He called Junie. It rang six times and went to voicemail. Her voice, recorded two years ago, younger: Hi, it's Junie, you know what to do. He called again. Voicemail.
He called Dana. It rang four times and she answered, and behind her he could hear hair dryers and somebody laughing and a pop song.
"Hi, baby! I can't really talk, I'm at Michelle's with Kenz, she's doing an updo, it's going to be gorgeous—"
"Where's Junie?"
A beat. Small. If he had not been listening for it, he would never have heard it.
"Home, I think? Why?"
"What happened to her dress?"
The pause this time was longer.
"Oh, God. Did she call you? Mark, I feel terrible. It was an accident, I was doing the whites, she left it in with the whites—"
"She left it in with the whites," Mark repeated.
"I didn't know what it was! It looked like a sheet, it was all balled up in there. And honestly, baby, I'm not sure she was even going to go. You know how she's been. I think she's a little relieved, if I'm honest. It gives her an out." Her voice softened. It went into the register she used at night, when he was home and the lights were off and she was telling him how hard it was, how much she did, how Junie needed so much and gave back so little, how she was trying, Mark, she was really trying, she didn't know what else she could do. "I'll make it up to her. I'll take her shopping next weekend. Okay? Don't worry about it. You've got enough going on. Michelle's waving at me, I have to go. Love you."
The call ended. Mark looked at the screen.
"It looked like a sheet," he said aloud. "All balled up."
He thought about the bucket.