Oh, interesting, he’s using what he thinks of as her maiden name, the legal one she bestowed on herself after prison. He has already taken his first “asset,” his name. Excellent.

The letter is crafted by a lawyer, which probably cost Gregg $500 right there. Dumb, Gregg was always dumb about money. That’s because he’s always had just enough to waste a little. No cutting coupons for him, no living on a budget, finding ways to shake out a few dollars until you have enough to pay for a life insurance policy. When Gregg hit a rough patch, he called his mother for a loan.

Even with its lawyerisms, the letter is clear in its demands. Gregg wants both cars, all his savings, and any equity there might be in the house. All their furniture, all their wedding presents. Fine, fine, fine. Oh, she’ll pretend to want more, but all she really desires is her freedom.

She gets change, feeds it into the outside pay phone until she has enough for three minutes. When Gregg answers, she tries to sound unsure of herself.

“Hi, it’s Pauline. I got your letter, but I’m at a pay phone. Would you call me back?”

“I’m at work,” he says, as if she didn’t know what number she dialed.

“So am I,” she lies. It’s a strange, small lie and one easily spotted if he remembers where she works, which he clearly does as he used that address to send this letter. But her pride demands it. Pride. That’s what gets her in trouble every time. Pride and fear. She can’t imagine how rich she’d have to be to afford those two things.

He hangs up on her with a grunt. She decides it sounds like agreement, so she stays where she is, resting her forehead against the rectangular shield around the phone. Mild as this December has been, it’s too cold and raw for her. She’s prone to chills, always was, even when she was carrying more weight. She likes summer, the abundance of light. What will next summer bring? Where will she be?

Who will be with her?

Minutes tick by. She doesn’t wear a watch anymore, so she counts the seconds as she was taught as a child. 1-Mississippi, 2-Mississippi.

She’s counted off almost six hundred Mississippis when the phone finally rings.

“I had to take a whiz,” he says. Good, he’s offering explanations. That means he still feels some sense of obligation.

“So, how do you want to do this?” Clever, she thinks, to put it on him to let him feel he’s calling the shots.

“Didn’t my lawyer’s letter make things pretty clear?”

“We don’t need lawyers,” she says.

“Don’t tell me what I need.”

She’s trying to indicate that it’s going to be easy, that he’s going to get his way, but he’s too insecure to register the information. Don’t be stupid, Gregg. She might as well ask water not to be wet.

“I want to sell the house. We won’t make any money back, but I can move to a place closer to my mother, a rental for now.”

Always was a mama’s boy. So far, so good. She no longer has any affection for the house on Kentucky Avenue. Imagine, thinking a built-in breakfront was somehow going to change your life.

“I also want you to waive your share of my 401(k).”

She has to protest at least one of his demands or he’ll be suspicious. “I don’t know, I stayed home, I took care of our child, it seems to me I should get something.”

“Not a cent, Pauline. You’re getting nada, nothing, zilch.”

“I guess that makes it easier in some ways.” She still needs to put up a little more fight. “But about my car—”

“I’m selling the Toyota. You don’t need it. Besides you wrecked the other one and took the insurance, so we’re even on that.”

Of course she’ll need a car, she thinks, especially if she stays in Belleville. And he’s the one who wrecked the other car. But, okay, soon enough, she can buy her own. The Toyota’s no good, anyway.

“Gee, Gregg—”

“My way or the highway,” he says. She yearns to say, I’m the one who decided, okay? I took the actual highway. I ran away from you with a suitcase and nothing more.

Instead she makes her voice small and defeated.

“All right. When do you think we can finalize all this? Seeing as we agree.”

“By year’s end,” he says, and it’s all she can do not to jump up and down. “Better for taxes if we have all this straightened out. I know we can’t get divorced that fast, but we should have everything figured out by January 1. And I guess we’ve covered it, right? House, car, 401(k).”

“What about child support?”

“I’m not going to ask for any, for now.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. She did not see that coming. She thought five months as a single parent would have Gregg begging for joint custody at best.

“So you’re asking for—”

“I’m not asking for anything, Pauline. I’m telling you, okay? You left your daughter. I’ve done just fine. You probably didn’t think I could, but it turns out, it’s not as hard as you always made it out to be. I don’t know, maybe you’re just not cut out to be a mother.”

She needs him to spell it out, wants him to say exactly what he wants.

“But if I decided I wanted visitation—”