Free I'd Rather Be in Philadelphia by Gillian Roberts

number crunchers go into teaching, which is why we take care of that side. But Neil is, perhaps, even a little less…or, it could simply be all the pressures on him at this time. My point is, you mustn’t generalize from one example. Speaking out of school”—he winked at me after his little wordplay—“we’ll be working more closely with Neil from now on. He’ll be fine.”
    He asked if I had any questions, but I couldn’t think of any, so I was offered a packet of information to look over.
    “What a day for your introduction to us!” he said. “A lunatic and a fire. I hope you understand things are generally more subdued.” We thanked each other profusely. Not until I was outside, in my windy car, did I realize two things. One was that I’d never found out what had become of little Hughie Teller. And more important, I was still carrying my manila envelope of required material. I’d been so tense, I’d clutched it tight the entire interview.
    I could understand my nervousness, but not Teller’s. None of the obvious, basic questions had been asked. I wasn’t even certain whether he knew what my subject area was. And yet interviewing candidates must have been second nature to him by now.
    Unless, despite his serene exterior, despite his casual dismissal of the crazy lady’s claims, she’d derailed him. And if so, why?

Six
    BETH’S HOUSE HAS ALWAYS SEEMED AN OASIS OF CALM, SOMETIMES ANNOYINGLY, phlegmatically so. It is dust- and anger-free, or so I always thought. It was nearly impossible to imagine its adult inhabitants raising their voices, let alone fists.
    But I didn’t spend all that much time with my sister, because our lives don’t have a lot of crossover points. To some extent, Beth is a living museum, the Fifties before photo contrasted with today’s woman. She wears aprons and bakes cakes from scratch and performs unpaid good deeds for family, friends, and community.
    The truly happy homemaker.
    At least I always thought so.
    But maybe I was only invited over during what the book identified as Phase Three—the loving, repentant final third of the violence cycle. Maybe when the tension built again, Beth stopped calling and we all looked the other way, like Sasha’s bruised family skeleton.
    * * *
    I inspected Beth during the long-distance, germ-free kissing and cooing over baby Alexander, still curled in his prenatal position, but outside his mother nowadays, in a sling she wore on her belly.
    “Don’t stare,” she said. “I know I’m still a tank. If he’d weighed forty-five pounds, I’d be as svelte as you, but he was thirty-eight pounds short.”
    The house denied the idea of cold or winter or night. Firelight flickered over low, full bookshelves, comfortably upholstered furniture, and a teapot covered by a cozy. Ella Fitzgerald was singing “Just One of Those Things.” My niece Karen raced in, hugged, jumped up and down, made note of how silly-looking her baby brother was, then bounded off toward the sounds of Sesame Street floating in from the family room. The baby slept close to his mother’s heart and we could have been on the set of a prime-time special called Home Sweet Home . I hoped it wasn’t as much a facade as that would be.
    Impossible. Beyond this point may lie monsters—but not this particular point. Sometimes, in this setting, I feel the Pauper to Beth’s Princess and I yearn to get to the part where our roles are reversed when Beth tackles the singles’ jungle, unpaid bills, maladjusted kids, and men in not much better shape. Let me cope with polishing silver and kissing scrapes.
    But only sometimes, and only fleetingly, and definitely not tonight.
    Beth asked how the interview had gone, and I regaled her with the doings at the Learning Center. “Poor Wynn,” she murmured. “Kooks seem the price of fame, don’t they?”
    “Things were so crazy, I forgot to send your regards to him or his wife,” I admitted.
    “No matter. I’ll see her soon. She missed