I'd Rather Be in Philadelphia by Gillian Roberts Read Free Book Online

men.”
    “Again?”
    I sighed. “It tries so hard, it’s kind of funny. I’ll bring it over. But I might have to stay a long time. One of its big, capitalized rules is: ‘Wherever you go, don’t leave until you’ve met someone!’ That of course means someone male.”
    “Does Alexander count?”
    “Sure. The book also says: ‘Don’t be a numbers slave! Consider him, not his age!’ No reason to think there’s a bottom limit. Five weeks will do.”
    “Did you memorize the book, Mandy? Mama will be so proud.”
    Beth certainly sounded at ease, normal, even glowingly happy. My suspicions were ludicrous. Still, I double-checked. “Listen—you’re okay, aren’t you?” I asked.
    “Okay? Me?” I could hear worry in her voice, and I knew it was for and about me and my questions. I felt even more uncomfortable.
    “Yes, you. Aside from a need for grown-up company.”
    “Well, sure. Why, do I sound too dreadful? Are you worried about postpartum depression? Forget it. I’m fine. Tired, but fine.”
    And then Alexander howled and the conversation was over and I returned to the sofa, the tissues, the cat, and the book about wife-battering.
    The more I read, the more upset I became. Even the historical sections that I’d skipped before were unnerving. “Our popular figure of speech, ‘rule of thumb,’ is derived from old English common law which decreed that the stick with which a man beat his wife could not be thicker than his thumb.” Even formerly innocent language seemed corrupted now.
    “Queen Elizabeth, in an effort to reduce after-hours noise, decreed that husbands could not beat their wives after ten P.M.”
    I felt increasingly overwhelmed and immobile, intensely aware of the frightening possibilities in being the so-called weaker sex.
    “The view of women by the law is historically dismal. Not that long ago, law books still had footnotes saying, ‘The above is not applicable to children, idiots, and married women.’”
    Even so, the weight of semidistant history was nothing compared to the numbing current statistics and psychological data. I was completely caught up in—or trapped by—the text, blinking hard and feeling the sting of tears. I didn’t even look up when I was interrupted by a ring.
    Or when I heard a second ring. I kept reading. The machine would pick up.
    It didn’t. It couldn’t. Machines don’t pick up for doorbells. One slug of brandy and my brain disappears, so it took me a while to comprehend this. A long enough while that there was now knocking outside—and then the familiar scritch of a key.
    Mackenzie walked in. Even though he had used our code of ringing, knocking, and, if there’s no objection—verbal or via extra chains—coming in, I was still shocked to see him, and it must have shown.
    “Said I’d be in touch,” he said. “Haven’t seen you in a while and I…gee, you look…”
    “I think disgusting is the appropriate word.”
    Knowing he was spending excessive time with a former love had not brightened my outlook on life, but having him drop by—comparison shopping, perhaps?—when I looked like the before portion of a cold-remedy ad just about did me in. And then matters got worse.
    “Jesus!” he shouted. “Your house’s on fire!”
    I turned and looked toward the sliver of kitchen. My eyes still stung, but I realized it might not be completely due to either the book I’d been reading or my cold. Dark smoke dripped off the kitchen fixtures, billowed over the counter.
    “Extinguisher!” Mackenzie said. “Where is it?”
    “There.” I waved, but it was harder finding the fire, which seemed all smoke, no substance.
    “How could you not notice?” he shouted.
    I stood tall and kept silent. It is difficult to dignify the heartbreak of clogged nasal passageways. It is also difficult to smell anything in that condition.
    Like the old saying doesn’t bother to mention, an unwatched pot does indeed boil. First its contents do. Eventually, they