The prairie skirt gave it away. The prairie skirt said it all. Debbie’s patterned prairie skirt, worn with a sheer white tunic to expose the nude camisole underneath and a turquoise pendant resting firmly against her breastbone told Rae something had shifted. Gone were Debbie's tight black yoga pants, the fuchsia sports tank, the baseball cap and glossy pink lipstick. Here now, stood a woman seeped in some new kind of romance.

      “Hey. Can you watch Graham for a few hours?” Debbie asked, sweeping a swath of hair behind her ear. Her two-year-old son scrambled into the house and Debbie followed. “I’ve got an appointment.” Rae watched them enter, watched Debbie drop her bulky leather handbag on the sofa and jiggle her keys in her hands.

      “I can’t tell you what’s up,” Debbie smiled. “But this day is crazy. I mean. Really!” The sweat from the summer heat made her face glow, but her eyes had a restless, feral look. She tossed her keys from hand to hand impatiently. “You be good, little man,” she said, ruffling Graham’s golden hair then opening and closing the front door without looking back. Through the window Rae watched her bound gleefully up the street to her car, get in and drive off.

      Two hours later Debbie walked in without knocking. Rae was spooning mashed up banana to Mona while Graham fingered each individual Cheerio before popping it into his mouth. But the minute he saw his mother he scooped up a fistful of cereal and dumped it on the floor. The Cheerios crunched under Debbie’s sandaled feet.

      “Graham!” she barked. “No!” then bent down to sweep the crumbs into her hand. When she was done she slumped into the seat across from Rae. “There’s nothing there,” she said. “I mean – nothing.” Her makeup had worn off and her features receded into blankness, her eyes remote.

      “Where?” Rae asked. Debbie set her keys on the table and stared down at her hands, which Rae also studied, surprised to find them large and rough and not at all attractive.

      “I mean – nothing?” She said again. “Don’t you think a woman knows? A woman knows these things!”

      “What things?”

      “Do you know? I’ve been with Todd my whole life. Really. I never dated. We met when I was seventeen. Seventeen!”

      Rae gave Debbie a sympathetic smile.

      “He’s my best friend. He is. But Gabriel.” She rolled the name out, stretching the sound like taffy. “He calls me Debra. He calls me Queen.”

      “Gabriel?”

      “Across the street,” Debbie whispered. “Have you met him? The poet?”

      “Yes, but I didn’t know..."

      “No one does. You know me - I don’t keep secrets. But I have held this one like a gem.” Her face regained the untamed look.

      “Gabriel?” Rae repeated – not recognizing the name at all. She hadn’t gotten that far with the poet, even though she’d met him the day he moved in. Rae had seen a young man balancing a shiny silver desk lamp on a small wooden chair, heading to the renovated in-law unit across the street and down one from her place. He saw her dumping a grocery bag full of recycling and juggled a box under one arm to shake her hand. Rae switched Mona to her left hip as they stood in the middle of the street exchanging niceties about the neighborhood.

      “Seems quiet,” he had said. She noticed his smooth skin and sparse goatee. His eyes radiated a fresh excitement even through his dark rimmed glasses. Rae had felt instantly protective of him.

      “It is,” Rae agreed. “Where are you moving from?”

      “Back east. Boston. Just finished my degree.”

      “In what?” Rae had asked, leaning forward.

      “An MFA,” he paused, letting the edge of an embarrassed smile form. “In poetry.”

      That was it - her sole interaction with the poet. Mona had started fussing so Rae took her in. But over the months Rae had watched him. She liked living near a poet. She liked that he moved in with only two suitcases and a handful of light boxes. From Mona’s window she noticed him coming and going by foot, noticed how his light stayed on well into the night, even into morning. She had pictured him wrangling words: madly writing, erasing, crumpling papers. Turns out it wasn’t writing that kept him up at night. It was Debbie.

      “My appointment was with the doctor.” Debbie reported. “I thought for sure…” she pointed to her stomach. “I mean, it’s been at least six weeks, maybe seven. And the one time – just once, you know – “ she looks to Rae for approval, “Gabe and I weren’t careful. At all.” She smiled, revealing too much. “God. There was no time to even think about that.”

      Rae imagined the inside of the poet’s meager studio. A double mattress on the floor, a rumple of charcoal grey covers with a stack of books in a milk crate by the side, an open pad of paper and a glass jar full of pens. No, pencils. Each one sharp and ready – for a verse about what? Debra, his queen? Rae pictured Gabriel and Debbie - a tangle of arms and legs. Debbie begging him not to speak. Just to let it happen. Debbie with her eyes closed, the poet rushing in to please her, pleasing himself instead. Debbie whispering, “It’s okay, really.” Gabriel making it up to her like all new lovers do.

      “Rae?” Debbie raised her eyebrows from across the table. Rae slid the door to the back patio open, suddenly feeling hot. And extremely bothered.

      “It could be Todd’s, right?” she said, forgetting that in fact, there was no baby.

