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“Not a musician. We've established that.”

  There were muscles just behind his face that Ray could not control when he was deeply sad. He could only change the subject.

  “And not an actor. And you! Don't put your daughter on the stage, Ms. Howe. What did you think of those weird little Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee kids? Why exactly were they so icky?”

  As they talked about the play, Jane's impending motherhood became just another piece of the landscape. And that was enormously comforting.

  Chapter Three

  Sunday morning, Jane awoke and shouted, “Dip! Cheese!”

  She was out the door in less than twelve minutes, sprinting to Mulberry Street for That Cheese and the ingredients for That Dip. No time to make it at home, she would prepare the dip at her parents’ house and claim that she wanted to hang out with them in the kitchen and bond. And who were they to say that she didn't want that?

  She knew the Port Authority bus schedule by heart. She did her best bob and weave through the crowd and collapsed into a smelly bus full of unhappy people. The Bus of Fools. The Bus of the Damned. En route to … New Jersey.

  For two minutes, she feared that she had forgotten her mother's birthday gift, but she hadn't. There it was: a handmade wood carving of the Gaelic word Failte, which means “welcome.” The letters were surrounded by Celtic swirls and designs.

  Howard and Betty Howe still lived in the house where they had raised their four children. The top floor was shut off, notorious for losing heat to the outside world. Betty had recently redecorated the downstairs in pink and blue pastel stripes. It looked like an ice cream parlor.

  When it was completed, she'd declared, “I can't wait to get started on our bedroom!” and Howard had shuddered but made no protest.

  Jane kissed her mother hello and held up her offerings: dip, cheese, and a present. Mom pushed the gift aside without opening it.

  “I don't need anything. I'm old. I'm done,” she said at every birthday. She fingered a ringlet of her daughter's hair, absently, as she had done since Jane had hair. She related the tale of Jane's birth—so traumatic that “I had to stay in the hospital for nine days. I missed my own birthday. And all the doctors thought I was faking it. Just hiding from those crazy boys at home. But men don't know. They'll never know what we go through. Oh, Janie, Janie, Janie. You didn't bring a date, did you? For some reason, I thought you were bringing someone.”

  “And I did. Mom, this is my friend Harvey. Harvey, meet Betty Howe.”

  “I love Harvey. And don't make fun of Jimmy Stewart. It's un-American. By the way, false alarm. Kitty's not pregnant. I think she's starting menopause. And not a moment too soon.”

  Outside, brothers Neil and Kevin were laughing and drinking beer (already) as they fired up the grill. The backyard still had the same bald spots, rocks, and bumps, but a new generation of children now skidded over it all.

  “Hey Janie!” Kevin waved and tended the hot coals of his grill.

  “Hi, Aunt Janie! What did you bring me?” asked Kevin's seven-year-old son. He and his six-year-old sister, five-year-old brother, and four-year-old cousin swarmed Jane. The sixteen-month-old toddled happily to her aunt.

  “Let me see. I brought you … a million dollars! No. No, that's not it. I brought you … bubble pans!”

  The children grabbed at the frying pan–sized bubble wands. Soon the backyard resembled some lunatic Lawrence Welk set.

  “Don't get bubbles on the burgers!” shouted Kevin. “I'm not eating soap burgers!”

  This prompted the children to bring the bubbles much closer to the burgers. Kevin went red, and his voice took on a jazz singer growl.

  “I said, no!”

  “Oh, now! Eating soap doesn't hurt you, Kevin,” Mom volunteered. “It cleans your intestines.”

  “Oh, God, Mother!” Kevin exclaimed as he chased after children.

  “You used to eat leaves!” she called after him, but he wasn't listening. Besides, she brought up that childhood tale whenever she wanted to overpower him as a parent. It had yet to work, but his mother believed in endurance.

  “Right from that tree!” she added. Neil's wife, Linda, changed the subject. “The baby needs a nap,” she said as she scooped up her toddling girl.

  Betty sighed. “And that's why she doesn't sleep at night. Too many naps.”

  “There's my girl! There's my Calamity Jane!”

