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lives.”
    â€œWell,
I
do,” said Denise.
    â€œYou do?” Donna and I both said.
    â€œI saw him,” said Denise. “It’s Philip Horkman. He owns a pet store. I thought he was a nice man! Why did he take my insulin pump?”
    â€œI think he was actually after the lemur,” I said, nodding toward Buddy, who was sitting on Taylor’s head.
    â€œThat thing is his?” said Denise.
    I said it was, which, looking back, was another mistake. For a drunk woman the size of a tool shed, Denise showed excellent quickness. She snatched Buddy off Taylor’s head and started toward her car. Donna yelled at me to stop her, and I tried, but Denise threw a stiff arm that caught me right in the throat, and I went down again. I heard Oprah ladies screaming and Taylor crying. Then I heard tires squealing. Then Donna was in my face, grabbing my shirt, pulling me up.
    â€œJeffrey!” she shouted. “You have to stop her!”
    She yanked me to my feet and started shoving me toward my car. “Hurry! She’s going to kill herself!”
    â€œShe might hurt Buddy!” said Taylor.
    I stumbled to my car, started the engine, put it in gear. Then a thought occurred to me. I put it back in park and lowered the window.
    â€œWhat?” says Donna.
    â€œWhere the fuck am I going?”
    â€œDon’t use that language in front of Taylor!”
    You ever notice this? You make a valid, logical point, and women try to change the subject.
    â€œWell, where
am
I going?” I said.
    â€œAfter Denise!”
    â€œAnd where is Denise going?” I said.
    That stopped her. She held a quick conference with the other book club women, and they agreed Denise was probably going to find this Philip Horkman. One of the women said he lived in Fox Hollow Estates, which figures because it is a development completely filled with Prius-driving assholes. Somebody pulled out an iPhone and Googled his address. I put the car in gear and took off.
    Ten minutes later, I turned into the asshole’s street and slammed on my brakes hard just in time to avoid getting hit by Denise Rodecker’s Range Rover going the other way at about 280 miles an hour. Just ahead, I saw a lady in a driveway shouting at Denise to slow down. I pulled over and lowered my window, and this lady, who turned out to be Horkman’s neighbor, told me Denise had made a big scene, honking her horn, yelling for Horkman to come out.
    â€œSo I went out there,” the lady told me, “and I told her the Horkmans aren’t home. She was
very
rude. I think she’s been drinking. She has a monkey.”
    â€œIt’s actually a lemur,” I said. “Do you know where she’s going?”
    â€œWell, the Horkmans are at a dance recital at Martin Luther King Jr.”
    â€œYou told her that?”
    â€œI did. Was that a mistake? Should I call the police?”
    â€œI’ll take care of it,” I said, putting the car in gear. At that point, if there was one thing I was sure of, it was this: If the police arrested Denise Rodecker for driving drunk with a stolen lemur, in the eyes of my wife—for that matter, in the eyes of the entire Oprah book club vagina brigade—it would be my fault.
    Five minutes later, I’m pulling into the Martin Luther King Jr. Junior High parking lot. I see Denise’s Range Rover parked at a bad angle halfway up on the curb. The door’s open, the engine’s running. Denise is not inside.
    I pull up behind the Range Rover and get out. I’m standing there, trying to decide what to do. What I
should
have done, looking back, is take the key out of Denise’s car. But I didn’t.
    Suddenly,
BANG
, a door on the side of the school slams open. Here’s who comes out, in order:
    Â 
    1.Denise, holding Buddy by his tail, like he’s a fur handbag.
    2.The asshole, who I’m happy to see is limping, yelling at Denise.
    3.A woman, who has to be the