Phone checked, overcoat on, bag on her shoulder, Elaine leaned down to lavish some attention on Petitcru in the last moment before she left. "There's an extra set of keys under the snail in the flower bed," she said, apparently referring to the dismal square of mulch next to the door. "Sodas in the fridge. I think I said that. And please,
please," she added, moving towards the door, "pay attention to the food stuff. She will s**t all over the house if you don't." And then, magnanimously, as she decided she liked this little bigamist-to-be: "She has extra sweaters in the pink basket on the bottom shelf. If you take pictures, I want them. My number's on the fridge in case you lose it. It might take me a few hours to answer texts but if you call, I'll pick up. So
don't call unless it's an actual emergency."
She was already halfway out the door, but she paused to turn once more, pointing a finger at America with a decisive sternness that might bring certain other aunts to view, even if they might have considered pointing rude and certainly would not have used the language Elaine did. "Do
not," she said, "touch that ******** sword."
And then, in a swirl of perfume smoke and cold air that made the dog shiver violently, she was gone.
