"Street Scene- Asterdam" By Anjali Arora

"Mom," Amy says, "is this a good box?"

"No, that one's too big. Try the one next to it."

I'm bent over trying to fit another box into the back of my station wagon and, as I start to straighten up, I see a big blue Oldsmobile pulling into the parking lot. It's Betty Jo Grossner. I practically dive into the back of the station wagon hoping she won't notice me. Betty Jo likes to do her shopping right after deliveries are made so she can get her fingers all over everything before anyone else does. Always first and always the worst, that's Betty. First at the grocery store and always the first one with her nose in someone else's business. Gossip is sort of a career with Betty, a calling you might say. And she's good at it. She can get a grocery store clerk to reveal things that a trained investigator couldn't find out. The way she walks puts me in mind of this duck that my Dad used to have. My Amy can do a perfect imitation of Betty's walk whenever she sees her coming across the yard to our back door. Oh, in case I haven't mentioned it, Betty Jo is my next door neighbor and I'm sure it's obvious by now that there is no love lost between us. At least not on my part. I'm hoping that we can get packed and move out without her seeing us. I don't want to say good-bye and I sure don't plan on keeping in touch.

One of the check-out ladies at the grocery store told me once that I was lucky to have Betty Jo Grossner for a neighbor. I hadn't been living here long then so I believed her. It didn't take me long to figure out that if having Betty Jo as a neighbor was luck it was bad luck. Betty Jo has always been one to notice things. She had an eye like a hawk she said. More like a vulture I say. Never missed a thing she said. Like the way she always noticed when my husband didn't come home for dinner. Truth is he missed dinner more than he made it home.

Betty would march right over around dinnertime and say, "Is that man of yours late again? You poor things." She'd give me a big hug and grab hold of both of my shoulders, look me right in the eye and say, "Isn't it wicked how some people talk? Don't you believe a word those old busybodies say. I don't. I mind my own business. I don't believe for a minute that man of yours is seeing another woman. No sir, it's just talk. That's all it is." Then she'd compliment me on how clean my house always was and tell me that it wasn't any of her business -- which it wasn't -- but maybe I ought to save a little of my energy for my husband. A woman needs to smell of perfume not bleach and hard work when her man comes home, she'd say. Then she'd say, "Poor thing," again, hug Amy, and me, and finally leave.

And she's leaving now. Now if I can just get these boxes into the house without her seeing me, I'll be packed and ready to go before anyone knows it. She was right about my house though. I had a routine worked out that was simple but efficient. On the days that my husband didn't come home after work, I cleaned cabinets -- cabinets and closets. On the days that my husband came home from work drunk, I cleaned floors. He'd pass out, sleep like a baby and I'd scrub floors. In the morning, he'd sit at the kitchen table in our spotless kitchen with both his hands wrapped around a coffee cup holding it steady and tell me he was sorry and that he'd try to do better. He'd tell me that I was the best thing that happened to him and if I left he just didn't know what he'd do. I'd listen and we'd both agree to try harder. And then for a couple of days everything would be pretty good. But before long, Amy and I would be dining alone again.

I remember a Saturday afternoon when he decided to take Amy and me fishing. It was a beautiful summer day. The sky was as blue as it could be, and it was hot but not hot enough to make you wish you were someplace else. He never could get me and Amy to bait our own hooks. I packed a big lunch, fried chicken and lemonade, and we spread out a blanket under the trees. We talked about things that we did when we were kids, stupid things that made us laugh. Amy fell asleep while we were talking. I remember thinking how much Amy looked like him sometimes and how funny that was since they weren't really related at all.

"Let's make this a family tradition," he said. "We'll come back here every year, first Saturday in May."

I really loved him then. Part of me still does, I guess. I know we wanted it to work. At least we started that way. I knew it was over one day when it aggravated me that he showed up for dinner. Even Amy just looked at him for a minute before she went to the cabinet to get his plate and silverware.

I know exactly how many boxes I need to pack our things so packing won't take me long. I'm not taking anything but the things Amy and I had when we moved in. I can just hear my Mom now. "You're better off without him," she'll say. "It's his loss. He'll realize that some day." I'll just agree with her because I won't want to talk about it and I won't know what to say anyway. And then I'll think about him coming home, sitting at the kitchen table, and reading my letter. I know he'll feel bad for a while, probably just hang around the house and get real drunk. At least for a day, maybe two, and then he'll pick up the phone, call some lady friend, and go have a beer.

I'm an employee at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale in the Affirmative Action Office. I have been a university employee for 22 years. I have a Bachelor of Arts degree in the English department (Creative Writing program). I am currently a graduate student in the College of Education. I am involved in women's issues on campus and in the community. I have been a volunteer crisis intervention counselor at the Rape Action Group in Carbondale and am currently on the executive board of the Women's Caucus group on campus. I'm a mom. My daughter is 25 years old and wonderful. My husband is 48 and wonderful. This is the first time one of my stories will be published so I am very happy. My e-mail address is jillrich@siu.edu and I love to hear from people.