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the millions of pronouncements she lived by. But there was no way into her. Even if she sat there humming while reading Architectural Digest , she seemed to be someplace else.
    “Fine. Thai, whatever.” I hung up my coat and rummaged through the mail. There was a letter from the grad student I’d left behind, which I was sure Esther already noticed. Not in the mood for rehashing all that, I tore the unopened letter to pieces, which I tossed in the wastebasket like confetti. “Sorry to disappoint you, Esther,” I said.
    She shrugged quizzically. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    Okay, fine. I was too drained for an argument. Besides, I noticed that a letter from some unfamiliar lender company had arrived by certified mail.
    “What’s this?” I asked Esther.
    “Oh, I signed for it. I have no idea.”
    Thinking that the certified element was a publicity gimmick—to make sure you would read the contents—I tore open the envelope and read the somber letter within:
    Dear Dr. Falcon:
    Your current balance of $20,000 plus $1,500 in late penalty fees is now past ninety days overdue. This means that payment is due in full.
    You have made no effort to contact us, and we had to locate your new address ourselves. To avoid further action, please pay the amount due in full today. There is a $10 service charge for all payments made online or over the telephone.
    “Esther, did you do this?” My day-to-day business matters were handled by my accountant, who happened to be my kid brother. I knew I could trust him. Every business quarter, he sent me a breakdown of my finances down to the penny.
    Esther reached for her designer reading glasses and studied the letter. “Of course not. You know I don’t spend that kind of money without talking to you first.” That much was true. Maybe because it was her job to buy other people pretty things, Esther shopped for our own home only as needed. Once a room was done, it was done. And she wasn’t extravagant when it came to things like travel, clothes, food, or jewelry, either. She didn’t live like a pauper, but she was the same sensible girl I married straight out of prep school twenty-five years earlier. Having grown up around money—and a family who conservatively hoarded every penny—she found extravagance to be vulgar.
    But you know? I couldn’t help noticing the unusual satisfaction she took in the letter—the way she scrunched her mouth to keep from smiling. I was a bad person in her eyes, so I deserved to have bad things happen to me. Hers was a classic passive-aggressive personality. She left it to the rest of the universe to condemn me for my wrongs against her. Over the years, I occasionally dreamt that she’d poisoned me, and then I’d wake up and see her at the breakfast table, drinking her coffee and staring into space.
    The Thai food arrived. I didn’t feel like eating. I called the credit company instead.
    “Hello, my name is Tiffany, may I have your account number please?”
    “Good evening, Tiffany,” I said. “I’d be happy to.” I thought I would keep things as friendly as possible, to get them straightened out quickly. I always imagined people who worked at these kinds of jobs to be like nasty kids in a reform school, who would do all sorts of nonsense if they didn’t like you.
    After I rattled off the incoherent account number on the letter, Tiffany read what was obviously a generic message on her computer screen. She read aloud in a choppy, phonetic style, over-pronouncing her words as if she had no idea what they meant. “Please be informed that your account is over ninety days past due. If you do not make a payment immediately, legal action may result. The total amount you owe is—”
    “Yes, but you see, I don’t owe this money. It’s a mistake—”
    Tiffany would not be deterred. “The amount you owe is twenty thousand dollars, plus one thousand five hundred dollars in late penalty fees, plus a fifty dollar service charge. How will you be