Wife 22 (18 page)

“I saw a mouse yesterday,” says Caroline, unpacking vegetables from a canvas bag. “It ran under the fridge. I don’t want to freak you out but that makes two this week, Alice. Maybe you should get a cat.”

“We don’t need a cat. We have Zoe. She’s an expert mouse catcher,” I say.

“Too bad she’s still in school all day,” says William.

“Well, maybe you can fill in for her,” I say. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“This rainbow chard looks amazing!” says Caroline.

“Except for those little bugs,” I say. “Are those mites?”

William paws through the chard. “That’s dirt, Alice, not mites.”

William and Caroline are just back from an early-morning trip to the farmers’ market.

“Was the bluegrass band there?” I ask him.

“No, but there was somebody playing ‘It Had to Be You’ on a suitcase.”

“It’s pretty,” I say, fingering the yellow and magenta stalks, “but it seems like the color would leech out once you cook it.”

“Maybe we should put it in a salad,” suggests Caroline.

William snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it. Let’s do Lidia’s
strangozzi
with chard and almond sauce. Ina’s gingerbread will be perfect for dessert.”

“I vote for salad,” I say, because if I am forced to eat another heavy meal I will
strangozzi
William. He’s found a new hobby, or should I say reignited an old passion—cooking. Every night for the past week, we’ve sat down to elaborate meals that William and his sous-chef, yet-to-be-employed Caroline, have dreamed up. I’m not sure what I feel about this. A part of me is relieved to not have to shop, plan meals, and cook, but another part of me feels uprooted at the sudden shift in William’s and my roles.

“I hope we have durum semolina,” says William.

“Lidia uses half durum, half white flour,” says Caroline.

Neither of them notices when I leave the kitchen to get ready for work.

There are only three weeks left before school ends, and these are the most stressful weeks of the year for me. I’m mounting six different plays—one for every grade. Yes, each play is only twenty minutes long, but believe me, that twenty-minute performance takes weeks of casting, staging, designing sets, and rehearsal.

When I walk into the classroom that morning, Carisa Norman is
waiting for me. She begins crying as soon as she sees me. I know why she’s crying—it’s because I made her a goose. The third-grade play this semester is
Charlotte’s Web
. I look at her tear-stained face and wonder why didn’t I give her the role of Charlotte. She would have been perfect for it. Instead I made her one of three geese, and unfortunately geese have no lines. To make up for this, I told the geese they could honk whenever they wanted to. Trust themselves. They’d know when the honking moment was right. This was a mistake, because the honking moment turned out to be every moment of the play.

“Carisa, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Why aren’t you at recess?”

She hands me a plastic baggie. It looks like it’s filled with oregano. I open the bag and sniff—it’s marijuana.

“Carisa, where did you find this!”

Carisa shakes her head, distraught.

“Carisa, sweetheart, you have to tell me,” I say, trying to hide the fact that I’m horrified. Kids are smoking pot in elementary school? Are they dealing, too?

“You’re not going to get in trouble.”

“My parents,” she says.

“This belongs to your parents?” I ask.

I think her mother is on the board of the Parents’ Association. Oh, this is not good.

She nods. “Will you give it to the police? That’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re a kid and find drugs.”

“And how do you know that?”

“
CSI Miami
,” she says solemnly.

“Carisa, I want you to go enjoy recess and don’t give this another thought. I’ll take care of it.”

She throws her arms around me. Her barrette is about to fall off. I re-clip it, pulling the hair back from her eyes.

“Shut the worry switch off, okay?” This is something I used to say to my kids before they went to bed. When did I stop doing this? Maybe I should reinstitute the ritual. I wish somebody would switch off my worry.

In between classes I fight with myself over the proper course of action. I should take the pot directly to the principal and tell her exactly what happened—that sweet Carisa Norman narced on her parents. But if I do, there’s a possibility the principal might call the police. I don’t want that, of course, but doing nothing is not an option either, given Carisa’s emotionally labile state. If there’s one thing I know about third-graders, it’s that most of them are incapable of hiding anything—eventually they will confess. Carisa can’t take back what she knows.

At lunch, I lock the classroom door and Google “medical marijuana” on my laptop. Maybe the Normans have a medical marijuana card. But if they did, surely the marijuana would be dispensed in a prescription bottle—not a ziplock baggie. Maybe I could ask a professional how they typically dispense their wares. I click on
Find a Dispensary Near You
and am about to choose between Foggy Daze and the Green Cross when my cell rings.