I hear her yell, “Tommy, Mommy’s home!” just before the phone goes dead.
“Shit!” I say, remembering that I have no car.
I don’t know why I open my closet and pull out my white Levi’s jean jacket from high school, but I do. All of the pins are still affixed.
I try it on. It’s snug, but chic. We used to wear them a little baggy, back in the day. It’s definitely retro, but I like it—it takes me back and makes me feel like I’m home again—so I leave it on, almost like a costume.
Pre-Ken me.
I skip every other step down to the first floor, which is when I realize I’m sort of excited.
“Mom,” I say.
“Did you say that Ken died earlier?”
“Yes, but he didn’t really.”
She’s staring at the Buy from Home Network on her boxy old television set. A middle-aged woman is twisting her wrist under an intense light so that the faux-diamond-encrusted face of an imitation Rolex watch—which they are calling a “Roll-Flex” on the screen—sparkles and dazzles with fabulous faux brilliance.
Mom looks up at me from her recliner. “You must be careful, Portia. Sometimes when you wish for things, you get your wish! Maybe Ken really died today! It would be your fault then!”
“I could live with that, believe me,” I say, and then quickly add, “but I’m going out with Danielle Bass.”
“Who’s Danielle Bass?”
“Our waitress today. Remember her?”
“I was invisible then.”
“I know.”
Mom turns and faces the television again. I can see the saleswoman now. A tanning booth has turned her face into a catcher’s mitt, but she speaks and moves with the sensuality of a Victoria’s Secret model half her age.
“With only five easy payments of fifteen ninety-nine, this beautiful classic cubic zirconia Roll-Flex can be yours! Perfect for any occasion, whether you are shopping at the mall or spending a night on the town! You’ll be in style and the envy of your friends with this little equalizer on your wrist.”
“Equalizer? Why do you watch this shit, Mom? You never buy anything unless it’s on sale at Walmart.”
“Father doesn’t allow profanity in the house, Portia!” she says without taking her eyes off the screen. “You grandfather simply won’t—”
“I might be out late, okay?”
She doesn’t answer, so I make my way around the various junk piles to the front door.
I pause for a second before leaving just to see if Mom will break away from the Buy from Home Network long enough to say, “Have fun!” or even “Bye,” but she doesn’t, of course.
Never has.
Never will.
Outside I use my phone to google a local cab service, make the call, and wait on the sidewalk, hoping the nice Nigerian driver will show up again, but instead it’s a tiny old man in one of those Irish caps that look like a duck bill sticking out of his forehead.
I tell him to take me to the Manor in Oaklyn, and he puts it in drive without saying a word.
Why don’t I ask him where he’s from and whether he loves a woman?
I’m not the same person I was last night, I guess. I’m sober, yes, but it’s more than that. The rush of leaving Ken—taking action—is running out, and I wonder if I’ll need another fix soon.
What’s he doing tonight?
Is he with Khaleesi?
Are they screwing in my old bed?
Should I be talking to a lawyer pronto?
Why am I not more upset?
And Ken hasn’t even called or e-mailed.
Is there something wrong with me?
Am I too old?
And what exactly happened to Mr. Vernon?
“Ten bucks,” the old man says, and I realize we are outside the Manor. I remember the sign—a suspiciously young-looking man sitting on a barrel and downing a pitcher of beer.
There are red-and-white-striped metal awnings, and the building is made out of sandy-colored bricks. What looks like a double-wide red phone booth juts out from the front corner to protect the door from letting in gusts of cold air in the winter and hot air in the summer, maybe.
I give the cabbie what he asks for plus a few extra bucks and make my way to the side entrance.
The wooden tables and booths inside are old enough to make the flat-screen TVs seem like futuristic technology. Thick, dark wooden beams run along the ceiling and a brick archway divides the room, which is full of people who work and live hard in the various surrounding blue-collar towns—Oaklyn, Audubon, Collingswood—a patchwork of small homes with tiny yards. Many of these people are wearing orange-and-black Flyers jerseys, red Phillies caps, kelly-green Eagles coats.
“Portia!”
I spot Danielle in a booth at the other end of the room, waving me over with her hand in the air.
I make my way through the tables and notice a kid sitting next to her.
Tommy has shaggy blond hair that is maybe a little too long to be in style and makes him look a bit androgynous, but he’s adorable. I immediately recognize Danielle’s eyes and nose on his little face, although he has a strong chin, which is weird to say about a five-year-old, I realize. I imagine his father as a classically attractive Brad Pitt type.
When I sit down across from Danielle and Tommy, he says, “Hello, Ms. Kane, I’m going to perform soon!”
“Are you now?” I say.
Danielle doesn’t say hi, but watches her son the way I’ve learned mothers do, as if their child were the most amazing thing in the world and therefore they remain mute out of sheer awe—like they don’t want to interrupt what they think will be the best part of your day, talking with their kid.