For Good

"Try it now," Dink shouts from the roof where he's just finished installing a dish swaddled in a flannel pillow case, of all things. Betty Lewis's flannel pillowcase, to be exact. "To protect it," Dink had said, by way of explanation, when he'd come through the door last last night bearing his apology.

Doreen shoves Frodo from her chair, the Victorian parlor chair with red velvet upholstery that she scored curbside fourteen years ago. She sits in the space vacated by Frodo and notes that it's warm.

"Well, at least you're good for something," she tells the dog, who circles around three times before curling up in a tight ball at her feet. Spring is here, but every so often, it decides, like her husband Dink, to skip town for a few days before settling in for good.

Doreen picks up the remote and aims it at the flat screen television, the second part of Dink's apology, now hanging on the wall like a massive trophy.


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