  Howard Howe gave his daughter a gentle hug and kiss.

  “Did you bring that cheese? I'm not supposed to have any, but this is a special occasion. The doctors will just have to zip their lips today.”

  The lazy Susan on the kitchen table was a pharmaceutical stockpile. If a 37-year-old was dizzied by it, how did the 37-year-olds parents handle it? Heart, blood pressure, blood sugar—were human bodies supposed to last this long?

  “Janie, I bought some candy for the kids. I think it's in the living room,” Betty said as she nudged Jane out of the kitchen.

  That's where Janie found seven one-pound bags of mini candy bars. Underneath them was a stack of mail on one of the many decorative tables in the living room.

  “Ma. You've got mail in here. It looks like birthday cards. Aren't you going to open them?”

  “Bring in the candy”

  Howard chimed in, “Never mind the candy. Where's that cheese?”

  Betty had a pound of candy for each child, plus one “for a little snacking.” Betty was diabetic.

  “Mom. This is too much candy—for them and for you. Come on. What did the doctor say?”

  “Howard, look at this.” Betty ignored Jane and opened a refrigerator that was about to burst with too much food. A Land of Plenty image.

  “I bought all this extra food—a whole deli platter—to go with the burgers and dogs. Why? Because, for some reason, I thought Janie was bringing a date. But Janie didn't bring a date. If only Janie had a date for the party. Someone to eat all this food. Right, Howard?”

  “So my date was supposed to eat a whole deli platter? I've never dated a sumo wrestler, Mom.”

  Jane's mom usually didn't even mention her date-free status. In fact, she usually seemed so complacent about Jane's impending spinsterhood that Jane could manage to work up feeling hurt by all that apathy. She knew perfectly well that Jane wasn't bringing a date.

  “Guess I'll have to fix this. As usual” was Betty's exit line.

  Why was Mom smiling when she left? And where did she go? Jane took a Lamaze breath and went back to making That Dip. She had started the horrible bus ride contemplating telling her parents about Choosing Single Motherhood. By the time the bus emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, she knew she wouldn't do it. Not today. Not yet.

  She went outside and played Tickle Tiger with her nieces and nephews. This complex game involved chasing them, roaring, and tickling whomever she managed to catch. It was a favorite.

  The oldest grandchild, Dylan, was sitting by himself and sulking.

  His chin was covered with a large gauze bandage. He dangled his skinny legs from a lawn chair and watched the grass grow.

  “Okay, time out! The Tickle Tiger needs a time out!”

  “Awwww!”

  And Jane collapsed on the grass next to Dylan. She laid down and looked up at him. He switched his gaze to watch clouds roll by. He let out a deafening sigh.

  “What happened, Dyl?”

  “Nothing.”

  It took several tries before he revealed that he had fallen off his bike and skidded along the curb chin first for a short stretch. He now had four stitches beneath all that gauze.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Yes! And Mom doesn't think so, But it does! It does hurt!”

  Jane's sister-in-law shrugged her shoulders from across the yard.

  “You can probably have some aspirin, Dyl. That'll help a little. The stitches are really new, but they'll be out soon and they won't hurt anymore.”

  “Aunt Janie! Don't you even get it? Hello! I'm switching to my new school Monday. Like, this
Monday? And I'm gonna walk in with this big white bandage on my chin and look like the world's biggest loser!”

  His mom shouted from across the yard, “Oh, you are not!”

  “You don't know anything!” Dylan was eleven years old, and it showed.

  Jane couldn't bear to leave him like this. She had to fix it. Should mothers fix everything? Probably not, but Aunt Jane was going to fix this.

  “Well. You know what you do? You lie.”

  “I can't lie—it'll be right there! On my chin!”

  “No, no, no. You lie about how it got there. You tell them you got it when three guys jumped you in Chicago. One of them had a knife. But you got the others.”

  He paused.

  “No one will believe Chicago.”

  “Okay. You tell me. What will they believe?”

  It didn't take him long.

  “That it's from playing hockey. A big hockey fight, and I won. It'll show that I'm tough and I'm good at sports.”

