Each weekday Mrs. Heretick leaves work at 9:45 to pick up Mr. Heretick and drive him to the community college, where he takes a math class. This morning Mr. Heretick is already waiting on the stoop when she pulls up to the curb. His face wears a scowl as he climbs into the car and slams the door.
Mrs. Heretick knows the reason for his foul mood. He's thinking of Mr. Sharp. Mr. Sharp is Mr. Heretick's best friend. Recently, however, they've had a falling out. After a few Saturday night beers, Mr. Sharp told Mr. Heretick he was pretentious and stuck up. When Mr. Heretick asked him to elaborate, he said the Dan's Super Store where the Hereticks shop for groceries is snooty and the Hereticks only shop there because they want to be seen by the executives of Associated World Production. Associated World Production, or AWP, is the company where Mr. Heretick and Mr. Sharp both work the graveyard shift.
Mrs. Heretick is puzzled by this accusation. She and Mr. Heretick shop at Dan's because it's the store closest to their home. She's never seen any AWP bigwigs there. Dan's aisles seem populated by ordinary people just like her and Mr. Heretick.
Mr. Heretick begins expounding on this theme as soon as he's in the car. "You know what it is," he says.
"What," Mrs. Heretick murmurs.
"He's jealous because I'm taking this class. He doesn't want to see me better myself. He's threatened by my relationship with Mr. Rich and angry because Rich promised me that promotion if I can pass the exam. Mr. Heretick glances at Mrs. Heretick's profile as she drives. "I mean, don't you think?"
"I think," says Mrs. Heretick, "he's suffering from the delusion, common to pairs of men who are extremely close, such as brothers or best friends, that there's a limited amount of good fortune that must be shared between them. And since you've had some good luck lately and his luck hasn't been so good, he thinks you've stolen his luck."
They arrive at the community college. Mr. Heretick climbs out of the car. "Goodbye," says Mrs. Heretick.
Mrs. Heretick doesn't return to work immediately after dropping off Mr. Heretick. Instead, she drives around aimlessly for a while. The reason Mrs. Heretick feels the tug of responsibility more faintly today than on other days? Because she has a check for $50,000 in her purse. Well, $47,223.72, to be exact, but with such bounty it doesn't seem imprudent to round up.
The $47,223.72 is Mrs. Heretick's inheritance, bestowed by her Uncle Charlie. Uncle Charlie was an eccentric old geezer who loved playing the horses and devising schemes to avoid work. He liked to brag he'd never paid income taxes his entire life. The family thought he was more or less indigent, but after he got sick and died his sisters went to his trailer to clean it out and found more than $50,000 in cash and small checks made out to Uncle Charlie under various pseudonyms.
They also found a will, which specified that "the trailer and all its contents" should go to Uncle Charlie's favorite niece. Mrs. Heretick earned this designation by bringing Uncle Charlie home-cooked meals three times a week for the last six years.
After driving around for half an hour or so, Mrs. Heretick heads to her bank. She pulls into the drive-through teller lane closest to the building, not wanting to watch her good fortune disappear into a pneumatic tube.
"Hey, Mrs. H.," the young teller says. "What can I do for you today?"
"I'd like to deposit this," Mrs. Heretick says, slipping the endorsed check into the drawer.
The teller removes the check from the drawer and begins processing it. When she gets to the amount, she stops. "Whoa!" she says, popping her gum. "Who died?"
"My Uncle Charlie," says Mrs. Heretick.
"Gee Mrs. H., that's too bad. This is a nice chunk of change though, huh? Do you want me to open an IRA for you or something? Maybe you'd better come inside and talk to Mr. Grafton about this."
"No thank you," Mrs. Heretick says. "Just put it into my checking."
After her stop at the bank, Mrs. Heretick drives home. She puts on a pot of coffee and turns on the computer in her "home office," which is a little corner of the living room where Mr. Heretick has set up her computer and a phone.
While the computer is booting up, Mrs. Heretick dials her work number. Ms. Cooke answers the line. Mrs. Heretick tells Ms. Cooke she experienced car trouble after dropping Mr. Heretick off at school. She's having the car serviced and may not make it back to the office. Ms. Cooke is sympathetic. She tells Mrs. Heretick not to worry. They'll see her tomorrow.
Mrs. Heretick pours herself a cup of coffee and settles in front of the computer. She visits the iWon site to accumulate her daily points and looks at the stock report for AWP, where Mr. Heretick has a modest portfolio. But she's just stalling and she knows it.
