“What’s she done?”

“Right now she’s teaching Tiffany how to tango.”

I giggled.

“Not funny. You got any of that Ritalin stuff left from when you taught school? I think she needs some.”

“You think they gave it to the teachers to hand out like candy?”

“From what I read in the papers.”

“No, I don’t have any Ritalin. But it does sound like she might have some problems. Get Richard to take her to a doctor.”

“He and Luke won’t come downstairs. They hear the tango music.” Sister paused. “The whole damn neighborhood hears the music.”

“Then I know I’m going in my car. ’Bye, Sister.”

“Wait a minute.”

“What?”

I could practically hear the wheels in her brain turning.

“I swear I’ll forgive you for losing my Shirley Temple doll.”

I knew she was lying. We’ll go to our graves with her holding that against me. “Fifty-six curls, Patricia Anne,” she’s been saying for fifty-five years. “Fifty-six perfect little corkscrew curls, and those precious little red leather shoes with one button, and you lost her.”

The fact that she had even mentioned the subject of forgiving me for Shirley Temple, a crime I didn’t even remember committing, told me how desperate she was, though.

“Make Richard take her,” I said.

“But Virgil is expecting me.”

“Virgil has a pot belly. You can’t say anything about Fred’s anymore.”

Silence. Then, “I know, but it’s okay.”

Of course I ended up going with them. Maybe I just lost my mind and thought there was a slight chance that Sister really might forgive me for the Shirley Temple doll. Maybe I was still under the influence of jet lag. Or maybe, God forbid, I’d never figured out how to keep Sister from bossing me around. I think I know which “maybe” it was.

So we headed back up I-59, three old ladies on a thin day in January in a Jaguar. I was getting familiar with the territory. On a billboard just past Trussville was an advertisement for Schaeffer Eye Center, a pair of glasses with lights running around the frames. It reminded me of the billboard in The Great Gatsby, the all-seeing eye.

Virginia kept reaching over to change the radio station to dance music. It would instantly revert to WBHM and classical music.

“Something’s wrong with this radio,” Virginia said.

“Got good taste,” Mary Alice said, her hand hiding the controls on the steering wheel.

“Huh.” Virginia gave up on the radio, pulled off her shoes, and propped her feet on the dashboard. Her fingers played a piano tune on the knees of her black slacks. I tried to figure out the tune and finally decided it was either “Jingle Bells” or “Chopsticks.”

“Have you heard from the Gordon guy?” I asked.

Virginia didn’t miss a note. “Gone home to Seattle. He’s fine.”