I loosen my tie, turn on my laptop, and get to work.

11

claire

I walk into Elisa’s house on the Fourth of July and find her in the kitchen talking on the phone. She motions toward the refrigerator. There’s a pitcher of iced tea, so I grab a glass from the cupboard and help myself. I take a drink. It’s icy cold with a hint of lemon, just the way I like it.

When Elisa hangs up she says, “Claire! You look so pretty.” She takes in my white sleeveless top and knee-length, flowing white skirt and sandals. As soon as I’m reunited with my children I’ll be wearing parade dirt and sticky handprints, but for now I’m pristine. I got my hair blown out this afternoon when I went in for a trim, and it lays shiny and straight to the middle of my back. A floppy, wide-brimmed sun hat and an armful of silver bangles complete my outfit.

“Thanks,” I say. “I felt like mixing it up a bit.” What will probably happen is that I’ll be back in shorts and a tank top by tomorrow, but it’s been a long time since I was even remotely dressed up, so here I am.

I take another sip of tea and sit down on a bar stool. The kids are marching in our town’s yearly Fourth of July parade, Josh and Travis with their Cub Scout troop, and Jordan with her dance studio. Chris is home for the holiday and he and Skip volunteered to drop off the kids and will follow the parade on foot and meet up with us when it’s over. A carnival has been set up in the park directly across from the end of the parade route, and the kids are beyond excited about riding the Ferris wheel and Tilt-A-Whirl.

Elisa grabs a glass from the cupboard, pours some wine from an open bottle of sauvignon blanc that she pulls out of the fridge, and takes a drink.

“Did you take a test?” I ask when she plunks herself down on a stool next to me.

She shakes her head. “I didn’t have to. I got my period a day early.”

There’s no medical reason Elisa can’t get pregnant, so every month she holds out hope. Determined to have another child, she’s tried everything from in vitro to acupuncture to meditation. Skip tries to convince her not to stress about it and has suggested more than once that maybe this is God’s way of saying their family is complete. His words fall on deaf ears. If she’s lucky enough to get pregnant, she says she won’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, only that the baby is healthy, but her desire for a daughter is almost tangible, like you could reach out and touch it if you wanted. Feel the solid weight of it in your palm.

After we finish our drinks we drive to the park, setting up our chairs in the front row at the end of the parade route so we can collect the kids when they’re done marching. It’s hot, but not unbearably so, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Perfect parade weather.

Not much is happening, at least not yet. Two toddlers waving flags sit with their mothers on a blanket and a group of preteen girls walk by, their cheeks displaying temporary tattoos of red, white, and blue stars. The thumping music from the nearby carnival rides reach my ears, as does the smell of freshly popped popcorn.

Two police officers are leaning up against a squad car, talking. The tall, dark-haired one looks familiar. “Remember the police officer that pulled me over for that taillight last month?” I ask.

“The ridiculously good-looking one?” Elisa says.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that’s him over there. The one with the dark hair.”

She shields her eyes from the late afternoon sun and looks in their direction. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. He’s easy on the eyes.”

“I know. I can’t even imagine how many propositions he must field during a normal workday,” I say.

“I’m sure he’s heard it all.”

Maybe I’m mistaken, but the dark-haired officer appears to be looking over at us, squinting slightly as though he’s trying to place our faces.

“Who did you talk to at the police station when you called about the speed limit sign?” Elisa asks.

“I don’t know. The dispatcher, maybe?”

I’d called the police department about getting a speed limit sign after Bridget and I encountered a speeding car while we were on one of our walks. We’d barely made it onto the sidewalk when a car roared down the street, startling us both.

“Jesus,” Bridget yelled at the driver. “Slow down!”

The teenage boy behind the wheel flipped her off and we returned the salute, each of us jabbing the air with both of our middle fingers for emphasis.

“Well,” Bridget said, chuckling, “we showed him.” Rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity and ineffectiveness of our actions, she said, “One of the kids is going to get hit crossing the street and then no one will be laughing.”

It was a sobering thought. “I told Elisa that we need one of those speed limit signs,” I replied. “I’ll make a few calls and see what we need to do.”

“They have one in my sister’s neighborhood,” Bridget said. “She says it helps.”

When I called the police department I found out that we weren’t the only ones who wanted one. Apparently there’s a bigger demand than they’re able to supply and we have to wait our turn. Who knows how long it will be before we get one?

“Do you think it would help if we talked to someone directly?” Elisa asks, motioning toward the officers. “Explain how bad the speeding is? Maybe they could bump us up a few spots on the list.”

“Maybe,” I say. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

I follow Elisa over to where they’re standing, and they stop talking as we approach. The dark-haired one smiles; he’s definitely the officer who pulled me over.

Elisa thrusts her hand out. “Hi. I’m Elisa Sager.”

He shakes it. “Daniel Rush.”

Elisa introduces me. “This is my neighbor Claire Canton.”

I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

The officer standing with Daniel looks near retirement age, with nondescript features and strawberry-blond hair that’s thinning all over. Freckles—or maybe they’re age spots—dot his skin. “This is Officer Eric Spinner,” Daniel says.

“It’s a pleasure,” he says, shaking our hands. The sound of shouting reaches us and both officers look toward a group of rowdy teenage boys. Two of them are trading insults and their language is enough to make me wince. Daniel pauses, listening, and takes a step forward. “I’ve got it,” Officer Spinner says, and I watch as he walks toward them.

“You probably don’t remember me, but you pulled me over for a burned-out taillight about a month ago,” I say.

He nods. “I do remember you. Did you get it taken care of?”

“Yes.”

Smiling at me, he says, “Good.”

“We had a question we were wondering if you could answer.”

“Sure,” he says. “What is it?”

“We live in Rockland Hills and the speed limit on our street is virtually ignored. I called and we’re on the waiting list to get a speed limit sign. Do you know how long it usually takes?”

“How long have you been waiting?” he asks.

“Not long,” I admit. “Maybe two weeks? I’m just curious about how long it usually takes.”

“It depends,” he says. He opens the door of the police car, leans in, and emerges with a business card and a pen. “What’s your address? I’ll see what I can do.”

“Really? That would be great. Thank you.” I give him my address and after he writes it down he slips the card into his pocket.

“No problem,” he says. He scans the crowd, his eyes roaming left to right, but his body language seems relaxed as he leans back against the car.

Elisa’s phone rings and she pulls it out of her pocket. “It’s Skip. I’ll be right back,” she says, walking away to take the call.