November 19

Dear Tara*Starr,

A baby? A BABY??!!! Are you kidding me? Did Barb mean that? Oh, you have to find out. That is too exciting! That is the best, best news!!! Tara, you would like to have a little brother or sister. You know you would. Think how much you like Emma. And think what an incredible big sister you

November 20 10:07 P.M.

Dear Tara*Starr,

I never got to finish the letter I started yesterday. I was so excited about the baby … and then Dad came home from work. He got home at five. And guess what. He was downsized. That means fired, although Dad says it isn’t quite the same thing. Something happened at his company (Dad tried to explain it to me, but I didn’t really understand), and they downsized forty of the top executives. Forty. And right before Thanksgiving. Dad has worked at Data Pro for seventeen years. Since before he and Mom got married.

I said to Dad, “Well, you’ll just have to get another job. What about the Help Wanted pages in the newspaper?”

And he said, “Honey, first of all they don’t list quarter-of-a-million-dollar-a-year jobs in the Help Wanted pages.” (I didn’t know he earned a quarter of a million dollars a year. That’s a fortune.) “And second, right now there are thirty-nine other people at my level — just from Data-Pro — all out there looking for the same kind of job I’d want. And there are not a lot of jobs available.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but I said, “Dad, a quarter of a million dollars a year. At least we have a huge savings account.” (I was remembering what you’d said in your letter.) “Maybe you could even retire early. That would be fun.” And that was when Dad shook his head, turned away, and left the room. I think there are things going on that I don’t know about yet.

Dad fixed himself a drink with vodka in it — actually I think it might have been just vodka poured over ice cubes — and then he and Mom went into the living room to talk.

I overheard them. I knew they didn’t want Emma and me in the living room, so I took Emma into the den. I told her I would read her a story, but instead I made her look at picture books while I tried to hear Mom and Dad. Dad said something about a package. (Do they give going-away presents to people they fire?) He said we could use the package to build up our savings account again. But Mom said well then what would we live on?

What would we live on? Tara, we are not poor. I must be missing something.

By bedtime last night, Emma knew something was wrong, and she was upset. I told her I would write a special poem for her. Since we are learning about haiku, this is what I wrote:

Little gray kitten

in a big brown shoe. Two tongues —

only one so pink.

Emma liked the idea of a kitten sitting in a shoe, but she didn’t know that shoes have tongues, so the inner meaning was lost on her. Still … she went to bed happy.

I’ll keep you posted.

How’s the play? How are Barb and Luke?

ASK BARB ABOUT THE BABY, OKAY?

Zounds, it’s after ten-thirty, so I better go to bed.

I miss you.

Love,