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sleeping son. It was going to be hard to put him into his bed, hard to let go of hiswarmth and pull away from the smell of little boy sweat and crayon wax. Chris had missed out on that. It wasn’t just the housework that he eschewed; it was baby care as well. I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Chris had changed a diaper or popped open a jar of baby food. I thought at first that was part of my “punishment,” until I realized that even if I had stayed at home, he would have been the same kind of father. It was a side of Chris I had never seen, and I was devastated by it when I did.
    I shifted Ben’s weight a little as I reached his room at the top of the steps, catty-corner from mine. His was the one room I had stripped of its Pollert decor and replaced with an assortment of Power Ranger posters and a set of Rugrats sheets. Even I knew that a portrait of John Quincy Adams was likely to give a small boy nightmares, although I had removed it and the rest of the room accessories as much to protect Kevin’s investments as anything else. The array of Williamsburg teacups he’d had on the mantle wouldn’t have fared well with the projectiles Ben hurled every time I asked him to brush his teeth or, worse, pick out a book for us to read together. Last night I had added a new touch—a waterproof pad under the sheets. As it was, I was already going to have to buy Pollert a new mattress.
    I stood in the doorway, waiting for Ben to wake up, but he was still breathing deeply as I laid his thin little figure on the bed and covered him up. That last fit had worn him out.
    It had worn me out, too, but I had to go downstairs and get back to work. As I headed for the staircase the phone rang, and I jumped like a startled squirrel. Silently threatening the caller with torture if Ben woke up, I made for my bedroom, dove across the rust satin comforter and snatched up the receiver from the Chippendale table beside the bed.
    â€œHello?” I whispered—with what I hoped was just the right amount of annoyance.
    â€œToni… honey?”
    It was Mama. Or at least I thought it was Mama. Her voice was thick and slurred as if she’d been on a binge, and for a woman of her breeding, I knew that wasn’t likely.
    â€œMama?” I said. “Are you all right?”
    â€œNo, I am
not
all right! How could I be all right?”
    â€œI don’t know. What’s going on?”
    â€œYou didn’t get my message?”
    â€œNo… what’s—”
    â€œI can’t believe this has happened, Toni. I can’t believe it!”
    Her voice dissolved into sobs, and although I couldn’t make out a word she was saying, she kept on, filling the phone line with hysteria.
    â€œMama!” I said. “Is Stephanie there?”
    â€œYes!”
    â€œPut her on the phone.”
    I was already envisioning the house razed to the ground or one of Bobbi’s kids in a coma as I heard the phone being transferred clumsily from one set of hands to another.
    â€œHi,” Stephanie said. There was no emotion in her voice, which was just about as scary as Mama’s carrying on, but it was at least intelligible.
    â€œWhat in the Sam Hill is happening, Steph?” I said. “Has Mama gone off the deep end?”
    â€œJust about.”
    â€œWell, what on earth?”
    â€œToni—just hear me out, okay? Don’t lose it.”
    â€œWhat the heck is it!”
    â€œSid and Bobbi have been arrested.”
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œWe heard, like, the minute we got home—”
    â€œArrested for what? Is it tax problems? Were they in that deep?”
    â€œNo.”
    I could hear Stephanie breathing in tight breaths, as if she couldn’t let the words go. My own body was starting to morph into slow motion, and I sat, cross-legged, on the bed and clung to the phone.
    â€œStephanie, just tell me what it is. What were the