“No,” Tim said, “but he sure had a nifty Nikon.”
On Sunday, Mary celebrated—although that was not the word that sprang to her mind—her thirty-fifth birthday. Edward had arranged a surprise party for her at the country club. Their neighbors, Florence and Douglas Schiffer, and four other couples were waiting for her. Edward was as delighted as a small child at the look of amazement on Mary’s face when she walked into the club and saw the festive table and the happy birthday banner. She did not have the heart to tell him that she had known about the party for the past two weeks. She adored Edward. And why not? Who wouldn’t? He was attractive and intelligent and caring. His grandfather and father had been doctors, and it had never occurred to Edward to be anything else. He was the best surgeon in Junction City, a good father, and a wonderful husband.
As Mary blew out the candles on her birthday cake, she looked across at Edward and thought: How lucky can a lady be?
Monday morning, Mary awoke with a hangover. There had been a lot of champagne toasts the night before, and she was not used to drinking alcohol. It took an effort to get out of bed. That champagne done me in. Never again, she promised herself.
She eased her way downstairs and gingerly set about preparing breakfast for the children, trying to ignore the pounding in her head.
“Champagne,” Mary groaned, “is France’s vengeance against us.”
Beth walked into the room carrying an armful of books. “Who are you talking to, Mother?”
“Myself.”
“That’s weird.”
“When you’re right, you’re right.” Mary put a box of cereal on the table. “I bought a new cereal for you. You’re going to like it.”
Beth sat down at the kitchen table and studied the label on the cereal box. “I can’t eat this. You’re trying to kill me.”
“Don’t put any ideas in my head,” her mother cautioned. “Would you please eat your breakfast?”
Tim, her ten-year-old, ran into the kitchen. He slid into a chair at the table and said, “I’ll have bacon and eggs.”
“Whatever happened to good morning?” Mary asked.
“Good morning. I’ll have bacon and eggs.”
“Please.”
“Aw, come on, Mom. I’m going to be late for school.”
“I’m glad you mentioned that. Mrs. Reynolds called me. You’re failing math. What do you say to that?”
“It figures.”
“Tim, is that supposed to be a joke?”
“I personally don’t think it’s funny,” Beth sniffed.
He made a face at his sister. “If you want funny, look in the mirror.”
“That’s enough,” Mary said. “Behave yourselves.”
Her headache was getting worse.
Tim asked, “Can I go to the skating rink after school, Mom?”
“You’re already skating on thin ice. You’re to come right home and study. How do you think it looks for a college professor to have a son who’s failing math?”
“It looks okay. You don’t teach math.”
They talk about the terrible twos, Mary thought grimly. What about the terrible nines, tens, elevens, and twelves?
Beth said, “Did Tim tell you he got a D in spelling?”
He glared at his sister. “Haven’t you ever heard of Mark Twain?”
“What does Mark Twain have to do with this?” Mary asked.
“Mark Twain said he has no respect for a man who can only spell a word one way.”
We can’t win, Mary thought. They’re smarter than we are.
She had packed a lunch for each of them, but she was concerned about Beth, who was on some kind of crazy new diet.
“Please, Beth, eat all of your lunch today.”
“If it has no artificial preservatives. I’m not going to let the greed of the food industry ruin my health.”
Whatever happened to the good old days of junk food? Mary wondered.
Tim plucked a loose paper from one of Beth’s notebooks. “Look at this!” he yelled. “ ‘Dear Beth, let’s sit together during study period. I thought of you all day yesterday and—’”
“Give that back to me!” Beth screamed. “That’s mine.” She made a grab for Tim, and he jumped out of her reach.
He read the signature at the bottom of the note. “Hey! It’s signed ‘Virgil.’ I thought you were in love with Arnold.”