A walk would do us both good—my body is cramped from bending and sitting. I plop Lily into her pram and decide, in a magnanimous gesture, to bring the two dogs along.
Big mistake.
As we walk along the path in front of an endless slew of McMansions, Jane and Austen seem unusually quiet. Something’s off. They don’t bark at the constant parade of BMWs that glide by or the Tesla next door or the two or three Lamborghinis. I don’t get it. And then I do. At some point today, the two of them must have been munching on the same rabid squirrel. Suddenly they both squat, attacked by simultaneous bouts of diarrhea. Yes, I have brought along all the bells and wipes and whistles a human baby might need, but still. Ever try scooping up dog diarrhea with a plastic bag?
A word of advice: Don’t.
I give up, pivot the carriage around, rush back to the house, and dash inside, hoping we weren’t spotted. So far, so good. Even better, Lily seems sleepy. As I head to the nursery, I hear a car in the driveway. I look out the window. A furious neighbor? No, not withthatcar, which is almost as banged up as mine. A man gets out, a big guy, bushy hair, bowlegged. Maybe a disgruntled gardener who has to clean up the doggy stains we left?
If only.
The bell rings. With Lily in my arms, I go to the door and look through the peephole. The man is not smiling. After I put the chain on, I open the door a few inches. The dogs come over and start growling.
“Can I help you?” I say.
I see he’s got a soul patch, one of those weird little squares of hair in the center of his chin. I don’t get whyguys have that. Someone should tell him: Listen, if it doesn’t look good on Brad Pitt, it won’t look good on you.
But that someone is not me.
“I’m looking for Ben,” he says.In the middle of the day?The man has an accent, and his voice is rough, gritty. Like he’s been gargling with sand.
“He’s not home. And you are?”
“A friend. Wait. Are you the missus?” He twists his head back and forth in the four-inch chained-door opening to get a better look at me. Obviously, I do not fit the image of the trophy wife he expected to see. I’m twenty years older and forty pounds heavier.
“Is this his baby?” Now he’s smiling, but it’s a creepy smile. Like the clown inIt.
“And you are?” I repeat.
“A friend,” he says. “Tell Ben… a friend stopped by.”
“Will he know which friend?”
“He’ll know,” the man says. “He doesn’t have that many.” He laughs. Then he turns and walks away.
Through the crack I watch him drive off. Alone in the house with the baby, I’m alarmed. This is definitely something Metcalf needs to know. I text him with a description.
He texts back:You didn’t get his name???
Three question marks. That’s the Metcalf way of telling me I’m incompetent. It feels like a slap in the face.
Me:He didn’t give it.
Metcalf:Could it have been Carlos?
Me:I told you. He didn’t say.
Metcalf:License number?
Me:No again. Old gray car. Green and white plate.
Metcalf:Vermont? New Hampshire? Colorado? Florida?
Me:Not sure. Maybe Florida.
Metcalf:Well, did you see a BIG ORANGE on it?
Did I? I’m not sure. I was too scared to notice.
