© The Curious Jew Ants in the Bisquick “What- what- what did she say?

” the radio blared and Amy glared at it. “Why does everyone like this song?” she appealed to the heavens. “Cuz when the roof caved in and the truth came out I just didn’t know what to do,” the radio intoned. “Mmm whatcha say, that you only meant well? Well, of course you did,” Amy snarled in time to the music. Having raised herself halfway out of the bed, she flopped down lifelessly, the pyramid of tissues on her nightstand fluttering to the white carpeted floor. Amy could just barely see her reflection in the mirror facing her across the room, part of a vanity with drawers and dressers. Her nose, she determined, was a delicate shade of pink, as though she were an overextended salmon fillet. Or perhaps she ought to give in and admit that she looked like Rudolph the Reindeer. Her hair was spread out in limp brown tendrils, sweat dripping off her forehead and encasing the oily strands. She was freezing despite the plentiful gold coverlets. “God,” she moaned, struggling to sit up and attempt breakfast. “Mommy, Mommy!” a joyful voice shouted. Amy lay back in time to escape the cannonball approach of her son, Ryan. He eagerly jumped on to her stomach, at which point she groaned. “It’s Saturday! We play today!” “Darling,” a deeper voice resounded, “now might not be the best time to disturb Mommy.” A pair of blue jeans came into Amy’s field of vision; she noted that the man’s feet were encased in soft leather slippers. A faint smile fluttered over Amy’s face uncertainly as Don slipped her a cup of coffee. “Thanks, love,” she croaked. Turning her attention to the unfortunate Ryan, she schooled her face into a soothing expression. “Ryan, darling, I can’t really play today. Mommy’s sick.” The three-year-old seemed to have grasped this knowledge from the tears filling his eyes. Having taken in the mounds of tissues, especially those now adorning the carpet, the cloying smell of cherry cough syrup which laced the room, the five romance novels assembled every which-way on her bedstand and the cordless phone and cell phone lying right next to each other, he had gathered that Mommy’s bedroom had become a throne room. This woman presided over subjects comprised of phlegmy coughs and burning fevers; she was served by her patient and adoring husband. Ryan seemed an intrusion. “But M-o-om-my,” he wailed, “it’s Sat-t-tur-day.” “I know, darling,” she said, stroking his soft brown curls. He had the most delicate brown eyes, currently crumpled up in unhappy sadness. “But I don’t want you to catch the cold, either, so why don’t you go play with your train-tracks?” She looked up at Don earnestly and mouthed the question, “Playdate?” He nodded his head affirmatively. “Who?” Amy questioned. “Roy,” he mouthed back. “And Ryan, guess what? Later today we’re actually going to have a friend over-“ Don made large X-ing motions with his hands and held a finger to his lips, then pointed out the window.

© The Curious Jew “Actually, scratch that,” Amy said tiredly. “I meant you’re going to go over to a friend’s house and play with them! Isn’t that exciting? So how about you go get dressed, change out of pajamas- Daddy will help you- and” “And we’ll make breakfast for Mommy so that she feels better,” Don stated affirmatively. Amy looked up at him, his brushed golden hair, the brilliant blue eyes, the hint of lines formed by laughter and joy, and smiled. He, in turn, looking down upon his sick, unhappy beauty, pressed a kiss on her forehead and scooping Ryan into his arms went running out of the house, spinning the child wildly and almost smashing him into walls. “VROOOOOM,” he stated, eagerly twirling the boy, who was laughing in delight. “This is Boeing 747 reporting to duty and we are flying toward the coast,” he intoned while Ryan escaped a particularly close call with a large golden picture frame by fractions of a centimeter. Tossing Ryan upside down over a garbage can, he began tickling the boy. “And maybe we’ll land here in what appears to be a landfill,” he continued to clown. “Whatcha think, Ryan?” he questioned. “No, no, noooo!” the boy delightedly squealed. Don caught him underneath his armpits and flipped him in the air. Then he caught him. “Time to dress, my child,” he informed him abruptly, setting the boy down on the stairs. He quickly pulled the vest Ryan slept in over his head. “Let’s take off your shirt now,” he instructed. Ryan grinned and amiably attempted to pull the sleeves off his body. Don helped him by taking the whole thing off so that Ryan was left, defenseless, in naught but a white undershirt. The boy toddled off in the direction of his bedroom, leaving the kitchen. Don caught up with him and followed. “Oh, so