The worst thing I can do is to hunker down alone in my house with irrational thoughts swirling through my brain, ballooning further and further out of proportion. Divorce. Begging a judge for visitation rights so I can see my daughter. Unemployment. Living in the basement of a government-subsidized rat-infested apartment building. Standing alongside a stretch of railroad tracks waiting for a train that I can throw myself under.
Okay, Phil. Take a deep breath. These are thought distortions. Recognize them and throw them away. I need to make myself busy. This is a good time to begin using my ghost phone to take on a simple task.
I search for reasonably-priced storage lockers in the vicinity. Here's one for $40 per month. I book it. Okay. Now we're making progress.
I need to get out of this house so I contact Soujouner Brooks, who insists once again that I call her "Meem." She says that if I want to pick up the bags of Tiger's Teeth weed killer in her lawn shed, she'll be home until one this afternoon. My itinerary: a shower, a quick breakfast, and then a drive across town to Meem's place.
I should let Brenna know about last night's Bernie incident and the fact that I'm in possession of his laptop.
Maybe that's not a good idea. Megan is already mad at me.
But this is a critical development. Brenna needs to know.
But when Megan finds out that I've disregarded her feelings and contacted her sister again, it may push our relationship off the cliff into the abyss.
Maybe she won't find out.
I'll think about it while I'm in the shower.
#######
9:42. I'm bathed and dressed, staring into the refrigerator. I guess I could make eggs. Do I really want to get involved with all that? My enthusiasm for eggs is waning. What are my options? Cereal? Again? Toast?
The truth of the matter is that I'm using my indecisiveness about breakfast to avoid making a decision about contacting Brenna. Maybe it's hunger rage that drives me, but the next thing I know I'm texting: Can you talk?
Brenna responds: I'll call you in 20.
I take a banana from the fruit basket, grab my car keys, and exit the house.
#######
10:17. While picking up my breakfast sandwich from the drive-through window, my phone rings. It's Brenna.
"Hey, thanks for calling." I steer my car into a parking space.
"I need to be somewhere in seven minutes. Make it quick."
"The police arrested the guy who's been following me."
"When?"
"Last night. He was in my neighbor's yard spying on me. My neighbor called the cops."
"Is it someone you know?"
"My neighbor?"
"No. The guy who's been following you."
"Yeah. His name is Bernie. I used to work with him at Dunning and Brannigan. Turns out that he's the guy that was stalking me at the coffee shop in Harrisburg."
"Does he have law enforcement or a military background?"
"No, but apparently, he's quite knowledgable about Civil War teapots."
Dead silence.
"But that's probably irrelevant," I murmur.
"Probably?"
"And I have his laptop. There are several interesting files that I think you should see."
"Okay, Phil. Start from the beginning."
#######
It's 10:32 when I pull up in front of Meem's cottage-like home, my stomach rumbling. As a grown man I should know by now that fast-food breakfast sandwiches are seldom a good idea. Especially once they've gone cold. That rubbery disk covered with a cheese-like product tasted nothing like a real egg. Oh, my stomach.
Meem opens the front door dressed in a bright blue dress with a cheerful pattern of little daisies. I notice the string of pearls around her neck when she greets me. She smells like lilacs. I smell like mosquito spray.
"Won't you come inside for a cup of coffee?" she asks.
"I don't want to bother you. I'll just get the bags out of the shed and be on my way."
"Why, it's no bother at all."
The alluring coffee aroma seeps out onto the porch. I follow her into the house. She turns off the TV on her way into the kitchen.
"Let me just check on this casserole," she says entering the kitchen. She opens the oven door. releasing an aromatic blend of baked chicken, potatoes, and vegetables.
"Well, okay then," she says, removing the casserole from the oven and setting it on the stovetop. "We'll just let that cool awhile."
She fills two coffee cups and offers one to me.
"That poor family. Heyward's been out of work since November and they got another one on the way. I try to help out any little way I can."
"They're lucky to have a neighbor like you." I add a splash of cream to my mug.
She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.
"Isn't that some mess in Utah?" She shakes her head and adds a spoonful of sugar to her coffee.
"It sure is."
"People these days have no respect."
When I take a sip, my tongue reminds me of its earlier encounter with hot coffee.
"Instead of wasting all that energy protesting and making things worse, those folks need to do something productive with their lives."
