Yes, he did. He got sick, then they amputated his leg, then he died, then you sold the beach house in Winthrop and moved in with your parents.

No, I didn’t. That was my mother, Mrs. Plath.

Who is this? the caller demands.

This is Sylvia Plath Hughes.

This isn’t Mrs. Plath?

No.

Oh. Wrong number.

The line goes emphatically dead, blood bursting like a tomato out of the receiver, wetting her ear. She holds the phone away, horrified, as worms begin to rice out of the mouthpiece, flabby and flaccid, flapping in unison: pink fringe. The worms ooze longer and longer. She drops the phone. It clatters on the floorboards like a kitchen knife. The handset begins to vibrate and she reaches for the receiver, slick with blood, wipes her hands on her nightgown as she brings the ringing telephone again to her ear.

All righty, says a pert bloke.

Who is this? she asks, her vocal chords tightening.

Cheerily, in an Irish brogue, the caller begins to recite:

Now that we’re almost settled in our house

I’ll name the friends that cannot sup with us

Beside a fire of turf in th’ ancient tower …

This is the engineer, madam, calling to hook up your extension.

But how did you get this number? I don’t even have a phone.

Who is this? the caller demands, drawing himself up.

It’s Mrs. Hughes, she answers, her voice suddenly gummy with fear.

Oh. Wrong number.

She leans down and picks up the phone by the scruff of its neck, replacing the receiver on the cradle, observing herself immune, as if accustomed, to the feather flap and ripping, the rending of flesh from the bathroom, where the tiles are smeary with meat. The phone rings again as the receiver connects, and she’s not surprised.

Hullo, Mrs. Hughes? the matronly voice asks. I’m ringing from the nanny placement agency. We can place a highly qualified nanny with you straightaway.

There she is: it’s Rose Key—dressed like a schoolgirl, her fat, capitulating knees showing, saddle shoes and anklets, clutching her cardigan over a nylon slip, with garish hair. Another appalling surprise—

No? says the agency lady. Then perhaps you’d like to wait. We have a German au pair who will be ready to be placed very soon, as soon as she’s made some of her own domestic arrangements. Very exotic and unscrupulous, but fascinating. Would you like to speak with her?

She’s not sure. Her tension spikes in objective wonderment: What will she do? Seconds pass, vacant. Um, all right, she responds unconvincingly.

Hullo? says the German au pair. Her voice is low, thick and gutteral. I love children, she says, crossing her tanned, slender bare arms, the phone cord snaking around them. I’ve waited a long time for the right children.