you’re attempting to escape, are you?” the father murmured as Ryan happily hid beneath the comforters on his bed. “You can’t find me!” he cheerfully announced. Don made a show of looking. “Could Ryan be in the closet?” he questioned, pulling open the mirrored door. “Nope,” he affirmed. “Could Ryan be in the dresser?” he inquired, hearing a giggle from the bed. “Nope,” he affirmed once more. “Could Ryan be in the bed?” he questioned and the boy giggled. Don scooped him up, pulling off the child’s pants in the process. Ryan took off his own undershirt, “just like a big boy,” he explained. Don nodded his head gravely. “So what shall we dress you in today?” he inquired absently, looking through the boy’s chest-of-drawers. “Hmm,” he said upon discovering a red polo shirt, a yellow sunburst emblazoned upon a white t-shirt, and a blue shirt covered with dolphins. “I think I know what you’re gonna pick, buddy, but it’s worth a shot,” he stated, offering the three shirts to Ryan. “Dolphins!” the boy exclaimed and immediately attempted to scramble into that shirt, trying to pull the armhole over his head. “Hold on a sec, let me help you out, buddy,” Don attempted, trying to avert impending disaster. He helped straighten his son out, slipping the neckhole over his head. “Don?” he heard a voice call. Amy was trying to get his attention. Don stuck his head out the door. “Yeah?” he called, knowing his voice carried through the thin folding door that opened to his bedroom. It was made of a crinkling material, the type of thin folding partition that formed Chinese screens.

© The Curious Jew “There’s a phone call for you,” Amy tried to shout, her voice cracking in the middle. “Yeah?” Don questioned. “It’s your mother,” Amy stated. Don looked down at Ryan, trying to prevent the struggling boy from kicking him. “Can you tell her now’s not a good time?” “She says it’s kind of important!” Amy called back. “Just pick up the phone,” she concluded, exhausted. “Okay,” Don said, defeated. “Now, you put your pants on,” he told his son sternly, choosing a pair of khakis and tossing them on the bed. The boy cheerfully ignored them, preferring to run around the room miming a vrooming airplane. Closing the door, Don stepped through the bedroom and took the phone from Amy, his eyes scanning hers. She does not look good, he decided. “Don!” his mother’s cheerful voice filled the phone. She was in her late 50s and as dignified and distinguished as ever. “The most wonderful thing just happened. Some long-lost relative of ours who I’ve never met, an Auntie May, has come into town and wants to stop by. Of course, I want to have you over so that you can meet her.” Don laughed. “Mom, it’s really not the best time,” he averred, hearing the unhappy cry that could only mean Ryan had managed to bump his knee on his dresser and was now protesting the consequences. “Amy’s sick and I’m trying to get Ryan dressed-“ “You want me to come over and babysit?” Amber offered helpfully. Don smiled. “Or Steve, for that matter?” she questioned. “Or we could both come! We could make a day of it. I’ll get Amy some rented movies and she can be sick in peace, and you know how we adore Ryan.” Don laughed. Yes, he knew. “And that way you can meet this May person,” Amber stated resolutely. “Can’t we just tell her we’d love to see her, but sometime later in the week?” “She’s only here for the one day,” Amber replied. “Hmm,” Don hedged, trying to find a polite way to bow out of this one. “How’s she related to us anyway?” “Apparently she’s my second cousin’s daughter,” Amber answered. “She’s not even a relative, then!” Don exclaimed. “Course she is,” his mother laughed, “just not, perhaps, the closest one. Anyway, she’s tracked us down so we have to be polite enough to at least see her.” “So I’m supposed to invite her over to a sickhouse?” Don asked exasperatedly. “Oh. Hmm,” Amber thought aloud. “You know what? Apparently she’s pretty young; I think she’s nineteen. Why don’t we set her up with Jason and get her to take a tour of the town?” “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of having her meet us?” Don questioned. “Not if you pick her up from the airport and drop her off by Jason’s,” Amber stated. Jason was Steve’s godson. A tan, rugged, goodnatured sort, his good looks and expertise at tennis made him popular. “Won’t he be working?” Don questioned desperately. “He gets off at noon today,” Amber answered. “What’s the harm? You just pick up this girl, make some nice chit-chat, then drop her off at Jason’s. He’ll take care of her for

