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go very well with all the plastic-covered furniture. While
he was sliding it across the floor, one of the trophies—his
favorite
trophy—had fallen off and broken.
    It was a first prize award he won in a
tennis championship his junior year in high school. On top was a
man who was swinging his racquet overhead, as if leaping to serve
the ball. The end of the racquet had snapped off when the heavy
trophy had slammed into the hardwood floor. Neal had been furious,
blaming it on the baby, who was crying so loudly that he couldn’t
keep his mind on what he was doing. Later, he felt guilty. He knew
it was his own fault for not taking all the trophies out of the
case again before he moved it. Annie had actually told him to do
this, but he hadn’t listened to her. He tried in vain to glue the
trophy back together.
    Neal sighed and gulped down some more of his
beer. He supposed none of that mattered. Playing sports and winning
trophies were now a thing of the past.
    Annie appeared at the kitchen doorway, the
baby in her arms.
    “Who gave you the message at work?”
    “The old lady. Grammy.”
    “What did she say, exactly?”
    “She didn’t
say
anything. It was a
message slip.”
    “Oh. Well, what did
it
say?”
    “I already told you, Annie.”
    “‘I love you. From Baby Natasha?’”
    “Yeah,” Neal said, taking another swallow of
beer.
    “Where is it?”
    Neal reached for his shirt pocket, but then
remembered he had thrown it away. “I don’t have it anymore.”
    Annie looked skeptical. “Uh-huh.”
    Neal felt his blood pressure rising. “I tore
the damn thing up and threw it away, Annie! I didn’t want to leave
it laying around for somebody else to see—it was bad enough as it
was.”
    Annie nodded, but the skeptical look was
still there. “Maybe one of the people you work with did it, as a
joke.”
    “Why in the world would they do that? I
haven’t told anyone else about what happened this morning. You’re
the only person who knows.” Neal glared at his wife for a few
seconds. “That means, wifey dearest, that it
had
to be
you.”
    “Or you.”
    Neal did not speak for a moment. “What do
you mean by that?”
    “I think you know what I mean, Neal.” Annie
retrieved the baby seat, put Natasha in it, and began to prepare
dinner.
    Neal went into the living room, so angry he
was shaking. He picked up the paper off the floor and began to
scour the classified ads for a new job. This was a nightly
ritual—this and driving to the library to use the Internet to
search the online job listings, as they could no longer afford such
“luxuries” as an online connection or even cable TV. Or even a cell
phone! At the beginning of the summer, when school had ended, he
thought he might be able to find a position in which he could use
his knowledge of chemistry—maybe an opening for a lab technician or
analyst. But he had nearly given up hope. No one wanted to hire a
chemist who “almost” had a college degree. The market was saturated
with plenty of qualified applicants.
    After his routine perusal, he chucked the
paper into the chair beside him. This time, it did not slide off
the plastic covering.
    “Nothing new?” Annie said from the kitchen
door.
    “No,” Neal said softly. He gazed at the
baby, who he could see through the doorway, sitting in her baby
seat. She seemed to be gazing back at him.
    Neal could hear a skillet sizzling and
popping on the stove. From the aroma, he knew Annie was making
fried chicken, his favorite meal. She knew how to prepare it
exactly the way he liked it, crisp but without much grease. At
least she could cook halfway well.
    “Is the delivery job really that bad?” Annie
said.
    “Well...no. I guess not. At least I don’t
have to be around those Snell bozos very much. I spend ninety
percent of my time on the road. But it’s minimum wage, Annie. We
can’t live on that.”
    “I know,” she said. Neal hoped she might
feel guilty, but if she did, her face didn’t show it. She