of ways.
“Last night, I was out walking Lucy very late—keeping these sorts of hours, as I often do,” she said, waving at a grandfather clock in the corner of the living room, “and was just about to enter the lobby of our building, when a taxicab pulled up at the door.” Jennifer immediately felt a stab of guilt, recalling her mental cursing of the cab driver that morning. “He wanted to know if I lived in the building. I told him I did, and he asked if I might give your phone to the doorman. Then he told me your name and your apartment number. How did he know that, by the way?”
“I have an entry in my address book,
If Found
, with an asterisk so it’s the first thing.”
“How clever,” Dr. Sexton said. Suddenly, she clapped her hands together loudly and the sound of an aria came from thedirection of her couch. Dr. Sexton walked over to it, picked up her phone, and silenced it. “I use the clapper!” she laughed. “For my senior moments.” It was a bit difficult to reconcile the clapper with a woman who was evidently the peer of Einstein, though not so difficult if Jennifer thought of her as the Shoe Lady.
“What happened then?” Jennifer asked.
“By the time your phone came into my possession, it was dead. As soon as I charged it, however, and saw your home screen, I knew that Jennifer Sharpe was
you
. My neighbor.” Dr. Sexton smiled. “I’ve become quite fond of you and your boys during the short time I’ve been here,” she added. “It’s been a lonely period for me. Your boys, with their energy and jostling and endless knock-knock jokes in the elevator, not to mention Jack’s lovely way with Lucy, are an enlivening diversion I have very much come to look forward to.” Dr. Sexton had likely observed her boys more often than she had realized, Jennifer thought, particularly at the park, where the boys played on the playground and Dr. Sexton often let Lucy off leash in the adjoining dog run. “And you, my dear,” Dr. Sexton said, her voice pitching lower. “You are quite remarkable with them. I had a very distant mother. She was practically a stranger to me. Watching you—your naturalness, your humor, your patience as you teach them things—it has been a revelation to me.” At this, much to Jennifer’s surprise, she found herself on the receiving end of an expression of great sympathy and affection. Only her mother had ever looked at her that way. It was eerie, but, a motherless daughter now, she could not help feeling warmed by it.
“But then there was your phone! Speak of a revelation!” Dr. Sexton cried. “I hope you don’t mind that I deduced your password,” she confided sheepishly. “I can’t help myself with that sort of thing. You might consider changing it from yourapartment number combined with the inverse of your birthday, which is something even a common fool could work out with a bit of help from the Internet.” Jennifer made a mental note never to leave her phone unattended in Dr. Sexton’s presence again. “I didn’t read any of your e-mails, rest assured. I just observed that there were thousands of them. I had no idea such a thing was possible. Thousands! And your calendar! The number of entries was staggering—to me, anyway, childless and free as I am of familial obligations or the traditional constraints of work, particularly of the barbaric American two-weeks-of-vacation variety—one after another after the next! It looked like a presidential candidate’s agenda on her last day in Iowa, not a minute unaccounted for, morning to night. Even its cracked case,” she said, glancing fondly at the battered phone resting on the table, “signaled a life overrun with both mundane tasks and urgent, unrelenting pressures at work and at home. I’ve read about this sort of thing,
“Last night, I was out walking Lucy very late—keeping these sorts of hours, as I often do,” she said, waving at a grandfather clock in the corner of the living room, “and was just about to enter the lobby of our building, when a taxicab pulled up at the door.” Jennifer immediately felt a stab of guilt, recalling her mental cursing of the cab driver that morning. “He wanted to know if I lived in the building. I told him I did, and he asked if I might give your phone to the doorman. Then he told me your name and your apartment number. How did he know that, by the way?”
“I have an entry in my address book,
If Found
, with an asterisk so it’s the first thing.”
“How clever,” Dr. Sexton said. Suddenly, she clapped her hands together loudly and the sound of an aria came from thedirection of her couch. Dr. Sexton walked over to it, picked up her phone, and silenced it. “I use the clapper!” she laughed. “For my senior moments.” It was a bit difficult to reconcile the clapper with a woman who was evidently the peer of Einstein, though not so difficult if Jennifer thought of her as the Shoe Lady.
“What happened then?” Jennifer asked.
“By the time your phone came into my possession, it was dead. As soon as I charged it, however, and saw your home screen, I knew that Jennifer Sharpe was
you
. My neighbor.” Dr. Sexton smiled. “I’ve become quite fond of you and your boys during the short time I’ve been here,” she added. “It’s been a lonely period for me. Your boys, with their energy and jostling and endless knock-knock jokes in the elevator, not to mention Jack’s lovely way with Lucy, are an enlivening diversion I have very much come to look forward to.” Dr. Sexton had likely observed her boys more often than she had realized, Jennifer thought, particularly at the park, where the boys played on the playground and Dr. Sexton often let Lucy off leash in the adjoining dog run. “And you, my dear,” Dr. Sexton said, her voice pitching lower. “You are quite remarkable with them. I had a very distant mother. She was practically a stranger to me. Watching you—your naturalness, your humor, your patience as you teach them things—it has been a revelation to me.” At this, much to Jennifer’s surprise, she found herself on the receiving end of an expression of great sympathy and affection. Only her mother had ever looked at her that way. It was eerie, but, a motherless daughter now, she could not help feeling warmed by it.
“But then there was your phone! Speak of a revelation!” Dr. Sexton cried. “I hope you don’t mind that I deduced your password,” she confided sheepishly. “I can’t help myself with that sort of thing. You might consider changing it from yourapartment number combined with the inverse of your birthday, which is something even a common fool could work out with a bit of help from the Internet.” Jennifer made a mental note never to leave her phone unattended in Dr. Sexton’s presence again. “I didn’t read any of your e-mails, rest assured. I just observed that there were thousands of them. I had no idea such a thing was possible. Thousands! And your calendar! The number of entries was staggering—to me, anyway, childless and free as I am of familial obligations or the traditional constraints of work, particularly of the barbaric American two-weeks-of-vacation variety—one after another after the next! It looked like a presidential candidate’s agenda on her last day in Iowa, not a minute unaccounted for, morning to night. Even its cracked case,” she said, glancing fondly at the battered phone resting on the table, “signaled a life overrun with both mundane tasks and urgent, unrelenting pressures at work and at home. I’ve read about this sort of thing,
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