It’s the first weekend in June, which means Emma has one full week of school left. Summer will hardly provide time to relax, but at least she won’t be juggling students and parents and the curriculum review committee on top of the wedding planning. She’d presumed her off time would be filled with discussions about flowers and bridesmaid’s gifts and honeymoon destinations. Instead, if the past couple of months are any indication, she’s preparing for a summer of Doris.
Recently, she’s received a series of phone calls from Doris requesting that she look at stores in “her area” for napkins in the correct shade of pink. Not Pepto-Bismol pink. Not Barbie pink. But rose-petal pink. As if the universe had created one natural shade and all others were mere bastards.
This morning, it was a phone call to inquire whether “any of her caterers” used half-and-half rather than heavy cream in their quiches. Apparently, the caterer Doris hired for the shower dared to admit she preferred half-and-half and Doris nearly fainted. Emma had no caterers to call—as if she had them on speed dial—but fibbed and said she would, of course, call her “people.” All while pacing the bedroom in her underwear, phone glued to her ear while trying to zip up one sundress after another and failing. She’d lost weight in the months surrounding the divorce, but it returned and brought along friends.
Now she speeds across the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, one eye on her rearview mirror watching for the highway patrol, a half hour late for brunch at Andi’s. It would be the first time since the engagement party they’d all been together, and Emma doesn’t have the energy to be angry with them anymore. These days, all her frustrations flow toward Doris.
It’s not just Doris and Emma’s shrinking wardrobe that’s put her behind schedule. She walked out the door this morning to find not one, but three doggy piles in her front lawn. What on earth is Kent feeding that animal?
She marched across the yard and rang his doorbell. It was one of those video bells. The kind with an app that shows you who’s there and allows you speak to your guest without extending face-to-face hospitality.
“Hullo?”
It took Emma several seconds to realize that her neighbor’s voice was coming from a tiny speaker on the doorbell. “Kent?”
“Yuh.”
“It’s Emma. From next door.”
“I know. I can see you.”
She felt suddenly self-conscious. “Can you come to the door so we can speak in person?”
“I’m not dressed.”
Emma rolled her eyes behind closed lids. A simple bathrobe would do.
“What’cha need?”
She refocused. “I need your dog to quit going to the bathroom in my yard.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him pee over there.”
He was aware of this? “Frankly, Kent, it’s not the pee that concerns me. Though I’d appreciate if you put a stop to that, too.”
“I think there’s a hole somewhere in my fence. That’s how he’s getting out.”
It astonished and dismayed her how much money lazy men like Kent must be able to demand for salary. After all, he’d never have been able to buy a house in this neighborhood if he weren’t bringing in at least mid-six figures. Maybe he was more diligent at the office. “If you don’t want to fix it yourself, perhaps you can hire someone. I’ll give you the info for my handyman.”
“Sure. If you want.”
Yes, she did want. Very much. “Well, please take care of it one way or another. It’s happening every day now.”
“Yep.”
And with that, Kent clicked off. No goodbye. No thank you. Not even a promise to resolve the issue. The nerve.
Emma, however, was not finished. And she would not be dismissed by a man too indolent to put on pants. She leaned in and put her face to the camera. “Please tend to your dog,” she said, no idea if he could still hear or see her. “And goodbye.”