My impulse is to tell her that the TV show that she's been watching isn't really news. It's opinion that's packaged and sold to viewers as news. Meem is old enough to remember Walter Cronkite. Surely she recalls what real news journalism looked and sounded like.
"Why there's nothing in Utah anyway except for some armadillos and tumbleweeds," she repeats her show's talking points. "And deserts full of poisonous snakes, lizards, and scorpions." She shudders.
"If you don't mind, Meem, I'd like to get those bags out of the shed."
"You haven't barely touched your coffee."
"My doctor says I need to cut back on my caffeine."
"Oh, for goodness sake. A little coffee never hurt anyone."
"Yes, ma'am." I take another sip.
"You know they say those protestors are put up to that nonsense by outside agitators and communists."
"Is the shed unlocked, or do I need the key?"
"My goodness, you're in a hurry. Keep your pants on. Let me get that key for you."
Surely, Ms. Brooks has witnessed the progress forged by many groups of people who stood up against injustice. The civil rights movement in the U.S. would never have gained momentum and media attention had it not been for protestors. The same is true of the suffragettes who fought for the women's right to vote. Because of protests, organized union workers received fair pay, safer working conditions, and the institution of the 40-hour workweek. Protestors helped to end the war in Viet Nam. People in this country gave their lives for the right to protest.
Some "messaging experts" have earned their pay by spinning the Utah story to portray the victims as the bad guys. The ability to distort the truth and sway the opinion of good-hearted people like Sojourner Brooks concerns me deeply.
Meem returns with the key.
"Here you go."
"Thank you." I take another sip of coffee and place my mug on the counter. "I'll load my car and be on my way."
The churning in my stomach has intensified.
#######
5:32. We're having an unusually quiet dinner at the Robiski family dining room table. Megs refuses to make eye contact while passing the bowl of peas.
Jilly-bean loads her plate with macaroni and cheese.
"I think I figured out what my project is gonna be for the Scholastic STEM-Tastic Contest."
"The what?"
"It's in November. The winner gets to go to college for free."
"You're in third grade."
"Never too early to start planning for the future, right?"
I force a weak smile.
"Okay, so I guess nobody feels like talking about science."
Megan slices her chicken breast.
"Or anything," Jillian says. "Fine."
I look toward my wife. She's icing me out.
"So, you guys getting divorced?"
"Uh, what?" Is the best I can manage.
"Where did you get an idea like that?" Megs asks.
Jillian looks from me to her mom, then shovels another forkful of macaroni into her mouth. Apparently, she doesn't find the concept unsettling.
"Amanda says it's pretty awesome."
It's my turn to ask. "What is?"
"She has two of everything. She has her room at home and then she has her own room at her dad's house. She got to pick out a new bed and all new furniture. And he has an awesome swimming pool. He bought her a trampoline."
I check Megan's reaction. She doesn't return eye contact.
"She went on two vacations this year. She went to the beach with her mom and her aunt and then her dad took her to Disneyworld. He has a boat and they go tubing and everything."
"Eat your peas," says Megan.
"She gets two birthday parties. She gets two Christmases. How awesome is that getting to decorate two Christmas trees?"
"We could get two trees," I respond.
Jillian looks at me with an expression that reads, "You're not getting this, are you?"
I definitely get it. My phone rings. It's Carl.
"You mind if I take this call?"
Jillian says, "I don't mind."
Megan doesn't respond.
I carry my phone into the living room.
"Hello?"
"Phil. It's Carl," he says cheerfully. Nobody does a fake laugh like Carl. He's elevated it to an art form.
"Uh huh."
"Hey, I got a notice today from some woman named McSorley."
I leave him hanging.
"Brenda McSorley. Any relation to Megan? Your wife?"
"Yes. It's Brenna."
"Interesting." He manages a light chuckle.
Once again I offer him only silence.
"Say, Phil. Suppose we all get together and pass the peace pipe around."
"Who do you mean by we?"
"You, me, and Ms. McSorley. I think there's been some miscommunication. Let's hose down the campground before a fire breaks out. You with me on this?"
I wince.
"Just the three of us?" I ask.
"Sure. Let's action that."
"I'll give her a call and get back to you."
"Ping me and we'll do a face-to-face. Dive deeper and see if we can't get all the puppies wagging in unison."
I have no idea what that even means.