No, the book was bound to be a bust. And frankly, my dear, I didn’t give a damn. I couldn’t stop thinking about how cruelly SueEllen had treated Heidi at dinner. Maybe that’s why all her other writers quit. Maybe they, too, got a glimpse of life behind the scenes At Home With SueEllen.

A part of me (the noble sensitive part) felt like quitting, but another part of me (the part who likes being able to pay the rent) couldn’t pass up three thousand dollars a week. So I stayed put on the toilet, taking notes and counting the minutes until it was over.

At last, SueEllen set me free. I practically flew downstairs and out to my car. I wondered if I’d run into Heidi, but she was nowhere in sight.

After a cozy dinner at home (Progresso minestrone for me and Fancy Fish Entrails for Prozac), I headed off to the Shalom Retirement Home, where I teach a class in memoir writing. It’s a small class, only about a half dozen students. Most of them women in their eighties. All of them with a lot to say, and not much time left to say it. Sometimes they drive me nuts, but all in all, teaching that class is one of the most gratifying things I’ve ever done in my life.

When I showed up at the Shalom conference room that night, a rose was waiting for me at my place at the head of the table. It was a gift from Mr. Goldman, the lone man in my class. A short man with an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Magoo, Abe Goldman has a flaming crush on me, a fact that he doesn’t bother to hide. He’s always bringing me little tokens of his affection—an apple, a stick of sugarless gum, a free sample of cereal that came with his morning paper. Tonight, it was a rose.

“For you, cookie,” he said with a wink. At least I thought it was a wink. Mr. Goldman has a chronic tic so I can never quite tell when he’s winking or blinking.

“How nice, Mr. Goldman. Thank you.”

Mrs. Pechter, a powdery woman with bosoms the size of throw pillows, shot him a look of utter disdain.

“He picked it off a funeral wreath,” she said.

“Oh?” I quickly put the rose back down on the table.

“Poor Esther Sobol died,” Mrs. Rubin said. “We went to the funeral today.”

Mrs. Rubin was a tiny birdlike woman. Although they had their share of quarrels, she and Mrs. Pechter were best friends. I always thought of Mrs. Rubin as Laurel to Mrs. Pechter’s Hardy.

“Can you believe it?” Mrs. Pechter shot a look at Mr. Goldman. “He picked a flower from a funeral wreath.”

“So what?” Mr. Goldman shrugged. “You think Esther’s gonna notice?”

“Maybe Esther won’t, but God will.”

“Oh, please,” Mr. Goldman snorted. “With all the crazy things going on in the world, you think God cares whether or not I picked a rose from Esther Sobol’s funeral wreath?”