Claudia paused. “I haven’t provided for that.”

“My suggestion, for what it’s worth?”

“Yes?”

“If he doesn’t make the million by Easter?”

“Yes?”

I had their attention.

“Then you fuck him in the ass.”

There was a deathly silence. Oops, I thought. Then Claudia slapped her knee and roared triumphantly, “Yes!” The other mothers laughed nervously. I hurried off, smiling to myself, sensing I’d just passed a crucial test. I had entered the inner circle. I was now an honorary mom—albeit a mom with a penis—but an honorary mom just the same.

Arriving late with the boys, I noticed right away that all the children at Angus Strubel’s fourth birthday party were in costume except for two, and those two were mine. I’d hurried out of the house knowing I’d forgotten something, and now I remembered what it was. As I stood in the Strubels’ doorway, Veronica, my favorite of the Jamaican babysitters, came up the steps with little Benji Walker, who was dressed in a store-bought clown costume. I smiled at Veronica, hoping for but not getting any sympathy. From across the room, in a voice louder than necessary, Gail Strubel shouted, “I told Kate it was a costume party!”

I shrugged as if to say, It’s news to me.

“Kate said she wrote it down on the calendar!”

The calendar. That faithfully prepared document. The master schedule. How Kate labored to make sure all playdates, activities, phone numbers, and especially parties were recorded there. “Without this,” she’d said only days earlier, “we won’t get through the year.” Somehow, in addition to working too many hours a week for Bruno Schwine, Kate found time to wash and fold clothes, precook and freeze meals, and pack snacks. Not only did she wear the pants, she was the über-mom. She missed playing the mom part. And for the Angus Strubel party, she couldn’t have made it easier. Just dress them according to the following instructions, she’d written on the note for that day.

I remembered it all now. But by the time I could race back home, gather up their costumes, hurry back, and dress them, the party would be nearly over. What would be the point?

I turned to see Teddy trying to pull off little Chip Bigelow’s Darth Vader mask. “No, Teddy,” I said, but it was too late. Teddy had the mask, and Chip didn’t seem to mind. Sam clung to my leg until Angus’s father, Dale Strubel, dressed as Frankenstein, appeared in the doorway to announce, “The haunted house is no longer haunted. But up on the roof, we have a witches’ brew and a hunt for the missing mummy’s finger and a great view of an almost full moon!” As he led the charge up the stairs, a cluster of kids followed, including Teddy, wearing the Darth Vader mask, and an eager Sam.

I felt the reproachful glare of Wilma Strubel, Gail’s mother-in-law. “My fault,” I said. “My wife made two terrific costumes.”

Which was an understatement: Teddy’s pirate costume was an elaborate affair—a curly black wig, one of Kate’s old blazers (bright blue), a red sash, his black L. L. Bean rain boots, a plastic sword from the Toy Attic, a makeup kit for drawing on a mustache and applying a latex scar, and a rubber hook to hold in his left hand. Sam’s ghost was simpler but was exactly what he wanted: a sheet with the head hole cut and hemmed, white sweatpants, brand-new, all-white tennis shoes, and a gray-white pancake base to cover his face.