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she saw her son browsing the ceramic bowls in the tent booths. When he turned and saw Winnie, he and his young friend took off running. Winnie, thinking there was something wrong, followed him down the stone steps. Then she realized why he was running away from her.
    Winnie covered her mouth, but not before a small burp escaped.
    The mother had a list of things she wanted done around the house. The son agreed to fix the VCR so the green light would not flash 12:00 all day long, but after much fidgeting he admitted defeat. He was too tired to look at the garbage disposal. He had no idea why the back door scraped the cement step when she tried to close it.
    He flipped through the Yellow Pages and tore out a section. “Call this number,” he told his mother. “A handyman will come and do whatever you need done. I know you can afford someone to help you around the place.”
    The mother sighed. The skin around her mouth tightened. Winnie recognized the way the woman held her tongue. She did not have the freedom to criticize. This was not right.
    The mother did not want a stranger fixing her things. She wanted her son to be there. The house and its repairs were just an excuse.
    Another round of cocktails, another plate of sausage and cheese hors d’oeuvres, and the conversation lagged.
    The mother and Winnie discussed the shrinking parking situation in the neighborhood.
    â€œAt least I’ve got a garage,” the mother said.
    â€œIsn’t that the truth?” Winnie agreed.
    There was no need to pretend anymore. Winnie understood this. The mother had read the situation correctly. She had recognized Winnie for who she was—an impostor. And though disappointed in the way the afternoon had turned out, she could not be angry. Like the tables of contents in the novels Winnie read, the mother knew what was going to happen long before it happened. The living chapter titles told the whole story. The mother stared into her glass. Loneliness like that could make you crazy. There was nothing you could buy or sell to stop it from taking over your life. When her son left she would be alone. Whether or not she gave him the money, she would be alone. It was that simple.
    The man stood up and kissed his mother on the cheek, promising to see her in the morning. Winnie shook the mother’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” Had she had a card with her name and number, she would have left it on the coffee table. Had she been alone, she would have stayed for another glass of scotch. She would have done what she could to write a surprise twist into Chapter XV—In Which Mrs. Martin and a Lonely Widow Drink a Whole Bottle of Scotch, or maybe a new chapter, In Which a Very Funny Fifty-Year-Old Explains How to Have Fun with a Bit of Overdyed Leather Even When You Have a Large Rear End.
    Once on the street, the man walked as if in pain. Winnie asked if he was going to be sick. “It’s my bladder,” he complained.
    â€œDoesn’t your mother have indoor plumbing?”
    â€œI couldn’t leave you two alone.”
    Winnie agreed that that would have been dangerous. There was no telling the kind of trouble two lonely women could get into, especially when they had jackass liars for sons.
    â€œYou were supposed to be my wife,” he said. “A woman my mother could respect. Instead you drank scotch, snorted at her jokes, and ate the whole plate of hors d’oeuvres.”
    â€œI skipped lunch because of you,” Winnie said.
    â€œNo one is that hungry,” he said.
    â€œYou should have brought the woman you vowed to love eternally,” Winnie said.
    â€œI don’t have a woman,” he said.
    â€œThen don’t take your mother’s money,” Winnie said.
    â€œYou don’t understand,” he said.
    â€œListen,” she commanded so loudly he had no choice but to do what she said. “The open road is calling. And it’s not for me.