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Dorothy dressed and took her coffee to the back porch. The air was mild, fragrant with that aromatic dust of fall, like the scent of apples starting to go by. The autumn clematis was blooming on the fence. A pair of cardinals called to each other in the privet, joyous red chirps among the thick clusters of berries. Yesterday a yellowthroat had passed through. Surely, it was sinful not to enjoy such a day. Without kids, an hour seemed added to the morning. Driving the carpool to the Academy all those years had been awful. She would not miss it. It reminded her of soldier stories, the sandwiching of tedium and terror into unpalatable bites of existence. You survived. It was not the same as thriving. She believed those drives might have damaged her heart.

Her neighbor Sonya came down the alley in jogging clothes, a bull terrier running ahead. Since the shooting, people had gotten dogs. Why that should make people feel safer, since the worst crimes were between people who knew each other, Dorothy would never understand. It wasn't random, Allen said, so people accept it. But many moved away, especially those with kids. Better schools, they said. Sonya and Martin had no children. There might be time to make friends.

All the playground equipment at the Park had been taken away too, and the fountain shut off. Just the sandboxes and the hopscotch court left. The shade trees were big now. Twenty years ago when Dorothy and Nancy took their turn with the playschool cooep, they would run water down the metal slides to cool them off in summer; there was no shade. Now, people put kids in afterschool during the week, and drove them to other playgrounds on the weekends.

Annie did that. She was a good mother. She was coming out of her house now with two of her brood and waved to Dorothy. She had a government job and signed her kids up for everything: before- and after-school, service groups, children's theatre, soccer, Sunday school. Dorothy wondered if Annie had learned from her generation's mistakes. In any case, the mommie wars were an inner struggle; Dorothy was certain of that. What other mothers were doing was just context.

By half-past seven, the SUVs and minivans were charging up the street in earnest, going too fast. Too many driveways, too many kids, and inevitably, some knucklehead taking a wrong-way shortcut to the Parkway. People said, "Someday somebody is going to get hurt." But people moved away, so if that happened, God forbid, it would be not be their kid. Dorothy looked up at the bright yellow "Slow Children" sign. It should be on her resume, she thought, if only people realized the effort it had taken. Her resume needed dusting off. She should finish that Master's, or find work.

Dorothy went back indoors, brushed her teeth, and put on lipstick. "You wear lipstick for other people," Mama would say, "Paint on a little smile so they don't worry about you." Dorothy put on mouth-color lipstick, "Rose of Windsor," like Mama wore. She sat down in her tiny office at the top of the stairs to make a to-do list. With caffeine and a little make-up, she could face anything.

Such a beautiful day. From where she sat, she could look right into the pear tree. The leaves were gathered into close rosettes at the joints of the branches, green bouquets. The pears were gold-green, droopy, like huge pearls, or drapery tassels, ornamental. Surely there were hundreds this year. There were too many too count, perhaps too many to pick or use. She would have liked to go for a walk with Nancy. Maybe she would come over and help pick.

The first summer there had been much fruit, some kids had picked them all, threw them around, broken branches. Dorothy had come back after Labor Day and caught them. Danny, the boy next door, had been the ringleader. Although he was deathly allergic to bee-sting she found him swatting at the wasps with a tennis racket when she came upon the scene. Dorothy cleaned it up herself; the kids had scattered when they realized how angry she was. Danny's mother came over later, apologized and thanked her. It was awkward; neither of them knew what to say. Before children, they had been the best of friends. Lucy, such a cautious mother, how was it her boy was so bold and reckless?

They had moved away too, but still Dorothy cleaned up the fallen pears. Someone having anaphylaxis in her yard was the last thing she needed. She had chosen to be an at-home mother, but at some point it seemed as if she had become the at-home mother, generic. Nancy said she didn't know how you unbecame that. Dorothy wasn't sure, but she had stopped bringing cupcakes to the block parties.

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