© The Curious Jew the rest of the day and bring her back to the airport. And in the meantime, let me just get my purse; we’ll come over to take care of Amy and my grandson.” Don smiled upon hearing his mother’s possessive depiction of their child. “Your grandson,” he informed her cheerfully, “is a terror.” The crying had stopped upon Don’s return to the room; Ryan was now trying to pull his pants over his head instead of over his feet. “A delightful one,” Amber answered. “Now, go take care of your wife!” She hung up the phone, muttering something like, “A fine husband you are.” “Excuse me?” Don questioned, nonplussed, but he was staring at the dead phone. “Humph,” he stated, taking the pants off Ryan’s head and slipping the child’s feet inside of them. Ryan, for once, cooperated, and once fully dressed, told his father he wanted to make his mother breakfast. “And how do you propose we do that?” Don questioned. “Blueberries!” Ryan exclaimed happily, merrily running to the fridge in the kitchen. Don followed wearily. “I think your mother would prefer pancakes,” he decided. “Fresh-made. Now, where’s the Bisquick?” Don distractedly poked his head into the pantry. CRASH! He turned around instantly to see Ryan flailing inside one of the large silver pots. He seemed to have been shocked by the noise. “It f-f-fell,” the boy stated, his voice filling with tears, looking accusingly at the large pot. “But from where?” questioned his father. Ryan had run for the fridge and…oh. That would be the remainder of the fruit compote. “Did it spill on you?” he questioned and Ryan looked at him, not understanding. At which point he realized that Ryan was inside of a silver pot, thus this could not be the silver pot in the fridge in which the compote was housed. So where had this pot come from? Mystified by the question, he heard Amy calling for him again. “Coming,” he yelled, then turned away from the unhappy boy and checked through the pantry. “Bisquick,” he stated determinedly, and rooting through boxes, discovered two Onion Soup mixes, one Matza Ball mix, three Nutellas, one aged granola bar and finallytriumphantly- the Bisquick. He poured some into a bowl and then leapt back in horror. “Jesus Christ!” he swore, then clapped a hand over his mouth, hoping Ryan wasn’t paying attention. There were little ants swarming merrily through the floury mixture. “Hey, Ryan,” he said, crouching down on his knees, “want to see something cool?” “Sure,” said Ryan, dropping the wooden spoon with which he had been beating the sides of the silver pot. Don bent to pick him up. “Look at that,” his father instructed. “Those are ants!” the little boy exclaimed, staring at the black creatures progressing through the Bisquick. “Is this an ex-per-i-ment?” he struggled to ask, trying to sound out the word. “Not exactly,” his father wryly answered. “Actually, I’m going to throw this out now. Looks at pancakes will have to really be from scratch.” “Don!” He heard Amy exasperatedly calling for him once more.

© The Curious Jew “Listen, sport,” he told Ryan, “can you stay here for a couple minutes?” The boy smiled, his eyes riveted upon the little ants. “And don’t eat that,” Don warned before leaping up the three stairs and through the connecting door. Amy felt like hell. She had managed to get herself out of bed, which was a plus, and get herself into her bathrobe, which was even better. “Could you do me a favor,” she begged plaintively, and Don solicitously questioned, “What?” “Just get me the thermometer, please- it’s all the way over there and I can’t reach.” Don remembered that he had chosen to hide the thermometer after seeing Ryan use it as a toy sword, attempting to surgically remove his own eye. “Course, doll,” he stated, and reached for the top of the dresser. It wasn’t there. “Shucks, where did I put it?” he tried to remember. Amy was fading fast. “Don’t you know?” she asked, trying not to sound as crabby as she felt. “You know what, doll,” Don turned to her swiftly, “how about I draw you a bath and you just soak for a while – while I’m looking for it?” Amy nodded her head appreciatively. “That’d be heaven,” she told him. “Okay, give me a second.” Don stepped into their bathroom and turned on the water, liberally splashing scented bubble-bath soap into it. Then he quite literally ran downstairs just in time to prevent Ryan from scooping a bit of ant-infested Bisquick into his palm in an attempt to observe the ants more closely. “No, no, no,” Don stated, taking the ants and their floury home and sending them to an unhappy grave in the garbage can. Or perhaps they were happy, he reflected. Plenty to feed on there. “Listen, I want to make your mom breakfast,” he told the child, “but first I’ve got to turn off her bathwater.” Grabbing Ryan and swinging him into his arms, the surprised child looking at him with a confused expression, he ran upstairs and turned off the bathwater just as it threatened to