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supper.’
    Margaret Petrie
lived in what their divorce attorneys called the marital residence out on North
Miami Beach. Dr. Petrie said nothing at all as he piloted the Lincoln down the
familiar streets, and up to the white ranch-style house with its stunted palms
and its small, neatly-trimmed lawn. It was here, in this quiet suburb, that he had first set up in medical practise eight
years ago. It was here that he had worked and struggled to woo the wealthier
and more socially elevated sick.
    It was here,
too, that Margaret and he had gradually discovered that they no longer had
anything in common but a marriage license. Uneasy affection had degenerated
into impatience, bickering and intolerance. It had been a messy,
well-publicized, and very expensive divorce.
    As Dr. Petrie
pulled the Lincoln into the kerb, he remembered what Margaret had shrieked at
him, at the top of her voice, as he drove away for the last time. ‘If you want
to spend the rest of your life sticking your fingers up rich old ladies, then
go away and don’t come back!’
    That remark, he
thought to himself, summed up everything that was wrong with their marriage.
Margaret, from a well-heeled family of local Republicans, had never wanted for
money or material possessions. His own deep and
restless anxiety for wealth was something she couldn’t understand at all. To
her, the way that he pandered to rich old widows was a prostitution of his
medical talents, and she had endlessly nagged him to give up Miami Beach and go
north. ‘Be famous,’ she used to say, ‘be respected.’
    It only
occurred to him much later that she really did hunger for fame. She had
fantasies of being interviewed by McCall’s and Redbook – the wonderful wife of
the well-known doctor. What she really wanted him to do was discover penicillin
or transplant hearts, and on the day that he had realized that, he had known
for sure that their marriage could never work.
    Priscilla, as
usual, was waiting at the end of the drive, sitting on her suitcase. She was a
small, serious girl of six. She had long, honey-colored hair, and an oval,
unpretty face.
    Dr. Petrie got
out of the car, glancing towards the house. He was sure that he saw a curtain
twitch.
    ‘Hallo,
Prickles,’ he said quietly.
    She stood up, grave-faced,
and he leaned over and kissed her. She smelled of her mother’s perfume.
    ‘I made a
monster in school,’ she said, blinking.
    He picked up
her case and stowed it away in the Lincoln’s trunk. ‘A
monster? What kind of a monster?’
    Priscilla bit her
lip. ‘A cookie monster. Like in
Sesame Street. It was blue and it had two ping-pong balls for its eyes
and a furry face.’
    ‘Did you bring
it with you?’
    Priscilla shook
her head. ‘Mommy didn’t like it. Mommy doesn’t like Sesame Street.’
    Dr. Petrie
opened the car door and pushed his seat forward so that Priscilla could climb
into the back. Adelaide said, ‘Hi, Prickles. How are
you, darling?’ and Priscilla replied, ‘Okay, thanks.’
    Dr. Petrie shut
his door, started up the engine, and turned the Lincoln around.
    ‘Did you have
to wait out there long?’ he asked Priscilla.
    ‘Not long,’ the
child answered promptly. He knew that she never liked to let her mother down.
    ‘What happened
to the cookie monster?’ he asked. ‘Did Mommy throw it away?’
    ‘It was a
mistake,’ said Prickles, with a serious expression. ‘Cookie fell into the
garbage pail by mistake, and must’ve gotten thrown away.’
    ‘A mistake,
huh?’ said Dr. Petrie, and blew his horn impatiently at an old man on a bicycle
who was wavering around in front of him.
    They had
chicken and pineapple from the Polynesian restaurant, and then they sat around
and watched television. It was late now, and the sky outside was dusky blue.
    Prickles had
changed into her long pink nightdress, and she sat on the floor in front of the
TV, brushing her doll’s hair and tying it up with elastic bands.
    Right in the
middle of the last episode