It happened sometimes between husband and wife, a little feud over something small and simple that became huge and complex. They’d been married long enough to have had many of these. In the early days, they could really go at it. Yelling down the night until the neighbors called the cops. Frank always got the evil eye then. Tammy was inspected for shiners. These tiffs were verbal, not physical, unless Tammy pitched a plate at the wall, which she didn’t do anymore. Plates cost money, and the set they had now was quite nice, though Frank didn’t care for the daisy pattern.
They owned a shop that sold stone monuments for gardens. Not for cemeteries. That was its own specialty, and required you to deal with the bereaved, which Tammy would be no good at. Misery made her uneasy, her sympathy ran out fast. Get a grip, she’d be tempted to say, which wouldn’t be helpful, and would probably lose her a sale. Frank got along well with the customers, and she generally let him do the talking.
One wet Tuesday, when everything else so far had gone wrong — the milk for their coffee had spoiled and the truck wouldn’t start — they received a shipment of statues they didn’t order. They’d asked for Buddhas and Japanese pagodas because Tammy loved them, and they sold well. What they got were St. Francis (four), the Virgin Mary (six), and a flock of small, fat cherubs. Tammy was raised a Catholic and despised the…
