Mrs. Townsend appeared from out of nowhere from behind the fish tank at Dr. Clarkington’s office today, this time in a blue sundress, and at first I thought I was imagining her. But no, it was the real Mrs. Townsend, with her every-good-clean-smell, her hair now woven into long black braids. When we hugged, a belly emerged.
“Baby Mrs. T?” I almost screamed, because I have the tact of a fired circus clown.
“Baby Mrs. T,” she said, laughing. “His name will be Solomon.”
“After Song of Solomon?”
“The Toni Morrison book, not the Bible.”
“Good.”
“I promise you, he won’t turn into a snobby New York kid. So help me god I will make sure that he eats gluten like the rest of the world.”
“Why would he be a snobby New York kid?”
“Greg and I are headed to Manhattan. He’s getting his PhD at Hunter.”
Everyone I like goes to New York. I decided to be okay with that. “And what are you gonna do?”
Mrs. T looked around her in fake panic. “Oh no, I won’t have a Sammie to mentor. What will I do?”
“Yeah, who—who—who’s going to send you emails at three in the morning asking for a letter of reference?” I finally got out. I had started not to get so embarrassed about my choppy speech. You just kind of have to plow through it.
Mrs. Townsend leaned her elbow on the betta tank, tapping at the swimming forms. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, I’m going to have this baby, then I’m going to work in the Admissions department. And then I’m going to raise this baby, and then I’m going to retire. That is, unless, the climate changes as drastically as they say it will in the next twenty years. In that case, Greg and I are going to move back to the top of the Green Mountains, and we’re going to raise orange trees.”
“Orange trees in New England?”
“You’re going to want to get above sea level, believe me.”
“Can I come?”
Mrs. T took me by both shoulders. “If you have a useful skill, yes.”
“I can drink an entire gallon of chocolate milk in one sitting.”
“You’re in,” she said, and we laughed.