“The exterminator came today. Isabelle apparently had a little ant colony underneath the sink.”

“An ant colony?”

“She parked herself in front of the cabinet and refused to move. I had to drag her out of the kitchen. Jesus, Wilson. What is going on? Where did I go wrong?”

“Ruth.”

“I’m just glad I have no other children to fuck up.”

Wilson bites the insides of his cheeks, which are ridged from the habit. He is glad he’s said nothing about the dog; Ruth doesn’t need to hear about Maggie right now. He decides to wait also, until the evening maybe, to mention their visit to his mother. He’s not exactly sure what Ruth means by an ant colony, but it’s clear that the issue is larger than that.

“You have been nothing but a good mother,” he says.

He hears Ruth sigh.

“I did find an art class,” she says, finally.

“You see?”

“Mother-daughter, although at this point it’d probably be better if it were a father-daughter class. You’re much more creative than I am.”

“You’re creative.”

“No I’m not. I can hardly do a stick figure.”

“Well, you’re the most creative lawyer I’ve ever seen practice.”

“Please,” Ruth says. “Was, maybe.”

Wilson leans over to crack the window. “And will be again. As soon as she’s back in school. As soon as she speaks again. Soon.”

Ruth sighs. “After today, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about anyone. Before the ants, Jimmy had called again.”

“Ah. Still the helicopters? Or has he moved on?”

“Be nice, Wilson. I do worry about him. He’s already lost the job he had for all of what, two months? And the landlord is threatening eviction.”

“Eviction?”

“I don’t know. Unwarranted, of course, according to Jimmy. They don’t like the way he’s ‘decorated.’ Which probably involves black sheets and tape over the windows and all the rest, who knows. I don’t know. He’s lonely. Delusional and all the rest, yes, but fundamentally a good person.”

“You could invite him for Christmas,” Wilson suggests, though he knows better.

“I don’t think so. Not this year. I did ask him to come for the weekend, sometime.”

“And?” Wilson puts his feet onto his desk.

Ruth sighs again. She is full of sighs. “Noncommittal.”

“You do as much as you can, Ruth.”

“I guess. But it’s never enough.”

There is a click on the line that neither of them really notices; for all Ruth knows, it is the cluck of Wilson’s tongue against the roof of his mouth; for all Wilson knows, it could be a sound made as Ruth shifts the receiver from ear to ear. In the other room, Isabelle eases the kitchen phone back into its cradle, where her finger has already cut the line.

CHAPTER FIVE

FIVE

Saturday

I