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lunch by co-workers. None of these things, or anything remotely like them, happened now. She found herself wondering if she were any good at it.
    How am I doing? she’d occasionally whisper to baby Morgan. Are you happy you hired me?
     
     
    Dana had soon become Polly’s most reliable walking partner, and eventually they started getting together in the evenings. Kenneth and Polly’s husband, Victor, had clicked right away, and the four of them often had dinner together, commiserating about the trials of parenthood, chuckling over the antics of eccentric neighbors, their friendship growing more deeply rooted in the terra firma of their lives with every passing season. Ten years later, when Kenneth asked for the divorce, it had hit Polly and Victor almost as hard as it had Dana. Victor and Kenneth’s friendship survived; Polly’s loyalty was squarely with Dana. What would I do without her? Dana now wondered as she strode toward her friend’s house.
    Polly came down her driveway, windmilling her arms as if she were practicing the backstroke. “What a day!” she called. Though she was six inches shorter than Dana and pixielike in the delicacy of her features, she was a tough little walker, pressing their pace to the edge of comfort. Dana liked to ask Polly a philosophical or multipart question just as they reached the rise of a hill. Let Polly talk as they climbed. It was all Dana could do not to pant.
    “So what’s the verdict on middle school these days?” asked Polly. “Is she settled in now?”
    “Pretty much,” said Dana. “Did Gina ever have Ms. Cripton?”
    “Kryptonite?” said Polly, her short black hair bouncing rhythmically. “Yeah, she’s awful. Gina couldn’t stand her. Huge collection of plastic bead necklaces. Lots of pop quizzes.”
    “Morgan’s going to burst a blood vessel one of these days. She studies constantly because she’s so worried about those stupid quizzes.”
    “Tell her to relax. It’s only sixth grade.”
    “You tell her.”
    The women smiled at each other. Who could tell kids anything? And who was less worthy of airtime than the child’s own creators? Polly knew this. Her two children, Gina and Peter, were older and had wrung several more years of worry and fury out of her. Dana envied the fact that Polly never seemed to second-guess herself as a mother. She fought with her kids, interrogated them, followed them into the high-security areas of their bedrooms, demanding access without proper clearance. She occasionally threw food at them when she was annoyed.
    And for their part, Gina and Peter seemed to withstand this barrage with surprising nonchalance. Or they roared back at her, awful things that Dana hoped she would never hear from her own children. Dana had once been witness to Peter’s calling Polly “a screeching bitch” right to her face. Without so much as flinching, Polly had yelled back, “And how do you think I got this way? You think I was like this before kids? Not on your ungrateful little life!”
    While Dana could never be that kind of mother, she was impressed that none of them seemed too bothered by it. “Gina hates me,” Polly would occasionally mention, as if commenting on a passing patch of bad weather.
    As they powered down the street toward Nipmuc Pond, Dana said. “So my niece, Alder, showed up yesterday.”
    “Your sister Connie’s girl.”
    “Right. Sixteen, driving some beater car I had to get towed. Knocked over my mailbox.”
    “Nice.”
    “She’s a good kid. A little out there, but it’s not her fault. Connie isn’t exactly Carol Brady.”
    “What does she call us again?”
    “Well, not us specifically,” qualified Dana. She never liked to be the source, even secondarily, of hurt feelings.
    “Yes, us specifically, ” said Polly with a smirk.
    Dana smiled. What was she worried about? Polly didn’t care what Connie thought. “Cupcakers.”
    “Love it,” Polly said wryly.
    Dana told her about Alder’s wanting to move in.