  Dylan came up with three more Scar Stories and was having trouble choosing among them. Aunt Janie assured him that he'd use them all eventually.

  “This ll be your Harrison Ford scar, Dylan. You can make up zillions of stories to explain it, and they'll all make you look tough.”

  Dylan was about to have a sweet, hugging, thank-you moment when he noticed that the other kids had put down the bubble pans.

  “My turn!” he shouted and flew into the kid-center of the yard.

  “Jane!” shouted her mother. “Can you help us bring stuff out?”

  Of course she could. She headed into the kitchen and found trays full of paper goods, every condiment known to the eastern seaboard, and the infamous deli platter.

  “Can you go get the sugar bowl? I left it in the living room.”

  Of course she could. Jane didn't question why the sugar bowl was in the living room, or why a diabetic woman would be using a sugar bowl there or anywhere. She retrieved it, along with the unopened birthday cards.

  “Here. I'll bring these out with—”

  “Jane, this is Peter. Peter, you remember my daughter Jane, don't you?”

  After thirty-seven years, this was the first time Betty had tried to fix her daughter up. Jane had no experience, no preparation. She stared. Her mouth fell open. She looked like a particularly stupid fish.

  “Of course I do. Hi, Jane. Um, I'll carry the tray,” said Peter. And, in a manly gesture, Peter lifted the heavy, condiment-laden super-tray and brought it outside. Jane turned her mute gaze to her mother.

  “Help him!” Betty urged.

  “Who is he?”

  Betty wrapped one of Jane's ringlets around a finger and calmly explained, “He's Peter. Peter Mandell.” Betty searched Jane's face for a flicker of recognition, but Jane wasn't flickering. She was sure she had never met him before. Unless, of course, she had met him in—

  “High school! He was in the class ahead of yours? Weren't you in AP Physics together? Or something like that? You were always so advanced. I figure you must have had some kind of class together.”

  Peter Mandell. AP English. Twenty years ago. Jane's appetite was gone.

  “Mom. I haven't seen this guy in a couple of decades. I don't remember him. Why did you invite him?”

  “His parents still live in that house on Albemarle.”

  “Why did you invite him?”

  “He looks after his parents. He's so nice. When I saw him this morning, he was trying to figure out the trick windows. You know the little ones on the side? These old houses, I'm telling you. They should come with instructions, don't you think?”

  Howard decided to help clarify things for Janie.

  “Your mother had him over to dinner last week, and he was a very fine fellow. You should talk to him.”

  Betty disengaged from her daughter's hair and began rearranging napkins in a fan shape.

  “Look, Janie, there's no harm talking to him. He works in the city. His mother makes it sound like he's doing pretty well. Where's the harm in talking to him? Worst thing that happens, you find a new friend. Do you have too many friends, Janie?”

  “Mom, do you keep single men in your pocket in case of emergencies or extra deli platters?”

  Betty looked up from her paper products.

  “I wasn't planning to invite him—it was an impulse! You didn't bring a date, and I had all that food, and he was right there on his front porch, so it was like a sign. Like he's supposed to come to my party. And he's very, very, very nice. And he's good to his parents. But you're not being nice at all! He's outside and you're being rude. Go!”

  Jane hesitated just long enough for Peter to return. He was back for more heavy lifting. He looked like he could handle it.

  “Jane works at Argenti. Right in the thick of things,” said Howard.

  “No kidding. I work in the same building. I'm with Metro House.”

  “No kidding.” Jane was trying to think scintillating thoughts, but the only thing that played in her head was “Oh, my God.”

  She managed to come out with “I'll get the napkins,” and she headed out to the yard. The kids were having their burgers and hot dogs now, and her brothers had started singing. This mesmerized the kids and kept them in their seats long enough to finish a decent meal. The brothers were harmonizing on Betty's favorite song, “How High the Moon.” Betty emerged from the kitchen, beaming with delight at her boys. She settled into a lawn chair. Their voices were similar, the harmonies perfect. Jane hugged the napkins and listened.

  “Do you sing too?” asked Peter.

  “Yes. I mean, I can.”

  “Why don't you do the next number? Do you take requests?”

