She eats her Turns and they seem to have an immediate effect. “What the hell,” she says, her lips chalky. “Why let ourselves get so worked up over a black-and-white TV set? The damned thing didn’t even have an antenna. Who cares? Let him choke on it. He was garbage just like all the rest of them. And speaking of trash, have you run into that Spacely woman at school lately, your father’s favorite brunette?”

“That’s Spakey, Mother, and no, I haven’t seen her. She’s a junior high teacher, and I’m at a different school now, remember?”

“Well, won’t she come to your school sooner or later for a PTA meeting or something?”

“She’ll have PTA at her own school.”

“Well, won’t she have to visit your school for some kind of a conference or something?”

I know what she’s getting at, so I give up and say, “Yes, sooner or later I guess she will.”

“And what are you going to say when you see her?”

This is one of my mother’s tests and I have no choice but to satisfy her with an appropriate answer. I take a sip of my Pepsi and stare out the window where I watch the Dinellos’ dog squat and void in our front yard. "I’ll say, 'Oh, Miss Spakey, that was very nice of you to give me an A in your class. My father only gave you a C.'

“You can do a lot better than that,” my mother says, lifting the thermos cup to her mouth.

“All right, I’ll say, 'Miss Spakey, isn’t it ironic that while I was busy adding and subtracting you were dividing and trying to multiply.'” I know this is bad. My cheeks flame. My mother looks away, a kind gesture on her part. "OK, how’s this? I’ll say, 'By the way, Miss Spakey, are you still teaching math or did they transfer you over to home wreck?'

My mother laughs, my reward. “Oh, that’s rich,” she says. “Home wreck, that’s very good.”

I think it’s just OK. Given time, I’m sure I could think of something better but, unlike my mother, I lack the ability to dwell on these vengeful scripts. I do it for her but personally I just don’t work that way. I’m certain that, when and if I ever see Miss Spakey again, we will both look away. She was my seventh-grade math teacher. Seventh grade, that was two years ago. Did she sleep with my father while I was her student? Did their union affect my grades? Did she look at me any differently? I, personally, do not care one way or the other. I don’t wish her the worst, nor do I wish her the best. I don’t wish her period. Her very existence is a mistake, but it is not my mistake, so I’d rather not waste my time thinking about it. My mother, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about it. I can practically see the thoughts as they stomp about my mother’s skull. They are the size of a cigarette lighter, yet their feet are heavy and dangerous and they give her no peace.