they know—the people in charge—that we see what they’re doing and we’re against it. Even if we can’t stop it or change it, we’re not going to ignore it either.” As he speaks, his voice grows louder, but not loud enough to drown out the roar of traffic. Behind him, several demonstrators start to fold up their chairs and put away their signs.
The scraggly-bearded man checks his watch and gives the others a nodded signal.
“My name’s Chas, by the way. Like I said, this may not be your scene, but—”
“Oh no,” I say. “I used to be a Quaker.”
He pauses, cocks his head. “Okay.”
That was a stupid thing to say, a stupid way of putting it. What I mean is, I know what it’s like to be unwilling to ignore things just because you can’t stop or change them, and while I might not forward mass e-mails or shout at intersections, I’m not . . . I don’t know what I’m not, but I’m not.
“You know,” Chas says, glancing at Eli, then back at me. “Here’s what you ought to do. Come hang out with the Rent-a-Mob this weekend.”
“The what?”
He smiles. “It’s my little name for us. Not just these folks, but a whole bunch of us. We’re not going to a demo this weekend, just working on signs, but it would be a great chance to meet everybody and see if—” He breaks off, gazing over my shoulder. “It would be a great chance—” Again, over the shoulder.
I turn around and see what he’s looking at. On my bumper, the Jesus fish glows like molten silver, sparkling in the sun. A car rushes past, obscuring the fish for an instant, but then it reappears with an insistent flash. Refusing to be hidden under a bushel, or behind a passing vehicle. As I glance back at Chas, I feel my cheeks begin to flush.
“Anyway,” he says, digging under the flap of his chest pocket to produce a card. “Take this.”
I hold the thick card in my hand. CHAS WORTHING, it says. And underneath in red letters: ACTIVIST + POET.
Is that a thing? You can get business cards for it?
“Seriously, you should come this weekend,” he says. “Every Sunday afternoon we get together. It’s at my place this time.”
“I wish we could. We’re leaving town, going on vacation.” I see Eli’s smile widening. “In Florida.”
“Well,” Chas says, “if you change your mind, you know where to reach me.”
“You lied to Chas,” Eli says.
“Don’t start in on me.”
“You told him we’d be gone, but we’re not supposed to leave until next week, right? Did you not want to hang out with the Rent-a-Mob?”
“Honey, sometimes—”
“You just have to lie to people, I know.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“You were right,” he says. “That was a life lesson.”
He starts to laugh. I start laughing too. I can’t help it. The whole thing is ridiculous.
“I’m worried about you, Mom,” he says. “I think you might have some hippie loser in you.”
“You bet I do.”
We turn down our street and pull into our driveway. When I pop the hatch, Eli doesn’t go for his fractured bike. Instead, he grabs some groceries and helps me bring them inside. Maybe he learned something back there after all.
chapter 2
Now I Lay Me Down
One of the joys of living in a charming old house: having to use a screwdriver to shut the hot water off. Rick is many things, but handy isn’t one of them.
I step out of the tub carefully. As always, I imagine my foot slipping on the tile, my hand clutching the shower curtain that circles the old cast-iron tub, pulling it loose ring by ring on my way to a hip-shattering fall. Instead—again, as always—I stick the landing. I am not as old as I feel.
Before I can get ready, I have to wipe the condensation from the bathroom mirror. Then I wipe the fog from my five-year-old cell phone to check the time. The Shaws will be here in an hour.
Yes, I’m taking a shower, my first of the day. And yes, my phone is so old that all it does is make and receive calls. No games, no music, no e-mail alert chiming every thirty seconds. Nothing but a handy clock. Which is a good thing since the battery in my Seiko died some time ago without my noticing.
Rick taps on the door. “Honey, are you done?”
“I just got out of the shower,” I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice.