Now at first glance, this would appear to have a simple solution, one that's easily and quickly resolved with some hard currency. Alas, that would be the case except for the missing wallet, my recent return from an extended business trip during which Sally had lost the last of her front baby teeth, and as I mentioned a loaded banana.

My suitcase has made it as far as the foyer. Its matching roller bag lays splayed open next to me. The contents that I had carefully packed twelve hours ago in my hotel room were apparently dumped from the bag while I was on the toilet. Sally has already found the snow globe and t-shirt. She hands the globe to my ex-wife and asks her to put it on the shelf with the other ones before I have a chance to do it. The t-shirt, at least two sizes larger than necessary, is lying on the coffee table with half a baggage tag stuck to one sleeve.

Priscilla, a mix of joy and disgust in her voice, calls out from somewhere behind me, "I've got it, Sally."

I start to lower my hands, but Sally tips the banana up a couple of times and takes a step closer to me. "Don't even think about it," she warns me, "I'm not afraid to use this." Lines right out of Law & Order. I'm going to have some words with Priscilla about Sally's television lineup since I've been gone. I put on a serious face for my child's benefit. "You wouldn't shoot your old man." I plead as sincerely as possible, shifting my weight from one butt cheek to the other. "Not over a few dollars. Right?"

Sally lets the banana droop from my face to my crotch. I hope that her aim is accidental, but unconsciously cross my legs. The brief thought of something her mother might have said about men skids through my mind. Leaning forward, I tell Sally, "I'll bet that banana would taste real good in your tummy."

Her lips roll into a smile, just for a moment, as she looks at the perfectly ripe fruit in her hand, but the seriousness of the situation takes hold and once again, there's that loaded banana in my face.

Priscilla comes around in front of me and takes the banana from Sally. "Go wash your hands and I'll peel it for you." As the four-year-old runs off toward the powder room, my ex-wife drops the wallet in my lap along with a condom that was behind a pair of hundred-dollar bills. "Business trip necessities?"

"Safety first." I smile and replace the condom in my wallet. Flipping to the other side of the billfold, I pull out a pair of one-dollar bills. "Is this the going rate for a visit from the tooth fairy?"

With her left eyebrow reaching for the ceiling, a face that she knows irritates the hell out of me, Priscilla lets loose a breath in slow motion and shakes her head. "Will there ever come a time in your life when Scrooge takes the night off and we meet mister generosity?"

Her cheap shot at our divorce settlement has been used so many times that I'm saying the words in my mind as she spits them out. I purse my lips and nod, saying nothing. Returning to my wallet, I switch out the ones for fives. "Sorry, I'm not giving up the Franklins," I tell her. Then pointing at Sally's roller bag over by the door I ask, "What's going on here?"

Without pause, Priscilla looks past me and announces, "Sally wants to spend the weekend with me at my mom's house in the country."

I hear the tennis player's bullshit in her words. She's talking across the net now, racket swinging in her hand, and I'm not buying into it. One of these days, she's going to figure out that no one buys into her crap anymore. Even her tennis coach, who I'll bet she's still screwing. Squinting my eyes, I ask in my most sarcastic voice, "She wants to or you talked her into it? There's not much to do this time of the year for a four-year-old at a cabin in the woods."

The serious Priscilla takes over, giving me the point. Finally, it's time for the truth. "Frank, my mom's running out of days. We thought she had months and then weeks. But it's down to days. There's a full-time nurse at the cabin, but mom is still able to sit in a chair. I want her to see Sally one more time. Anything to brighten her last days."

I sit up straighter on the couch, my back acknowledging that nine hours on a jet, even in Business Class, has exceeded its tolerance. I know her mom is fading. I know the pace of her illness despite the dearth of communication between me and my ex. But there's a third party here who requires consideration: a four-year-old child whose current exposure to the end of life consists of scenes from a television series. Meaningless yet memorized dialog that would one day make sense, but not right now.

Sally had played ball with her grandmother less than five months ago. We were there for Thanksgiving dinner outdoors at Grandma's cabin in the woods. We'd gotten there early in the day to help, and had been given the news after Sally fell asleep at sunset. I laid out a series of excuses to Sally when Grandma failed to show at my townhouse for Christmas and the traditional opening of the presents. That was two months in a past where not a word about Grandma had been spoken.

In my mind, I saw the same image that Sally had burned into her memory that day. It had been a perfect Rockwell afternoon: a healthy old woman with a mane of gray and the body of a linebacker, tossing a tennis ball to her granddaughter in a field in front of a cabin and backed by a tall forest. Sunshine lit the leaves and a temporary peace had been declared between the child's mother and father.

Shaking my head, I tell Priscilla, "No. She's not going."

"Why?" she asks, the eyebrow now twitching.

"Memories." I get up from the couch and stow my wallet. "Sally's last memory of her grandmother is one of a healthy person. I don't want to spoil that."

"Spoil that?" Priscilla folds her arms across her chest and takes a step back from me. Pointing the banana at my chest, her words are caustic, "My mother is dying, Frank. What the hell? Are you that cold, that controlling?"

I walk over to the collection of suitcases and lift Sally's from the pack. "Let's start and end with, legally you don't have custody of our child. You gave that up on the day she was born. You, who never wanted to be a mother. You, who said 'take her' at the custody hearing without hesitation. But you knew that, otherwise you'd have left before I got home today. So, you're still here because you didn't want to have a scene with police cars and legal documents and all the shit you know would have come down on you just to make a point."

She pouts. It's her usual last resort before tears. "It would do my mom good to see her. What about my mom's memories?"

"Our child's memories will be around for a lot longer and we'll both be able to re-live them with her. And her last memory of her grandmother will be one that brings a smile to her face, not tears to her eyes."

I level my gaze into Priscilla's mesmerizing green eyes, the first image of my ex-wife that comes up from my memories, and tell her quietly, with the sound of approaching footsteps, "You go be with your mom, just like you've been through all of her decline. You've been watching it happen. You'll have to live with those memories. I wish you luck. Tell Sally that your mom called and that she's got a cold. She'll understand, plus we have a birthday party to go to this weekend. Five minutes after you're out the door, she'll have forgotten about going to Grandma's house anyhow."

I watch Priscilla's face relax and with it, the rest of her tennis player's body drop into off-court mode. Handing me the unpeeled and possibly still loaded banana, she smiles, but it's forced and I know it. She repeats the excuse to our daughter verbatim, gives Sally a hug, noticeably longer than usual, and turns away from me as she rolls her bags out the door.

Sally looks at the banana I'm holding and reaches out for it with both hands. Her voice has an expectant, yet upbeat tone. "Daddy, I'll share it with you," she tells me, "but only after you pay the tooth fairy what you owe her."