      “He’s too careful. He doesn’t want another. It took us so long to get even one.” She glanced at Graham. “One is enough for him.”

      “Is it?”

      “You tell me. You have one.” Debbie snapped, glaring at Rae like an intruder. She recovered quickly. “Well, anyway, thanks for watching the little man. I hope he was good,” she picked up her keys and dropped them into her bag then turned to get Graham who had pulled off all the buttons on a stuffed rabbit Rae had let him play with. Debbie didn’t notice. “Give that back,” she said sharply, grabbing it from him. He squealed and she shushed him impatiently. At the door she turned to Rae and said matter-of-factly: “I know you won’t tell anyone.” Rae nodded, but only once.

      “The who?” Paul asked later that evening when Rae started to tell him about Debbie’s visit. She couldn’t resist, even though she had told Debbie she wouldn’t say a word. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Paul said, rolling a forkful of spaghetti, splattering tiny drops of Prego on the table with every rotation.

      “No, nothing. Never mind,” Rae got up and took her half-empty bowl to the sink. “Want more?” she called from the kitchen. She almost tried harder, looking Paul in the eye instead of busying herself with the dishes. Explaining – for what purpose? Something he didn’t care about anyway. He wouldn’t wonder, as she did, how Debbie could possibly step out of her ordinary life to meet with the poet. How she could excuse herself – politely? eagerly? casually? from the family dinner table and exit stage left to become the poet’s lover. What does she tell Todd when he comes home? Does she put down a plate in front of him – hoping the potpie holds enough of her to sustain him? Does he look at her with a satisfied smile and say, “That was good honey, thanks,” before he switches on the TV?

      That night, when Mona woke up at 2 a.m., Rae rocked her back to sleep in the chair by the window. She stared out at the quiet street, lit by dim yellow streetlamps, noticing the poet’s dark studio. Was he asleep, she wondered? Did he sleep on his stomach, arms out? Or on his back, like her husband, with his head angled on the pillow so that his breath filtered in and out in phlegm-filled snorts? Her only recent physical contact with Paul was a quick jab in the foot to get him to stop snoring. It had been months since she’d rested her head on his chest.

      Rocking in the chair with Mona she closed her eyes, pushing off and pushing off to keep the motion going. Did Debbie rock her boy to sleep? And after did she put on a pale pink negligee, something her husband Todd had seen a thousand times? Did she dab floral perfume behind her ears and sneak up on him from behind, saying, “Guess who?” Did he turn and fuck her quickly, without thinking, because it had been so long he didn’t have to? Did the poet take it slow with Debbie, discovering precious inches of unknown earth in her? What would the poet find in me, Rae wondered.

      At 9 a.m. Debbie was back on Rae’s doorstep in a jean mini-skirt and ruffled white blouse belted loosely at her hips. Her makeup seemed thicker today, inadequately masking the dark circles under her eyes.

      “I need your help,” she said, a bundle of Todd’s shirts crumpled under her arm and Graham at her side. “I’m dropping these at the cleaners, taking Graham to his day care. I need you to take this to Gabriel.” She held out a small sheet of pink stationary, folded neatly in half. “I can’t believe I’ve let it go so long. It’s crazy. Todd is…last night he…you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You know? Love the one you’re with, right?”

      Rae took the note. “Sure. No problem.”

      “ I would do it myself, but then – I might not. Rae,” she reached out an arm, “I don’t know anymore.”

      “I’ll help you,” Rae answered, looking away from Debbie’s tears.

      Rae waited until she saw the poet before attempting to deliver Debbie’s note. She wished she had stayed out of it, especially after reading the two stanzas Debbie had penned in her loopy script.

      I don’t know how to say goodbye

      To say goodbye and leave you

      But I have to stay away

      Even if I don’t mean to.

     
      What we had was really special

      Way down deep in our hearts

      But now I have to go away

      So sad! I can’t imagine being apart.

      At the bottom Debbie had signed her name and written “Best of Luck”. The letter seemed more like the yearbook inscription of a middle school girl rather than the break-up notice of a married mother.

      Gabriel ducked into his place before Rae had a chance to greet him on the sidewalk. Out in her yard she studied the camellia and Mexican sage bushes. I need to get my clippers, she thought and considered dropping Debbie’s note in the poet’s mailbox or, glancing at the recycling bin, in there. But then Gabriel emerged, walking quickly down the block. He had on a black and white track jacket zipped to the neck and a low cap. He looked younger today to Rae – almost like a teenager. She thought about calling out to him but stopped herself. What if the whole affair was all in Debbie’s mind – just like the baby? Maybe Gabriel (if that was even his real name!) was all a part of Debbie’s fantasy, some way to liven up the boredom of her days? Before Rae could reconcile these thoughts with the note in her pocket, the poet turned around and called: “Hey.”

      Rae walked toward him, hoisting Mona on her hip.

      “Cute kid.” He waved his fingers at the baby. Mona giggled and grabbed his pointer. His hands were large and flat with long, clean fingers. A writer’s hands.

