Sububria

She gets up late, but still before the children are up, and takes a long, long, hot shower. She rolls on her lipstick, dries her feet on the bathmat, and adds her towel to the heap on the floor. When the children get up, she burns their waffles and packs their lunches of organic carrots, Styrofoam and lard. She turns on the TV, at the children's request, and lets them watch whatever they want. This morning, it is Judge Judy -- Judge Judy, a Guatemalan woman and a pitbull. A pitbull that looks just like their Iggy, their Iggy that, in her lateness, she's forgotten to feed. Pulling up the shade, she looks out at Iggy, at Iggy lying against the chain link fence in the rain. "Iggy!" she calls, tapping her watch for emphasis, "Iggy, don't you know what time it is?" "Yes, dear," he calls back, lamely wagging his tail. Slowly, he gets up and starts the car.

The Dinner Party

It was her idea, to invite them for dinner. Partly, yes, because she liked them, because she felt that they shared her ideals and worldview and because her daughter liked their children, but mostly because she wanted a little cacophony in the house, something to break up the static of typing and of napping and of the dog scratching at the backdoor for his dinner. Because they were late -- they were always late -- she started drinking early. Too early, she realized, when she found herself, at 5:30, steadying herself on the loveseat and wondering why he hadn't come downstairs. And why hadn't he? Was he still in the shower? Was he playing with their daughter, who, she now realized, was also nowhere to be found? Was he picking out the perfect dinner CD? Combing his hair? Sleeping? She had to let this go, to let everything go, because the room, holy shit, was spinning, and there they were, there they were at the door.

Letter from the Edge of September

I've neglected you, every one of you, and I feel just awful about it. And not only because I've kept you out of the loop, because I've kept you from my minutia and my secrets, but because I haven't returned your calls or your emails, because I've forgotten your birthday, because I've opened box after box and letter after letter without ever sending a box or a letter to you. Know that I love you. Know that I miss you. Know that I'm going to try to be a better correspondent, lover, parent and friend. You've been hurting, joyous, scared and angry, and I--washing my hair, filling out forms, writing best-of lists of playgrounds and pizza parlors--have been a million miles away. What happened, anyway, to the summer? What happened to the year? What happened to the marble set and the bathroom wallpaper and the kindergartner and the walnut tree? I wake up, scared, early, early in the morning, visions of cancer and wet shingles and bank statements in my head. I listen to the crickets, to the train and to the trash truck, and worry about the myriad ways that I've failed you, about the myriad ways that I've failed myself.

And yet, in the midst of all of this doubt and worry, there is euphoria, there is elation, there are children who love me. The Girl, on her birthday, gets her ears pierced. The Boy, pedaling in a crooked streak out of the driveway, learns to ride his bike on two wheels. Life, with melodrama, with mediocrity, goes on. Which is why I've stayed away. Which is why I've returned.

The Third Day of School

The girl, waiting at the busstop, shields her eyes with one hand. She's overdressed, thanks, in part, to her mother's fussing, and wants to shed her jacket, but leaves it on for fear that removing it will make her miss the bus. The other children, some overdressed, some shivering in tank tops and last autumn's too-short dresses, are singing loudly at each passing car. Ordinarily, she would join them, but something this morning, maybe the crowd, maybe the brightness, catches her, and she calls to her mother, "Mom. Mom." And her mother comes.

Walking Tour

Yet they fared better than some of the others. Some of the others, so depleted by sun and grits and Spanish moss and iron porches, collapsed before they were even home.

Atlantic

"Sometimes," she confesses to the breakers, "they all just drive me so goddamn crazy."

Eulogy

She never learned how to ride a bike. Which was why, maybe, when they came to this resting point, he said, "she would have gotten a kick out of this."

Apocalypse

She panicked and lifted her feet off the pedals. The others, riding ahead, didn't notice. Mud on her leg and the rising tide. Pelicans. Mosquitoes. Fiddler crabs.

Banana Spider

Once he spotted it, about ten or so minutes into the meal, there was no getting him to sit down. He jumped around, his mouth ringed with mac-n-cheese and maraschino cherries, tugging at me, tugging at the waitress, imploring everyone, even his terrified sister, to come see this, come see this, come on, come on.

Bull

"Be careful," she said, "it might be hot."

Border Crossing

Exterior/
Interior

Diner

Out there, where the air, at 8 in the morning, was already hot, it smelled of gasoline. In there, it smelled of syrup and dry, yellow eggs, of pink soap and cheap, frozen orange juice. They were glad, every one of them, to be out of the car, to be away from the demands of documents and tumors and cat litter and packed lunches and lawnmowers. There were long hours ahead but also palm trees. There was the matter of the bill, and other bills to follow, but none of that, then, made any difference.

Some Like It Hot . . .

Though probably not this hot.