Connie had run the glasses and dishes through the dishwasher and was just starting on the second sinkload of pots, when Dolly burst into the kitchen, weeping. Luis had been teasing her about how she had been talking about marrying Geraldo and nothing had happened.

After Dolly had wept on Connie’s shoulder as so many, so countless many times before, blown her nose, and put her makeup back on layer by delicate layer in the small bathroom off the kitchen, she settled in a chair. “Why did you want so bad to spend Thanksgiving here?” Dolly asked her. “I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”

“How come you have to? At least if you go to Carmel she doesn’t make you cry.”

“Yeah, Carmel keeps after me, she just makes me mad.”

“How come you didn’t bring Nita? Is she for real sick?”

“Carmel’s pretending. She doesn’t want to be alone on Thanksgiving. Nita has a little cold, a drippy nose, is all. Carmel says she has her the rest of the time, she gets to keep her holidays. She only did it to spite him. I get caught in the middle. I have to get back to work. He always wants to collect everybody together like some crazy sideshow!” A moment later she was sniveling again. “How can he say I’m fat? How can he? … You know Adele’s only nine years older than me? Just the difference between me and Mark!”

After Adele had put the little ones to bed, she wandered into the kitchen, where Connie and Dolly were putting the dishes away out of the dishwasher here and there, by chance.

“You put the good crystal in the dishwasher!” She was morose now, tense. “You could have broken it all! You don’t do that with crystal. You wash it by hand, of course. Are you so lazy? Or I suppose you’ve never seen a good piece of crystal before.” She was talking to herself. She puttered around the kitchen in low‑pitched sulky anger. Dolly giggled softly; Adele appeared not to hear. We are not three women, Connie thought. We are ups and downs and heavy tranks meeting in the all‑electric kitchen and bouncing off each other’s opaque sides like shiny pills colliding.

She stuffed a bread knife into the hem of her dress and walked carefully upstairs, aware of its swinging and bumping. Again that night Luis locked her in. Lying stiffly on the bed, this time she heard him turn the key in the lock. She went through the empty drawers of the dresser, she went through the shelves of the medicine cabinet, finding aspirin, toothpaste, antiperspirant, shampoo, a room deodorizer. The bedroom window was closed with an air conditioner. The bathroom window opened a foot and a half after she worked on it with the knife for half an hour. Then she leaned out into that drop, two stories to concrete. No vines, no convenient fire escape, no porch or garage roof to drop to. She was still trapped. She worked on the doorjamb till she was drenched with sweat, but could not get the hall door open.

Friday was a big workday and also her last full day outside the hospital. Saturday she was to clean in the morning and then be carried back to Manhattan well before the party. Friday morning she spent cooking dishes for Saturday’s buffet–three large cakes and two mousses for dessert. At two o’clock Luis came home to fetch her, taking her off to his nursery and greenhouses. The other places were just retail outlets. Here she had worked three months for Luis, transplanting, spraying.

Luis drove her over in his white Eldorado, which felt as big as the patient lounge. He had the radio on but after a while he shut it off to launch at her. She sighed and tried to dampen herself to endure.

“You seem pretty quiet this time. Not like the old Connie. Did they finally teach you a lesson in keeping your mouth shut?”

“I been helpful to Adele. Haven’t I been working hard?”

“A lot harder than you’re used to working. If you can call that work. You liked the food yesterday, didn’t you?” He chuckled.

“I cooked it. Didn’t I do a good job?”

“With Adele standing over you, sure. And careful to hide the chili powder. Yeah, you’ve been toned down a bit, taken down a peg or two. I bet you’d be glad for a job in the greenhouse now.”

“Sure I would, Lewis. If you’d sign me out, I’d go to work tomorrow.” She was craning her neck, trying to figure out where they were and how near public transportation. Maybe at the nursery she could get away. She knew exactly how to get back to Manhattan from there; she’d done it every day for three months. She had slipped the money out of her purse, in case he took that from her, and secreted it in her bra, feeling like a spy, a secret agent. It wasn’t too comfortable. The stiff paper rubbed her breast. The nursery looked as it had when she’d worked there, except it was winter now and much less stock stood outside in rows, only what they grew themselves. Most of the stock was shipped to them in spring from the South, from Ohio, even from Texas, brought in by truck.

The greenhouses were full. Luis’s top man, Richie, and his secretary came running after him as soon as he stepped through the door. Luis turned her over to Gino, the sixty‑year‑old grizzled Italian who ran the greenhouses, saying, “Keep an eye on her. She’s crazy as a bedbug and she’s likely to try to bolt. I don’t want to be responsible to that hospital for her escape. So keep one eye on the door. I’m taking her coat to lock up, so she wouldn’t get far … . Now, I want you both to pick out good plants for my house, for the party. We’re having a tropical motif. No gardenias. And I want perfect specimens. No curled leaves, no bug damage, nothing. You go over them and you look and look hard. I want about thirty good ones. No rubber plants. Take a big Norfolk pine. No coleus, no begonias. Take some Dutch amaryllis. Everything’s labeled on the end, Connie, if you don’t remember. Take a big pineapple and a few of the other fancy bromeliads. Take a careful look at the flowering maples and see if any are good enough. No cactus! Some jackass always backs into them. Gino, you pick out orchids yourself. Collect everything by the loading dock and I’ll have the truck deliver it. One of the larger figs might be good. You look at them and pick out whatever’s blooming best or got fruit on. There’s some miniature citrus. Take a look, see if the butterfly lilies are out. Maybe a coffee tree. No Venus flytraps, none of the gruesome ones. Some fool always sticks a cigarette in. Now get moving. And use your eyes. You may be doped up, Connie, so you move like you’ve got lead in your britches, but I want you to use your eyes. Nothing but the best, you hear me?”

Gino helped himself to a cough drop and said nothing. After Luis left, he squinted at her, asking in his hoarse voice, “You work here one time?”

“Yeah, five years ago. For a while.”

“You remember where things are? Okay. You take what he said to the loading dock. I’ll look it over good for him. Listen, we got nowhite flies in here. We got the cleanest greenhouse in New Jersey.” He spat into a bright handkerchief that reminded her of Luciente. “I got two thousand things to do besides worry about the boss’s party. So you pick out the plants and I look them over when you finish. Okay. If you want to run away with no coat, it’s sixteen degrees out there and you’re crazy for sure. So you better just go to work. You’ll never get past the gate anyhow unless you can fly.”

She picked out smart‑looking plants, the ones with the shiniest leaves, the most graceful drooping foliage, the showiest flowers, the most exotic fruit. As best she could, she hauled them to the locked doors of the loading dock. A couple of times she had to yell for help, till Gino reluctantly assigned her five minutes from one of the other overworked, underpaid greenhouse employees. The pesticides had used to make her sick. She had worked long hours till her back ached and never stopped aching day and night, and it had taken her so long to come and go on public transportation she had had no time to spend with her own child. All for two dollars an hour and bad headaches. The poisons could kill if she breathed them, if they only touched her skin. Even when she wore a face mask, they got to her.