She didn’t look like a Mrs. Vanderhofen to Larry. To Larry, women named Mrs. Vanderhofen should have sagging breasts, rotund waists, and wear polyester house dresses with knee-length stockings and sensible shoes. Not like this woman, with the quivering lips, narrow-bridged nose, soft chin, round shoulders, and a figure so petite, she might be a large porcelain figurine. But she wasn’t Mrs. Vanderhofen to Larry, not really – she wanted him to call her Jennifer. And she did look like a Jennifer to him.
After he placed her on the sofa, convulsing in a maelstrom of tears, sobs, and heaves, Larry stood back and asked himself, should he do anything? Get her a glass of water, give her a handkerchief (he didn’t have any), sit down and pat her on the back? He might’ve delivered this news a hundred times in the past eight years, but right now he felt like such a little boy, standing here in front of this delicate princess, having no idea how to help her. And for the first time since he’d started this job, he wanted to help.
The three movers went back outside and left Larry alone with her. She began to talk, mutter unintelligible things. Something about a Tiffany, Pasadena, the moon, and leaving. Leaving? That’s right – she didn’t live at their house. So they were separating when all of this happened. Easier for her, Larry supposed. And then he sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him and cried into his chest.
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