The truth is that the pen-pal business fit snugly into Mom's autumn. No more back-porch nude tanning, but not yet time for Christmas masterminding. On the calendar, it's simple. Johnny's first letter came in the middle of September and the last one slithered into the mailbox just before Thanksgiving, between Mom's Moxie's magazine and the Priceless Savings coupon book. The affair was something between a good deed and a rendezvous by mail.

It was part of Mom's search--her exploration, her investigation, her rummaging around through her own head. Dad went first in July, of course. His body got in her path like a big shadow, or an elephant. He was sabotaging the search that she had initiated. It was a search for herself. July was about the same time she began prattling on about the Moxie poets, too. Then came August. Mom's friend Bunny came over and slumbered the way my friends should have. They read from Moxie aloud and tied up the phone line, making three-way calls to friends who were home with their husbands. They'd hang up, and Bunny would sigh. She told Mom she had more moxie than any other woman Bunny knew. I listened in like I was the secret police. I heard Bunny spill so many compliments on Mom, she practically had to bathe them off.

I used to wish Frank would beat me silly, Mom said. I needed a reason.

It was late August right before Johnny's letters started, and I was eavesdropping on her breakfast with Bunny again. They were talking about Dad.

In your dreams, Susanna--Frank couldn't slay a dandelion, Bunny said. She laughed and slurped her orange juice.

A life of silent desperation, Mom said. The Moxie poets call it like it is.

But now you've got Moxie--real guts, Bunny said. And they smiled. I saw it as I trudged into the kitchen, squinting my eyes, pretending to recognize nothing but the cupboard straight ahead. It was the adult smile. It was the smile that secretes sweet, invisible venom in the air--the one that says no woman needs a husband.