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The shrillness of the ringing matched her mood. Turning toward the sound, she wiped her hands on the damp dish towel, brushed her hair away from her flushed face and picked up the phone, more to silence the offending noise than to satisfy any curiosity as to the caller.

“Hello?” she said.

“May I speak to Luke please?”

Silently, Miranda went out the front door, the phone held at arms-length from her body as though she carried week-old garbage. She walked across the front of the house and into the side yard.

“Luke, phone for you” she said, reaching to hand it to her 16-year old stepson sitting on the top rung of the 10’ aluminum ladder propped against the side of the house. Without another word to her stepson or her husband, she turned and retraced her steps to the kitchen, finished loading the aging dishwasher and, sighing, filled a large glass with ice water from the door of the refrigerator. As she stood sipping the cold water, she glanced out the living room window to see Luke still perched on the top of the ladder, handing the phone to his father. As she approached, her husband signaled and she opened the window, reached out and took the phone from him, her face set.

“Thanks” her husband said

“Sure. Are you almost done out there?” she asked

“About another 10 or 15 minutes and we’ll call it a day.”

Nodding, she drew herself back through the window and closed it. Her hand tightened around the phone as she stood staring at her husband and his son just beyond the window. She could still hear the voice of the boy’s mother in her head. Miranda turned from the window, shaking her head as if to clear out the voice. Replacing the phone in its cradle, she wandered through the silent rooms.

Stay-go-give up-try again-what for-the voices chased each other in her mind while the packed suitcase lay buried on the top shelf of her closet behind dozens of old photo albums, 2 large boxes containing lederhosen and walking sticks from their honeymoon in Switzerland and John’s battered sombrero purchased for $2.00 at a neighborhood yard sale that same summer. The suitcase had been hidden there the previous week after Miranda packed it following yet another argument with John about Luke.

First there was the question of schools. Luke alternated living with his mother and father weekly. This was possible because John and Belinda lived in the same town, although at opposite ends. The redistricting that was going to occur for the fall term split the town in half. The parent that was listed as “residential” on the school records would determine which school Luke attended. Belinda had already filed the paperwork designating her address as “residential” which would result in Luke having to change schools for his senior year of high school. John was angry but refused to confront Belinda.

Luke’s complete indifference regarding college was another source of argument. Belinda was actively lobbying for him to attend her alma mater, Duke University, while John preferred a local state school. With Luke’s grades and 85 mph curveball, he would have his choice of universities. John was anxious for his son to remain close to home for four more years, hoping to strengthen their relationship which had worsened in the years since the divorce.

Miranda had suggested that John involve the school guidance counselor in an attempt to work out the conflict. He accused her of failing to understand the issues and, worst of all, he implied that she did not understand the dynamic of a biological family, however dysfunctional. Miranda’s last attempt, suggesting legal mediation, had resulted in slamming doors and John’s escape to the local tavern. He returned drunk and she pretended to be asleep. The suitcase had been packed the following morning after John left for the office. The tension between them remained unresolved.

Miranda imagined the taxi pulling up the driveway to the front door, the driver in a red shirt and a Yankees baseball cap, blowing the horn. She would step from the bedroom carrying her suitcase, salute her astonished husband and stepson and disappear through the front door, never to return. She would resume her orderly sophisticated life in the city as though she had never left. She would once again attend opening night at the New York City Ballet, share cocktails with handsome young gallery owners in Soho wearing black turtleneck sweaters, and she would stroll through Central Park on balmy Sunday mornings in the spring, pausing to admire the well dressed precocious upper West Side children, so unlike her socially inept suburban stepson.

She would meet someone new; someone well established whose wife had died tragically decades ago. He would be honored to have her as his new wife; they would wed in summer on a white sand beach at a perfect sunset. He would cry with joy when she whispered to him in bed late one night after the successful opening of a new exhibit by an unknown painter they had discovered together that, miraculously, she was pregnant, due in December, perhaps on Christmas day.

Her daydream was interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming and the garage door closing. Her stepson entered through the front door as her husband came through the kitchen from the garage. Luke walked past her with a half smile and remained in his room listening to music on his iPod for the remainder of the evening while Miranda and John ate cold, leftover pizza and watched the local TV news and then a series on volcanoes with the capacity to wipe out all the islands of Hawaii. They went to bed at 11:00 p.m. John tapped on Luke’s door and saluted his son, whistling “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”, playing out the nightly ritual John began when Luke was a baby. Miranda said nothing.

They woke three hours later to the shriek of fire truck alarms and an ax crashing through their front door, followed by a burly volunteer fireman shouting orders.

“They’re in here” he called through the splintered door to the man training a hose on the roof. “Hurry up folks. You have to get out now. Is there anyone else in here?

“My son, oh my God, my son is probably still asleep.”

“Which way?” the fireman shouted.

John pointed to down the corridor the door to the closed door of Luke’s room as another volunteer fireman pushed him through the remains of the front door. He watched over his shoulder as the first fireman ran toward the closed door.

Miranda remained standing where she was, wearing an old oversized grey T-shirt with white doves in flight on the front and her favorite college slogan “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem” on the back. The first volunteer fireman returned, dragging Luke along with him and hurried them both out on to the street where a crowd was gathering. As more sirens screamed with the arrival of two more fire trucks from nearby towns and people from the neighboring houses poured into the street, John gathered Miranda and Luke to him, tears streaming down his face. His arms seemed to grow longer, his chest seemed to widen as he encircled his wife and his son.

“It’s all right. We’re OK. We’ll just start over.” John said.

“At least we won’t have to finish replacing the gutters” Luke said and he began to laugh. John looked at his son and he too began to laugh. The fire chief standing next to them also began to laugh.

Miranda watched the fire burn, her face lit by the blaze. She stared at the place where the suitcase was hidden in the closet and thought of the blue tank top and white shorts burning along with her cosmetics bag filled with sample sizes of her favorite products and the white terry cloth bathrobe that no longer fit. The laughter from her husband and her stepson reached her. The neighbors later remarked how odd it was that she seemed to be smiling as the house burned to the ground.