overflow. The deep scent of strawberry filled the room. Don dimmed the lights and pulled out a scented candle- vanilla musk. He lit it and placed it adjacent to the sink. Then, doing a swift scan of the bathroom, he piled the extraneous magazines, shaving implements and perfumes into a drawer so as to leave the counters bare but for the candle, toothpaste and toothbrushes. “Perfect,” he thought, setting out a soft fluffy towel adjacent to the bath. “Amy?” he called. “Yes?” she replied. “I’ve got Ryan with me,” he warned, “but your bath’s ready.” “It’s fine, I’ve got my bathrobe on,” she answered, stepping through the door. Even sick, her hair straggling down her back, her nose bright pink, and her eyes watery, she was the most beautiful person Don could envision. He told her so and she laughed. “You flatterer,” she said. “Oh please.” She looked around the bathroom appreciatively. “Romance on two-second notice,” she smiled. “I’m impressed.” “Okay, Ryan? We’re going to let Mommy take her bath now,” Don told the child, who obediently took his hand and toddled after him. Don closed the door behind him but not before seeing Amy step out of her robe and shoot him an appreciative look. Well, that’s one thing right, Don smiled. “All right, now for scrambled eggs,” he told his son. “I want to help!” the child told him. “Course you will,” Daddy told him. They headed downstairs, at which point Daddy pulled out a light-blue frying pan. “I’m thinking eggs and toast- a bagel, buttered

© The Curious Jew if she wants- with orange juice. And coffee, of course.” He headed for the fridge, pulling out the carton of eggs. “All right, I’m going to break these into a bowl and I’m going to give you this fork, Ryan- you can help mix them.” The child looked positively delighted by this. Don suddenly worried that perhaps it had been a bad idea. Ah well. Too late. Wiping his hands on his jeans he cracked open one egg. “Oh, yeah, the oil,” he thought aloud, pouring a bit into the pan and setting it over the gas. He cracked three eggs into the measuring cup, then handed Ryan the fork. “Beat away!” he instructed the boy. Ryan did so, smiling beatifically at his father. Don pulled out a tray covered in colorful fruits and arranged a coffee mug and a white plate on it. “If only I had a rose,” he thought, then smiled. Taking a napkin, he began expertly folding it until he had created a paper rose, which he put above the plate. “What’s that, Daddy?” Ryan said, pointing. “Paper rose,” his father answered, turning to the stove, where the oil was sputtering nicely. He poured the eggs in and heard the hiss as they made contact with the pan. Taking a wooden spatula, he began to mix them. “You know, this could use a bit of pepper,” he thought aloud. He picked the pepper grinder off the table. Suddenly he heard Amy shout. “What is it?” he called, alarmed. “Just- there’s a spider here,” she called back. “Shall I kill it for you?” he asked tenderly. “It’s okay if you’re busy,” she said. “I’ll survive.” “I shall capture the spider and set it free,” he determined. “Just let me find a Styrofoam cup.” He hunted through the pantry, catching one up while absentmindedly stirring the eggs. Damn! He had forgotten the pepper. He quickly ground a bit of pepper on top of the confection. Then, turning off the gas, he leapt upstairs to the bathroom. He knocked at the door. “Yeah, come in,” she said. “Ryan’s not with you, is he?” “Nope,” Don said. He walked inside to see her cowering in the far reaches of the bath, having pressed her back against the faucet. The spider was happily climbing the upper reaches of the screen door on the other side. Don took his Styrofoam cup and trapped it, taking off his socks so he could step inside the tub. He then slid an envelope underneath, catching it. Stepping out of the bath, he opened the window and released the spider, letting it emerge in safety, after which he closed it again. “You all right?” he questioned. Amy was looking at him gratefully. “Yeah,” she said. He looked at her, her wet brown hair slicked back, water beading on her eyelashes and skin. The faint stirrings of desire shot through him and he shifted uncomfortably. She was sick, certainly not up for that. “Here, come here,” she beckoned, and he knelt down beside the tub. She pressed a kiss on his forehead. “Thanks,” she smiled. “My hero.” He laughed. She curled one of her wet arms around his neck, not noticing the water she was dripping on his shirt. “I—“ “Want to imitate that scene in The Fountain?” Don teased her. “Gladly. Except I see no reason to ruin my clothes when I could so easily strip them off,” he lifted his eyebrows to accentuate the question. “Ryan’s too quiet,” she suddenly said. “Let’s postpone this, shall we?”

