"It's not time,"
  " she said, proceeding to the stairs.
  "What if you're wrong?"
  "Trust me, Joey, I'll be the first to know."
  As Agnes ascended, Joey hurried into the foyer behind her and said, "Where are you 
going?"
  "Upstairs, silly."
  "What're you going to do?"
  "Destroy some clothes."
  "
  " Oh."
  "
  She fetched a pair of cuticle scissors front the master bathroom, plucked a red blouse 
from her closet, and sat on the edge of the bed. Carefully snipping threads with the 
tiny, pointed blades, she turned the blouse inside out and unraveled a lot of stitches 
just under the shoulder yoke, ruining the front shirring.
  From Joey's closet, she extracted an old blue blazer that he seldom wore anymore. The 
lining was sagging, worn, and half rotten. She tore it. With the small scissors, she 
opened the shoulder seam from the inside.
  To the growing pile of ruin, she added one of Joey's cardigan sweaters, after popping 
loose one bone button and almost completely detaching a sewn-on patch pocket. A pair of 
knockabout khaki pants: quickly clip open the seat seam; cut the corner of' the wallet 
pocket, then rip it with both hands; snip loose some stitching and half detach the cuff 
on the left leg.
  She damaged more of Joey's things than her own solely because he was such a big, dear 
giant, which made it easier to believe that he was constantly bursting out of his clothes.
  Downstairs again, as Agnes reached the foot of the stairs, she began to worry that she 
had done too thorough a job on the khakis and that the extent of the damage would raise 
suspicions.
  Seeing her, Joey leaped up front his armchair again. He managed to hold on to his book 
this time, but he stumbled into the footstool and nearly lost his balance.
  "When did you have that run-in with the dog?" she asked.
  Bewildered, he said, "What dog?"
  "Was it yesterday or the day before?"
  "Dog? There was no dog."
  Shaking the ravaged khakis at him, she said, "Then what made such a mess of these?
  He stared glumly at the khakis. Although they were old pants, they were a favorite pair 
when he was puttering around the house on weekends. "Oh," he said, "that dog."
  "It's a miracle you weren't bitten."
  "Thank God," he said, "I had a shovel."
  "You didn't hit the poor dog with a shovel'," she asked with mock dismay.
  Well, wasn't it attacking me?"
  "But it was only a miniature collie."
  He frowned. "I thought it was a big dog."
  "No, no, dear. It was little Muffin, from next door. A big dog certainly would have 
torn up both you and the pants. We've got to have a credible story."
  "Muffin seems like such a nice little dog."
  "But the breed is nervous, dear. With a nervous breed, you just never know, do you?
  "I guess not."
  "Nevertheless, even if Muffin assaulted you, she's otherwise such a sweet little thing. 
What would Maria think of you if you told her you'd smashed poor Muffin with a shovel?"
  "I was fighting for my life, wasn't I?"
  "She'll think you're cruel."
  "I didn't say I hit the dog."
  Smiling, cocking her head, Agnes regarded him with amused expectation.
  Scowling, Joey stared at the floor in puzzlement, shifted his weight from one foot to 
the other, sighed, turned his attention to the ceiling, and shifted his weight again, for 
all the world like a trained bear that couldn't quite remember how to perform its next 
trick.
  Finally, he said, "What I did was grab the shovel, dig a hole really fast, and bury 
Muffin in it up to her neck-just until she calmed down."
  "That's your story, huh?"
  "And I'm sticking to it."
  "Well, then, you're lucky that Maria's English is so evil."
  He said, "Couldn't you just take her money?"
  "Sure. Or why don't I pull a Rumpelstiltskin and demand one of her children for 
payment' "
  "I liked those pants."
  As she turned away from him and continued along the hall toward the kitchen, Agnes 
said, "They'll be as good as new when she's mended them.''
  Behind her, he said, "And is that my gray cardigan? What did you do to my cardigan?"
  "If you don't hush, I'll set it on fire."
  In the kitchen, Maria was nibbling at the raisin scone.
  Agnes dropped the damaged apparel on one of the breakfast-table chairs.
  After carefully wiping her fingers on a paper napkin, Maria examined the garments with 
interest. She carried her living as the seamstress at Bright Beach Dry Cleaners. At the 
sight of each rent, popped button, and split seam she clucked her tongue.
  Agnes said, "Joey is so hard on his clothes."
  "Men," Maria commiserated.
  Rico, her own husband-a drunkard and a gambler-had run off with another woman, 
abandoning Maria and their two small daughters. No doubt, he had departed in a spotlessly 
clean, sharply pressed, perfectly mended ensemble.
  The seamstress held up the khakis and raised her eyebrows.
  Settling into a chair at the table, Agnes said, "He was attacked by a dog."
  Maria's eyes widened. "Pit bull' German sheep',"
  "Miniature collie."
  "What is like such a dog?"
  "Muffin. You know, next door."
  "Little Muffin do this?''
  "It's a nervous breed."
  "Muffin was in a mood."
  Agnes winced. Already, another contraction. Mild but so soon after the last. She 
clasped her hands around her immense belly and took slow, deep breaths until the pain 
passed.
  "Well, anyway," she said, as though Muffins uncharacteristic viciousness had been 
adequately explained, "this mending ought to cover ten more lessons."
  Maria's face gathered into a frown, like a piece of brown cloth cinched by a series of 
whipstitches. "Six lessons."
  "Ten."
  "Six."