Her apartment lease was ending, and suddenly my ex-wife wanted to talk about us again. Five years after our divorce, she’d appeared unexpectedly at a family dinner, seemingly hoping to find her way back into my home. I listened, knowing something she didn’t: her nephew had already been working for my towing company for three years.
There were seven plates on the dining room table.
I counted them twice because there were only six people in the house, and Rosemary Dunlap was not the kind of woman who miscounted place settings.
She had folded the napkins into little fans. There were seven water glasses, seven sets of silverware, and seven slices of butter arranged on a small ceramic plate.
My sister Carrie sat across from me, looking suspicious.
Her husband, Casey, was staring into his water glass as though it might contain instructions for surviving the evening.
My daughter Abby leaned toward me.
“Dad,” she whispered, “who’s the extra plate for?”
I looked toward the closed door of the den.
“I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”
Rosemary appeared from the kitchen carrying a platter of ham loaf.
She was sixty-seven, wore pearl earrings to Sunday dinner, and had the kind of confidence that came from knowing practically everyone in Blair County.
She smiled brightly.
“Perry, sweetheart, do you ever get lonely in that big house?”
I set down my fork.
“Not particularly.”
“But Abby’s leaving for nursing school.”
“She is.”
“And you’ll be there all by yourself.”
“I’ve got Moose.”
Rosemary frowned.
“Moose is a dog.”
“He’s a very good listener.”
My daughter lowered her head to hide a smile.
Rosemary pressed her lips together.
Then she asked, “Do you believe in second chances?”
I looked at the ham loaf.
“That’s a pretty serious question for Sunday dinner.”
Before she could answer, her husband, Sid, looked up from his potatoes.
“Is it time for pie?”
Rosemary turned sharply.
“Not yet, Sidney.”
But somewhere behind her, a door opened.
And my ex-wife Misty stepped into the dining room carrying a tuna noodle casserole in a pair of oven mitts shaped like chickens.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Misty wore a blue dress I’d never seen before. Her hair had been freshly styled, and she was wearing the same perfume Rosemary had worn when she greeted us at the front door.
I knew immediately that this wasn’t a coincidence.
Rosemary stood.
Spread her arms.
And announced, “Surprise!”
Sid examined the casserole.
“That’s not pie.”
Carrie closed her eyes.
“Oh, Rosemary.”
Abby reached beneath the table and rested her hand on my arm.
I patted it gently.
Then looked at the woman I’d once been married to.
“Hello, Misty.”
Her smile trembled.
“Hi, Perry.”
I hadn’t spoken to her in five years.
Not properly.
Not since our divorce.
And I had a strong feeling that the evening was going to become much more interesting than anyone had planned.
My name is Perry Gallagher.
I was forty-four years old that summer, the owner of Horseshoe Towing in Altoona, Pennsylvania, and the father of the finest young woman I’ve ever known.
Her name is Abby.
She was eighteen, getting ready to begin nursing school, and had inherited my stubbornness along with her mother’s dark brown eyes.
I raised her mostly on my own.
Her mother and I separated when Abby was two. Eventually, she moved to Arizona, where she built a different life.
We made the appropriate parenting arrangements, but Abby’s everyday world was with me.
I was the one packing lunches, attending school conferences, and learning how to put a little girl’s hair into a ponytail.
That last skill took longer than I care to admit.
When Abby was four, I once sent her to preschool wearing two hair clips that didn’t match and a ponytail so crooked it looked as though the wind had done it.
Her teacher smiled.
“Did Daddy do your hair today?”
Abby nodded proudly.
“All by himself.”
I took that as a compliment.
Back then, Horseshoe Towing consisted of one used truck, a little rented garage, and a business telephone that rang at the least convenient times.
I named the company after Horseshoe Curve, the famous railroad landmark near town.
Around Altoona, almost every business seems to be named after either the railroad or the mountains.
I figured Horseshoe Towing sounded dependable.
It also looked good painted on a truck door.
The daytime calls paid the regular bills.
The nighttime calls were harder.
Nobody particularly wants to get out of a warm bed at two in the morning because somebody’s car won’t start in a supermarket parking lot.
But those calls kept us going.
When Abby started kindergarten, I made a promise to myself.
The earnings I could set aside from every tow after midnight, after business costs and taxes, would go toward her education.
I opened a separate savings account earmarked for her future, and later worked with a financial adviser to arrange suitable education savings.
Then I started marking the calls on the sun visor of my truck.
Little black lines.
Five at a time.
Abby noticed almost immediately.
“What’s that, Daddy?”
I pointed toward the visor.
“Those are your college calls.”
She looked confused.
“My calls?”
“Every time Daddy gets a call after midnight, we put some more money away for when you’re older.”
She thought about it.
Then smiled.
“Even if I’m asleep?”
“Especially if you’re asleep.”
After that, she’d ask me at breakfast how many Abby calls we’d had.
If I told her three, she’d dance around the kitchen with her cereal spoon.
Sometimes the account received only a little money.
Other times, after a busy stretch of late calls, I could make a larger deposit.
It grew slowly.
And every time I looked at the balance, I imagined Abby walking into a classroom someday without having to worry quite so much about how to pay for it.
When she was seven, I met Misty.
She worked in the billing department at a local hospital.
She was funny, quick with a joke, and genuinely good with people.
We met at a neighborhood picnic.
She laughed at something I said about my tow truck being the only vehicle in town that seemed to attract more trouble than a teenager with a learner’s permit.
I liked her immediately.
For the first time in years, I considered the possibility that Abby and I might become a family of three.
Misty was kind to her in the beginning.
She came to school events.
Helped with homework.
And bought Abby a little purple bicycle helmet because she said every girl deserved one in her favorite color.
We married when Abby was eight.
The ceremony was small.
A few friends.
Family members.
A homemade cake.
Abby carried the rings and took her responsibility so seriously that she wouldn’t let anyone near the little velvet box until the exact moment the minister asked for it.
For a while, we were happy.
I want to be fair about that.
Misty could be thoughtful.
She helped organize our home.
Made Abby laugh.
And sometimes waited up for me when I returned from a late call.
But gradually, I began noticing something.
Misty had a family.
And whenever her family wanted something, their needs came first.
Her sister Janet lived in Duncansville with her son Dallas.
Dallas was a good kid, though he had the usual teenage enthusiasm for expensive things.
Janet struggled financially at times.
Misty helped her often.
At first, I admired that.
Family should help family when they can.
I believed it then.
I believe it now.
But there’s a difference between helping someone and assuming every resource available to you also belongs to them.
That distinction became important.
Janet needed a new dryer.
Misty suggested we cover most of it.
Janet’s car needed repairs.
Misty asked whether I could help.
Dallas wanted to attend a weekend event at a lake.
Somehow, the arrangement involved my boat, my gas money, and several hours of my time.
None of those things ruined our marriage individually.
I liked Dallas.
I wanted Janet to do well.
But whenever I hesitated, Misty behaved as though I’d failed some test of loyalty.
The first time I fully recognized the pattern was during Abby’s spring concert.
She was eleven.
Her class had spent weeks preparing a musical program.
Abby had four lines of a song about a river.
Only four.
But she practiced those lines every evening in our bathroom because she said the acoustics made her sound like a professional singer.