The Timer Game. Susan Smith Arnout

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      Katie focused, nodding, tried it again, her voice clear and treble. ‘We don’t share the same time zone … you’re not my phone-a-friend … and all the special features I like best you never do intend …’

      Lottie nodded, banging out the chords with force. ‘That’s right, kid, milk it, honey.’

      Helix bounded across the carpet and skidded into Lottie. He still had trouble stopping properly.

      ‘For Pete’s sake. How’d he get out …’

      Grace smacked the empty pizza carton against her thigh and Lottie snapped her mouth shut.

      ‘Busted,’ Katie said.

      Lottie guiltily banged the lid down on the piano. Katie turned toward her mother to plead her case. She froze on the bench, staring.

      ‘Mommy, are you okay?’ Katie’s voice was small, and too late, Grace remembered her face.

      At least Katie hadn’t seen her on TV. Lottie’s idea of television news was watching psychic pets find missing jewelry.

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘Your jaw is all purple.’

      ‘I just had a little accident, but I’m fine. That’s not what I want to talk about. What I want to know is …’ She lifted the pizza carton as if she were signaling the ships in the bay beyond the sliding glass door. ‘What is this? Lottie?’

      Grace waggled the carton at her and Lottie sneezed.

      ‘You know I’m allergic to that dog.’

      ‘Answer the question.’

      Other people had mothers who wore suits and went to the Wednesday Club, where they drank tea and listened to lectures on Quail Botanical Gardens. Grace’s mother was still in her midfifties, with a smooth, unlined face, stuffed into a pair of hot pants so tight that her rear looked like two cantaloupes squeezed into a plastic bag.

      ‘You weren’t supposed to see that pizza carton,’ Lottie said.

      ‘You know she had pizza for lunch. Lottie, you promised you’d fix her a real dinner. Something with vegetables in it.’

      ‘It’s rude to call your mother Lottie,’ Lottie said. ‘It’s not respectful. Is that what you want your daughter to call you when she grows up?’

      ‘Latte?’ Katie squealed. ‘You want me to call Mommy Latte?’

      ‘Sure, like one of those coffee drinks,’ Grace said.

      ‘It’s not like you’re a Roller Derby queen.’ Lottie’s eyes traveled over Grace’s face. ‘A mud wrestler. Look at you. What did you do? Walk into a wall? You know, you can’t spend your life running through jobs like they were a pair of hose.’

      ‘We’re not talking about my face or career choices. We’re talking about dinner.’

      ‘Jeez, Grace, lighten up,’ Lottie said.

      It was like having two kids, only one of them could drive and order take-out. ‘Where’s your homework, Katie?’

      ‘A four year-old child –’

      ‘Five,’ Katie said. ‘I’ll be five on Saturday.’

      ‘A five-year-old child in kindergarten shouldn’t be expected to do homework,’ Lottie said. ‘You should change schools. I bet you’d like more recess, wouldn’t you, honey?’

      ‘So where is it?’ Grace repeated.

      Katie said brightly, ‘Grandma’s taking me to Disneyland for my birthday.’

      ‘You’re having a party on your birthday,’ Grace said. ‘You’re not going to Disneyland.’

      ‘Not right then,’ Lottie said. ‘Of course, not then. I have to miss her party, I told you. Terrell and I are going out of town.’ She leaned down toward Katie and cooed, ‘And that’s why I’m taking my sweet little sweetums to Disneyland upon my return. I personally know one of the dancing dwarfs, who’s prepared to give us a behind-the-scenes tour of the Magic Kingdom.’

      ‘Goodie,’ Katie cried.

      ‘You did make her do her homework, right?’ Grace pressed a finger against her temple. A vein throbbed.

      Lottie pulled on her lip.

      ‘The one thing I asked you to do.’

      Lottie shot her a wounded look and fiddled with her hair. Her bracelet clanked. It was fake turquoise that looked like gobs of used chewing gum. ‘We were getting around to it.’ She opened her mouth, threw back her head and sneezed. ‘That dog. I mean it.’

      ‘When, Lottie? It is now after eight on a school night and all you’ve done so far is pump up my child on caffeinated soda and yellow grease.’

      ‘Grace, you’re just not fun anymore. You need to work on your people skills.’

      ‘I want you to sit, Katie.’ Grace’s voice was icy calm. ‘I want you to sit at this desk and not move until you finish your homework. Is that clear?’

      Katie stomped to the desk.

      Grace yanked open a drawer and got out Katie’s stationery. It was pink and orange and had psychedelic ponies gamboling. She positioned a purple crayon in her daughter’s limp hand.

      ‘This is fun,’ Grace said. ‘We’re having fun learning about the mail. You send this to somebody, you get something back. You’re going to like it.’ It sounded like a threat.

      Katie started to whimper. ‘You can’t make me.’

      ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake,’ Lottie protested.

      ‘I don’t have anybody to write to!’ Katie burst into tears and put her head down, dampening the stationery.

      ‘Write to Clint, honey,’ Lottie said, ‘he’d be happy to have you –’

      ‘She is not writing to Clint,’ Grace said, and Katie wiped her eyes and raised her head, interested at this turn of events.

      ‘Who’s Clint?’

      ‘She’s not writing to some hick singer who shellacs his hair until it’s the size of a turkey rump.’

      Grace couldn’t believe she was having this conversation after the day she’d had, except that it was with Lottie, so it made sense. In the kitchen, the phone rang.

      ‘Hick!’ Lottie said in a hushed, stricken voice. Her unnaturally violet eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I want you to know Clint’s hosted the first hour of the Grand Ole Opry seventeen times, and I mean the first hour that’s broadcast, too, not the one that warms everybody up. Not even George has done that.’

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