Viewing it from a purely numerical standpoint, the weekend seemed like not such a big deal. Barely a blip. But I've never been one to trust numbers. That was how I found myself back in church.

On the first Sunday in February, I arrived early because I needed extra time to pray. Attendance would be down, I heard one bald usher tell another, because it was Super Bowl Sunday. In addition to my primary reason for needing church, I had other concerns. First, there was a letter from Dr. Jamison Lamson, my mentor and dissertation adviser, telling me of his impending retirement and of his "regret" that my work was the only piece of "unfinished business" in his long and distinguished career. The second area of concern was ABC's post-Super Bowl airing of the family-friendly An Angel and His Wings series, starring Jeff Slade, that Kate had been threatening to watch along with an estimated forty million other viewers.

But no, that morning I stayed, as they say, on topic.

I prayed for what I wanted most: a sign. Then I made an important addendum to my prayer. Because it was my third Sunday at church, because of my elementary understanding of the Trinity (that somehow G.o.d is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit), because Peter denies Jesus three times before the c.o.c.k crows, and because my boys had become big fans of the early and rentable films of the Three Stooges, I decided to make it tougher and up the ante.

I'd need three (3) signs before I'd do G.o.d's work and indulge/ surrender to a weekend with Anna Brody. And I told G.o.d as much.

(Only an amateur churchgoer would dare challenge the Divine.) Furthermore, I prayed: Each of these signs needs to be clear, irrefutable, near miraculous.

Imagine my surprise, then, when within the hour, the First Sign arrived.

It came after the minister finished his weekly announcements and told a rather funny joke about Jesus at the Super Bowl. The congregation was still laughing when the minister raised his arms and said, "The peace of the Lord be always with you." I joined the others in saying, "And also with you."

I began to greet the other parishioners around me-handshakes, a polite nod to an older couple down the row to my left-when I felt the sharp poke of a finger in my ribs. I turned upon hearing, "You're the last person I expected to see here."

"h.e.l.lo, Bea."

She stepped up onto the pew, threw her beefy arms around my neck, and gave me a bone-crushing squeeze. I felt myself being pulled down, as if my spine might snap. She pressed her mouth to my ear and hissed, "Meet me over by the baptismal font after the service. We need to talk."

When she finally let go, I nearly fell backward.

"And Mr. Welch?"

I must have appeared dazed. "What, Bea?"

"Peace of the Lord."

As the rest of the congregation stood in line to greet the minister, I huddled with Bea near the baptismal font.

"What?" I asked.

"I have two matters to discuss with you. The first concerns your replacement."

"Oh, him."

"I always knew he was a bag of hot air. Ever since Thanksgiving, he's been the lamest teacher. You can't imagine it. Let me give you an example of the kind of thing we're doing. We are memorizing dates and time lines. He's preparing us for SATs, as if we don't all have private coaches already. So I've started a pet.i.tion to get him removed."

"You're kidding," I said, trying to hide my pleasure with Bea's efforts.

"Unfortunately, I'm the only one willing to sign it."

Any momentary satisfaction I'd felt was quickly dashed.

Bea stared up at me, her fat eyes blinking slowly, and said, "Sir, don't worry. You-we-will prevail."

"What else? You said you had two things."

"Oh, right. I have something for you."

Bea dug around in her purse. Purse? I had never seen her with a purse. In fact, I'd never seen her in a dress, wearing hose, half heels, and was that a touch of rouge on her chipmunkesque cheeks?

"I really must be going, Bea."

"Wait, it's here somewhere." She produced a small cream-colored envelope. "It's from her."

"Who?

"Mrs. Ashworth."

"I don't think she goes by that name."

"She asked me to call her Mrs. Ashworth. When I asked why, she said, 'Because Mr. Ashworth is my husband.' "

The sealed envelope was blank. There was no stamp on it, no return address.

"She gave it to me to give to you."

"Wait-she gave it to you? She handed it to you?"

"Why, sure."

"I thought she was in France."

"Oh, no. She's back. She got back the other day."

I s.n.a.t.c.hed the envelope from Bea's hand. I wanted to rip it open right there. But that would draw undue attention, so I slipped it into the breast pocket of my brown tweed blazer. I bolted for the exit as she yelled after me, "You're welcome!"

Outside I walked. I walked with the letter in my pocket. The letter in my pocket was heavy. It was a bullet in midflight. And it was from her. She was back, and she had something to say to me. She'd taken out pen and paper and written something down. With her tongue, she'd licked the envelope. Her spit sealed it. And she'd given it to an unlikely messenger.

I kept walking, waiting for the perfect moment to open it.

Finally, at home, after a rousing game with the boys of Bury Daddy, I ducked into the bathroom, where I closed and locked the door. I sat on the toilet with the lid down. I took the envelope out of the front left pocket of my blue jeans, which was where I had transferred it after changing out of my church suit. I took a deep breath. I tore open the envelope. I carefully read what Anna had written. It didn't take long. Then I reread it to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Then I stared at it until her words became blurry, and not because I was crying, but rather, because my hands had begun to shake.

ANNA BRODY.

May 9th-11th KATE.

MANY OF OUR FIRST GRANTS WERE EARMARKED FOR CHARITIES EITHER ST. LOUIS- based or autism-related. This was wise politically. I had other lists for later days: the Quite Possiblys and the Very Much Want to But Not Sure Yets.

Four months into this job, and still my favorite part remained the discovery of a new charity. Every Friday Bruno and I would order in lunch and eat at my desk.

