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him he’ll rent some place off Twenty-eighth Street.”
    “But you’re in the business . . . surely you could . . .”
    “Do it for me, Margo . . . please . . .”
    “Okay. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”
    “It is . . . yes . . . it’s what I have to do.”
    Margo knew that there were times when you could feel so desperate that just making a plan helped. It gave you a feeling of control. Following her separation from Freddy, Margo had experienced that kind of despair, until she’d mapped out a plan for the next year in her life, and then, even though she eventually changed her mind, that sinking feeling disappeared. So that evening before dinner Margo called on her neighbor, Martin Hathaway, to see about the apartment.
    “What were you doing talking to Mr. Hathaway, Mother?” Michelle asked later at the dinner table.
    “Do I need an excuse to talk to Mr. Hathaway?” Margo said. God, she sounded as hostile as Michelle. If you lived with it long enough it became contagious.
    “I thought you said he was a sniveling old fart,” Michelle said.
    “Did I say that?” Margo asked, trying to laugh.
    “On several occasions,” Michelle said. “And it’s true, Mother . . . he is a sniveling old fart.”
    “I was discussing the apartment over his garage,” Margo said.
    “What about it?”
    “Well . . . B.B.’s ex-husband is coming to town . . . I told you that, didn’t I?”
    “Yeah . . . so?”
    “So, she’s trying to find him a place to stay.”
    “Go on . . .”
    “She asked me to find out about renting the Hathaway apartment for him.”
    “For how long?” Michelle asked.
    “About three months.”
    “Let me get this straight,” Michelle said, holding her fork in the air. “You’re saying that B.B.’s ex-husband is going to live here . . . next door to us?”
    “Yes,” Margo said.
    “God, Mother!” Michelle said, plunking her fork down on the table. She stood up, grabbed a deviled egg and shouted, “I just can’t believe you!” She shoved the egg into her mouth, charged out of the room, and stomped down the stairs.
    Margo stood up and called after her. “Why don’t you ever say what you mean, Michelle? Why won’t you communicate?”
    But Michelle did not answer. Margo sat back down at the table, feeling very tired. “Why won’t she communicate?” Margo asked Stuart. “Why won’t either of you commumicate?”
    “Give me a break, Mom,” Stuart said. “I’m eating my supper.”

5

    P ROBABLY S ARA SHOULD HAVE told her mother about Daddy’s plan to come to Boulder. Then Mom wouldn’t have been so surprised by his letter. On the day that the letter arrived Clare had been at the house when Sara got home from school.
    “Where’s Mom?” Sara had asked.
    “She’s in bed,” Clare said.
    “What’s wrong . . . is she sick?”
    “She’s having a bit of a crisis,” Clare said.
    At first Sara hadn’t understood because Clare was talking very West Texas and when she did every word melted together, making it sound as if Mom had a Bitova Cry Cyst, which sounded serious. “What should we do . . . should we call a doctor?”
    “No,” Clare said. “There’s not much you can do. It takes time, that’s all.”
    “It’s not catching, is it?” Sara asked.
    “No,” Clare said.
    “That’s what I thought,” Sara said. “How long do you think it will last?”
    “It has to run its course,” Clare told her. “Don’t worry. She’s going to be fine.”
    That afternoon Sara heard her mother crying and saying things like, He has no right . . . he can’t do this to me. And then, I’ve always known I couldn’t trust him and this proves it, doesn’t it? So Sara knew the crisis had to do with her father.
    She called Jennifer for advice, but Jennifer told her to just stay out of it. That parents have to learn to solve their own problems. Then Jennifer reminded her to eat lightly because of Arts Night. Sara and Jennifer were