  Singing was the boys’ province. Jane didn't sing at family functions. Come to think of it, Jane hadn't sung in a long time. She had no reason to.

  “No, I don't want to crowd the boys. It's their show.”

  Peter turned out to be the fine fellow that Howard had claimed he was. A research analyst, very successful. Loved golf, which accounted for his tan and for the not-fake highlights in his sandy hair. She tried not to stare, but she needed to, if she was going to capture any kind of coherent memory of him in high school.

  “You don't remember me, do you?” he asked.

  “Of course I do. You're Peter. Peter Mandrell.”

  “Mandell.”

  “I suck.”

  “Burgers are ready! Grown-ups! Come and get 'em!” Dylan was shouting while he herded the grown-ups over to the table, as if he were a sheepdog. That done, he rallied the children for a game of tag. Grown-up dinner started with an awkward silence. Jane wished she were hungry.

  “Did Peter tell you that he used to live in California?” Betty asked very energetically.

  Peter smiled and said, “I used to live in California. Came back after my dad had a stroke. He's doing okay but I just didn't like being so far away.”

  “Good children look after their parents. Peter's a good son.”

  “Except that I broke that trick window. That house may be charming, but it's falling down like a pup tent. I could spend the next two years trying to make all those repairs.”

  Aha! Jane found a conversational opening: fixer-uppers. She questioned him about his planned renovations. She offered advice based on her own experience renovating her apartment in Manhattan. Peter wanted to know where this wonderful space was located. As they narrowed down to her exact address, he laughed.

  “I don't believe it. I live half a block away from you.”

  “I don't believe it.”

  Peter lived in the high-rise doorman building with the potted plants by the door, half a block away from Jane's prewar, walk-up, fixed-up apartment.

  “Mom, did you know that?”

  Betty shook her head and turned to Howard. “It's a sign,” she whispered loudly enough for all to hear.

  “Peter Mandell!” Jane shouted. The group stared and waited.

  “Present.”

  “I remember you now. You p
layed basketball. You were a total hotshot.”

  “I played basketball. With hotshot fantasies. And I'm afraid I don't remember what sports you played.”

  “Chess. And field hockey. And I ran the drama club. I directed Our Town the year that your team lost a big game. What was it, Penn-wood High?”

  “We lost a lot of games. We weren't a great team.”

  Betty smiled. This looked like success, right until Jane said, “You ruined my show”

  “No way. I never did anything.”

  “You shaved your head.”

  Peter blushed as he remembered it. The team had vowed that they would beat Pennwood High, or they would all shave their heads. They lost. They shaved. Maybe that was why he wore his hair a little longer than corporate America dictated, Jane thought. He liked feeling a bit shaggy.

  “How did my shaved head ruin your play?”

  “It wasn't just you. All the men in Grover's Corner were bald. It was ridiculous. The audience couldn't stop laughing.”

  Jane's brothers were laughing. They remembered too, didn't they? The jerks. Jane knew it was stupid to get mad about something that happened twenty years ago, but did that stop her?

  “Jane. Don't get mad about something that happened twenty years ago,” said Peter. “Please.”

  “Even though it looked like Grover's Corner was next to a nuclear power plant.” And with that, she eased into finding it funny, twenty years later. She tried to remember what Peter looked like without hair, but she only remembered him returning from summers at the beach, with hair as yellow as a Post-it note. If Jane had been a sensible girl, she would have had a crush on Peter in high school. Did he always have those dimples? They left parentheses around his mouth. Why did boys get such impossibly long eyelashes? Jane wondered. That's when she realized she was staring. She needed conversation items, and, hey, she could talk to her new neighbor about so many things, like: “the new Ethiopian restaurant” and how it was doing, or “that amazing store that sells chocolates and eyeglasses” that was doing very well.

  And then Peter brought up “that children's store, the clothing place? They have shirts that cost more than mine, and I buy all of mine at the Barney's warehouse sale, so, hey, I can't even afford mine. Why do New York parents spend so much money on stupid things? Can a toddler really appreciate Betsey Johnson's sense of whimsy?”