Finally, after reading a paragraph about every exhibit at the upcoming State Fair, Mrs. Heretick allows herself to enter the eBay site. Even then she doesn't go directly to her goal but pokes around a bit first, looking at a set of golf clubs that might interest Mr. Heretick and an antique armoire her mother would like. Since her retirement, Mrs. Heretick's mother has taken to collecting antiques, while Mrs. Heretick's stepfather, Mr. Jasper, is an avid hunter and amateur taxidermist. Their home is filled with tableaux of stuffed animals arranged into naturalistic scenes—a fox with a partridge hanging from its jaws, a bobcat stalking a squirrel—perched atop Mrs. Jasper's venerable old furniture.
Mrs. Heretick briefly considers bidding on the armoire but decides against it. Then, as though she hadn't planned it, she finds herself on the page with her heart's desire. The statue.
Mrs. Heretick gazes at the page for a long time. She types in a bid and moves her mouse over the "Place Bid" button, but without pressing down. She erases the bid. Then she enters a new bid, $2,500 higher than the first one. She is still agonizing over the decision when she hears a noise by the door. It's Mr. Heretick, home from class. Hurriedly, she erases her current bid and reenters the first one. Mr. Heretick's key is turning in the lock. She presses the "Place Bid" button, sealing her fate. Mr. Heretick walks through the door and screams.
"Jesus Christ!" he exclaims, dropping his bookbag. "What are you doing here?"
"I didn't feel well after I dropped you off, so I called in," Mrs. Heretick says. "Didn't you see the car out there?"
"To tell you the truth, I didn't notice," Mr. Heretick says. "My mind is elsewhere. This thing with Sharp really has me burned up." Then he notices the screen behind Mrs. Heretick's head, with its "Thank you for your bid!" message.
"Don't tell me you're on eBay again," he says, plopping down into his armchair. "I thought we agreed we can't afford that now."
"I'm just doing some holiday shopping," Mrs. Heretick says, snapping the computer off. "It's cheaper than shopping in the stores."
Two days later, Mrs. Heretick is in her cubicle at work, reviewing deductions for an employee who claimed he was underpaid, when her computer sounds the "Charge!" signal, indicating Mrs. Heretick has received an email. She opens her Inbox. The new message is from eBay. "You have the winning bid!" reads the Subject line. The pen falls from Mrs. Heretick's hand and she clutches her chest, like a character in a play who has just received bad news.
On the Saturday after receiving the email, Mrs. Heretick arises early and prepares Mr. Heretick's favorite breakfast: bacon, sausage, eggs over easy, and sliced tomatoes. The smell of frying meat rouses him from bed.
"What's this?" he asks, stumbling naked into the kitchen.
"Hi, Honey," says Mrs. Heretick, blotting the bacon with a paper towel. "Want some coffee?"
"Yeah," says Mr. Heretick, accepting the mug she hands him. "But what's going on? Why are you up and making me breakfast?"
"I just thought you might like a hot meal before your tee time."
"I don't even know if we're going," Mr. Heretick says, returning down the hall from the bedroom, where he's fetched his bathrobe. "Sharp probably forgot to reserve our time."
"No, he didn't!" Mrs. Heretick blurts. "I called the club to double-check."
"Lucy, what are you doing?" Mr. Heretick asks, doing his best Ricky Ricardo. He wags his finger at his wife.
"Nothing!" Mrs. Heretick laughs nervously. "I just didn't want you to miss your game. I know how you look forward to it all week."
When Mr. Heretick is showered and out of the house, Mrs. Heretick makes another pot of coffee. She leaves the front door ajar and paces relentlessly from the door to the kitchen and back again, refilling her cup each time until she is thoroughly over-caffeinated. After an hour she sees what she's been waiting for: an enormous delivery truck, rattling down the narrow side streets where the Hereticks live. Mrs. Heretick waits with a mixture of hope and dread to see if it will drive past, but it pulls right up to the house and stops.
After a moment, two men jump down from the cab. Both wear overalls and caps. The passenger side rider leans up against the truck and lights a cigarette. The driver trots around the back of the truck and straight up the walk to Mrs. Heretick, who has stepped out onto the porch.
When the driver reaches the stoop, he stops. His face breaks out in a puzzled grin.
"You must be Mrs. Heretick," he says, removing his cap and making a small mock bow. "So, where do you want it?"