© The Curious Jew “Unfortunately,” he said, pressing a kiss on her cheek. He hurried out of the bathroom to check on Ryan. He saw little white bits of something in the child’s hair and littering his shirt and pants. “What-“ he began, then roared. “Ryan!” he shouted. “What did you do?” The little boy trembled. “I- I-“ he tried to say. “Don!” Amy stated from the bathroom, alarmed by his anger. “Calm down.” Don took a deep breath. “Ryan, you ripped up the special napkin- the one I made in the shape of a flower- even though you knew you shouldn’t touch it.” “You never sa-aid!” the boy protected himself. “Nonetheless,” Don said, his voice taking on a stern tone. “You are going to go stand in the corner for three minutes.” “I won’t! I won’t!” the boy shrieked at which point Don took him and bodily placed him in the corner. The boy sulked. “I’m not turning around!” he stated defiantly. Don placed his hands on his hips, looking down at his son. Finally the boy turned around. “I’m going to set the timer on the microwave for three minutes,” he said. “When it beeps, you can come out. You think about your actions and what you should have done differently.” Getting a broom, Don proceeded to sweep up the bits of scattered napkin, then pulled out a new one, creating a new rose for Amy. He scooped the eggs out of the pan and slipped them onto the plate, poured her a glass of orange juice and set out a cup of fresh brewed coffee. Then, slicing a bagel in half, he placed it in the toaster for her and set out the butter and Country Crock spreadable stuff that masqueraded as the substance. “You know what?” he muttered to himself, running his fingers through his hair. “We need some music.” He walked into the living room and glanced through the scattered CDs on display. “Mariah Carey, Reba, Beethoven, Schubert, Eminem, Madonna, Enrique- Enrique! Perfect.” He slipped the CD into the five-star boombox and listened as the strains of “Escape” filled the room. He started dancing. The microwave beeped. “Ryan,” Don stated, “you can come out of the corner now.” Tearfully, the child crept out of the corner. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t have touched it.” “True,” Don said. “But next time you’ll know better.” The doorbell rang. “Oh, bother!” Don exclaimed as he went to get it, child in tow. He smiled when he saw who was there. “Hello, Mother,” he stated as he opened the door. “And how’s my delightful son and my grandchild?” she questioned as Ryan launched himself in her arms, crying “Grandma!” “Grandma was thinking maybe we could make chocolate chip cookies today,” Amber told her grandson, who looked thrilled by the idea. “I should warn you he has a playdate at 2,” Don informed her. “At the McMillanssomeone has to drive him. I was planning to, but-“ “I’ll do it, don’t worry about it,” Steve said as he entered the house. “Hey, Don. How’s the little scamp today?” he questioned, looking at Ryan affectionately. “Daddy put me in the corner,” Ryan announced. Steve looked down at the boy. “And why was that?” he questioned. “I ripped up his art project,” Ryan explained. “You do art?” Steve questioned, bewildered.