      “How’s it going?” Rae asked, touching Debbie’s note.

      “Stressful. I forgot my notebook and had to come all the way back. Now I need to run back in for a book. I really need a car. Or a place in the city.”

      “Where are you off to?” Rae asked. He grinned at her, all charm. And if Debbie loved him, she could see why. He had the eyes of an artist: someone who saw better and more clearly than she ever could.

      “Fruitvale BART. I’m helping at a youth center in SF. Poet in residence type thing. You going that way?”

      “I…uh…”

      “No worries. No worries.” He pulled his backpack up on his shoulder and looked down. “Well - - I’m off.” Rae touched the note in her pocket again, pulling it halfway out, then sticking it back in.

      “Wait. I can take you. Let me grab my keys.”

      “I’m Gabe, by the way,” he said. She fought the urge to say I know.

      His spicy scent filled the confined space of her car immediately – like pencil shavings mixed with cloves. He put his backpack between his long legs in the front seat and told her about his students – upper elementary kids – who acted tougher than they were. She could see his work energized him. The more he talked, the more excited he got, moving his hands and bouncing a little in his seat until his skin glistened with sweat.

      Rae listened, positive now that Debbie had made the whole rendezvous up. What would a guy like Gabe see in Debbie? She wondered shyly about her own chances, even with Mona asleep in the back. She had to concentrate on steadying her hands on the wheel, stopping suddenly for a red light.

      When they pulled into the BART lot Gabriel said, “Hey - -thanks.” He grabbed his backpack and accidentally brushed Rae’s bare arm lightly with his long, slender hand.

      “No problem.” Rae shivered. Gabe slammed the door and raced up the escalator. The train whirred into the station and Rae sat there, close to tears, letting the tremor from the poet’s light touch reverberate into each pore.

      That evening, as Rae hacked at the purple sage in her front yard, Debbie passed by on a walk with another mom from the neighborhood. Their two little boys toddled in front, picking up rocks and pulling on plants. Debbie peered at Rae expectantly, trying with her eyes to get an answer. Rae waved, smiling in a noncommittal way and went back to her yard work, the note folded in the back pocket of her jeans.

      Todd drove up in his truck and Graham tore apart from the group calling out, “Daddy!”

      “Well – that’s your cue,” the other mother said, picking up her boy and walking down the block. Debbie stood alone on the sidewalk in front of Rae’s house. She hesitated before walking forward a few paces, waiting to join her family. Rae looked at her and even from the side she could see the genuine pain in Debbie’s eyes: guilt and fear and sadness and longing – mostly longing. Rae couldn’t tell what the longing was for. Her family: intact and secure, right there in front of her? Or the poet: romantic and open, a chance at something new? Rae watched Debbie freeze, caught carelessly between one day and the next, not knowing what either could bring.

      Rae stepped forward to the edge of her yard.

      “Did you do it,” Debbie whispered.

      “Debbie, I’m…” her voice came out low and secretive. She felt foolish and cleared her throat.

      “Does he have the note?”

      “Not yet.”

      “Not yet? Not yet!” Debbie glanced up the street at her boys, then moaned: “Oh Rae, you have no idea.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “Give it to me. I’ll do it right now!” Debbie declared, getting her resolve back. Actually, it comforted Rae to see this old spark – but she couldn’t give up the note now.

      “No. I will. Really. You can watch me.”

      Debbie looked toward her house, waving at Graham.

      “Let’s go in!” Todd called.

      “Be there in a sec, hon!” Debbie responded cheerfully. The honest ring in her voice made Rae cringe, especially when Debbie whispered to her: “Are you sure?”

      “Yes.” Debbie paused, barely, then skipped up to Todd and Graham, circling them in a heartening hug, leaving Rae to walk across the street alone and deliver the note. She half expected to do it together – like school girls – gripping hands and giggling. That seemed to be what Debbie wanted all along: someone to share her secret.

      Depositing the note was easier than Rae had thought, especially since the poet was obviously not home. She slid the poem through his mail slot and walked home, feeling only slightly sorry when she saw Gabriel trudging home later that night, shoulders sagging. He would receive the notice like any old piece of mail – and maybe that’s all it was to him anyway. In any case, Rae hoped he wouldn’t find it until the morning, when the day might hold more promise.

      At 2 a.m. Mona woke for milk. Rae nursed her, noticing a light on at Gabriel’s. She imagined a figure at his door – long skirt flowing. But in her mind it was not Debbie who stood there, waiting for entry.

      “She asleep?” her husband asked from the doorway. Rae jumped at the sound of his voice.

      “Almost.”

      He watched her for a second then said: “Come back to bed.”

      She rocked Mona until she heard Paul’s slight snore from the other room then she slid into her side of the bed, stretching out onto her stomach, tucking her arms under the pillow. Tonight the sound of Paul’s inhalations soothed her. She relaxed into the rhythmic comfort, inching close enough to smell the familiar sweetness of her husband’s breath.