Plopping down in my high-backed swivel chair, Bruno liked to ask, "What's got your heart this week?"

"Pretty much everything, but this week's winner is . . ."

Ever since I'd first worked for him, Bruno had held a deep belief in dream time. Friday lunch was the hour when anything was possible. Forget the constraints of life and the limitations of reality. This was way-down-the-road-a.s.suming-all-goes-well time, when we could award grants to every group we believed worthy.

". . . Red Flag."

Bruno's interest was piqued.

"Since I'm a mother of two boys, this one caught my eye: Red Flag is a Stanford-based research group studying the alarming feminization of the male species in all cla.s.ses of vertebrate animals, including people. Phthalates, flame r.e.t.a.r.dants, PCBs, and a host of new chemicals in the environment are most likely the cause. Lower sperm counts are one by-product. In a lot of cases with these animals, the male genitals are shrinking."

Bruno: "That has not been my experience."

"What else? There's a Nigerian-based charity devoted to distributing bed nets for malaria prevention, aptly named Nothing but Nets. There's also Soles 4 Souls and Adopt-A-Minefield, the International Breast Milk Project . . ."

So, all in all, it had been another terrific week at work when Claudia called. "Can you talk?"

"I'm all ears."

"Well, can I just say: If Dan took me to France for a month, I sure as h.e.l.l wouldn't come back looking like that."

"What do you mean?"

"Guess who put on some pounds in Paris?"

"Anna Brody?"

"Aka Miss Porky Pig."

"I'm sure it's not that bad-"

"Don't be so sure. We're talking oink-oink."

I like to believe that I'm above gossip. But with Claudia, it was cheap, easy, and abundant. It was a nice break from the problems of the world, and I began to crave her daily updates.

The following Monday: "How are you?"

"Busy."

"Then I'll be quick. Miss Piggy waddled her way through the health club this morning. Debbie asked if she wanted to take a spinning cla.s.s with us. She said, 'No, I don't feel like working out.' Then she just stood there, so I asked, 'Are you all right?' Said she: 'I don't know why I'm here.' "

Later that week Claudia called with a series of reports about the arrival of an unfortunate-looking Chihuahua that had been delivered to the Ashworth-Brody house.

"Apparently, the dog has the runs."

"How do you know?"

"The house tour committee met with Anna for a preliminary tour. In every room they went, the little dog-which isn't a dog at all but a rat that barks-had s.h.i.t or peed. The stench."

Soon Claudia had other news. "Did you hear about the biting incident?"

"The dog?"

"No, the kid. The girl." Claudia went on to recount how Sophie Brody-Ashworth had bitten Angus Strubel and broken skin. Then she said, "Oh, about the dog. It had worms. That was why it was puking and s.h.i.tting everywhere. Well, as of last Thursday, the dog? Gone. Anna probably drowned it."

When Claudia stopped laughing, I asked why she despised Anna Brody. "Oh, I don't, not at all," she said. "I actually quite like her, especially now that she's fattened up. It's just that you hate her, and I want you to be happy."

This caused me to stop. Did I hate Anna Brody? What had she done to me? She'd been kind. She'd said nice things about me to others. She'd even given me the most beautiful dress I'll ever wear. Okay, so it also weirdly happened to be her wedding dress. Her greatest crime had been to be-through no fault of her own-the momentary subject of my husband's fantasy life, but if that was reason for hatred, then I'd need to add her to a list that included a certain Victoria's Secret model, a cl.u.s.ter of movie stars, and most notably, the late Donna Reed.

I had no problem with Anna. So to prove it to myself, I called her up and asked her to lunch.

TIM.

IN THOSE FIRST WEEKS AFTER HER RETURN FROM FRANCE, I DIDN'T HAVE MUCH contact with Anna Brody. Whenever we crossed paths, we were cordial but distant. Each time I saw her at preschool drop-off, we'd make minimal eye contact, and if I happened to be with other mothers, she'd greet them warmly but pretty much ignore me. I took this to mean she was covering her tracks. Except for the note (which I admit to hiding in my wallet and frequently taking out to smell its lavender scent), there was no evidence of anything between us. This was to be our secret. Or, I don't know, maybe she was telling the world. All I knew was she had offered me a weekend, and May ninth was eight weeks away.

One morning after drop-off, Anna and I found ourselves alone, heading in the same direction. As we walked, my heart raced. Thump thump thump. I could feel my pulse in my neck.

Anna spoke first. "What, you don't like me anymore?

"I'm sorry?"

"You don't talk to me. You ignore me. You won't even look at me."

"Wait a minute. I didn't leave the country for a month."

"True," she said.

"I didn't send a cryptic note with dates on it."

"Cryptic? I thought I was rather clear. Is there a problem with the dates?"

"It's not that."

Something was different about Anna Brody. Yes, she'd gained weight, but it made the sharp, hard angles of her face seem softer. There was also something more human, more vulnerable, about her.

"See, you can't even look at me."

That's because now you're even more beautiful!

"Sorry," I said, my eyes locking with hers.

"Is this making you uncomfortable?"

Yes.

"I don't mean for you to be uncomfortable. It's the last thing I want. The whole point of this is so you can get beyond your feelings. So we can get back to what we had."

I believed her.

"I love our talks," she continued. "I love being with you. I love that you're funny and sweet. And I love the way you tear up whenever you talk about Kate. It happens every time. I especially love that just the thought of having a weekend with me is ripping you up inside. That's the kind of man you are. If it were easy, then I would have been wrong about you."