© The Curious Jew “Another time,” Don deferred. “Make yourselves at home; I’m just going to tell Amy you’re here.” He galloped up the stairs again and entered the bathroom; Amy had dried herself off and was wrapped in a towel. “Let me brush your hair,” Don offered and Amy smiled at him. “Would you?” she questioned. “Sure,” he stated, reaching for the comb. He swept the comb down through the silky strands, made easy because of conditioner. He reached one snarl and saw her close her eyes as he tried to work through it with the comb, then changed over to his fingers. When he finally got it undone he pressed a kiss on her neck. “I’ve got to go pick up this Auntie May character,” he told her. “Breakfast is downstairs and my parents are here.” “I hope they don’t expect me to entertain,” she said ruefully, considering her state. “To the contrary, my mom brought movies so you could just lie in bed and rest,” he told her. “God bless her,” Amy said gratefully. “Okay, I think I should throw some clothes on, then.” “Why not just a fresh pair of pajamas?” Don asked, leading her to the bedroom. He searched through the drawer. “What about this?” he inquired, pulling out a pair of Victoria’s Secret black pants and a matching black t-shirt. “I don’t want to walk around in front of your parents in pajamas,” she told him, hunting through her drawer. “Though honestly, that almost looks like an outfit. Hmm. As long as I wear a bra—“ “You’ll be perfect,” Don told her. “Shall I help you get dressed?” he inquired. “Do you want to?” she questioned, laughing. “You do know I’m sick, right? And probably contagious?” “Doesn’t stop me from sleeping next to you, does it?” he inquired. “Let alone taking the opportunity to dress my gorgeous wife.” He took the towel and dried her off, patting at the base of her neck, her breasts, the crevices of her thighs and legs. “Hold up your arms,” he instructed. “Not before I put my bra on,” she told him, reaching for a black lacy confection. “Okeydoke,” he said after she had strapped it on. “Now hold up your arms.” She obeyed, laughing. He carefully tugged the snug black t-shirt over her head. “Now the pants,” he informed her. She had already tugged a pair of comfortable black panties up her legs so she simply spread them out before him; he helped slip the black pants up her body and knot them around her waist. “Beautiful,” he proclaimed as she twirled in the mirror. “And sick,” she croaked, and reached for a tissue. “But thank you.” “Want some cough syrup?” he inquired. “I see you’ve got NyQuil, Robitussin, Sudafed, Advil- well, that’s not cough syrup, is it- and some other concoction here-“ “Honestly, I just want breakfast,” she said. “Come on, then,” he told her lightly and the two of them left the bedroom together, at which point he escorted her to the table. She looked at the platter, the orange juice and coffee waiting for her, the scrambled eggs and the bagel, which Amber had thoughtfully taken out of the toaster and set up for her. Then she was struck by the white paper rose. “Aw, Don,” she exclaimed. “Thank you!” “No problem,” he said, though to see her face made it all worth it. She looked like a child having received some incredible toy.

© The Curious Jew “Mommy!” Ryan called to her from his chair. His grandfather was in the process of trying to make him eat his Cheerios. “Grandma says we’re going to bake cookies! And then I have a playdate!” “You sure you’re up for it?” Amy questioned Amber. “Oh yes. Cookies are my specialty. As is apple pie,” she smirked, throwing a glance at Steve. Steve shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say? She’s got a point,” he stated. Ryan looked at them both innocently. “Pie?” he questioned and everyone burst out laughing. “Chocolate chip cookies as far as you’re concerned, darling,” his Grandma assured him, at which point he banged on the table with his spoon delightedly. “Guess I’d better go,” Don stated regretfully. “No worries. Enjoy Auntie May,” his mother winked at him. “Oh, I will,” he muttered under his breath as he strode outside and into the garage, turning on the ignition. He loved his jeep; it was black, convenient and offered him the height he wanted. He revved the engine and opened the garage door, tasting the sparkling frigid air of Chicago in winter. The last thing he wanted to do right now was drive to O’Hare. But drive he must, he resigned himself to the task determinedly, and so it would be. He didn’t even know what this May girl looked like, or how he would get in touch with her. He pulled out his cell phone. “Mom?” he questioned after Amber picked up her phone. “Do you have May’s phone number? How’m I gonna know who she is?” “Oh, don’t worry,” Amber said. “She’ll be the only one not dressed for the Chicago weather.” “Are you sure?” Don’s brow wrinkled worriedly. “Isn’t there a better way I can identify her?” “She’ll also be wearing a straw hat over long golden braids.” “What?” Don asked, slamming his foot on the brake as he did so; he screeched to a stop just before a pedestrian crossed the street. The pedestrian glared at him. Don sighed. “She told me she figured the straw hat would make her easy to identify.” “And a cell phone number wouldn’t?” he inquired. “Cell phone numbers are conventional,” Amber informed him. “I get the impression May is not.” Don rolled his eyes. “That’s all I need,” he told the ceiling of his car. “Unconventional girls interrupting my normal Saturday routine.” He thought for a second. “Hey, didn’t she call you- like to say she was a relative? Don’t you have her number from then?” “Nope,” Amber said sweetly. “She used a pay-phone.” “Damn!” Don exclaimed as he hung up the phone. It was going to be a long Saturday.

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