Edge

the cardboard, paper and ink of the many boxed games lining the walls. The town house had seemed unbearably sterile. I thought I should get some incense or do what people did when they were selling their houses, boil cinnamon on the stove.
    Or bake cookies. Something domestic.
    As if that would ever happen.
    The game between the sisters now ended and Joanne returned to her room. Maree gave me a smile and booted up her computer.
    I asked, “Who won?”
    “Jo did. You can’t beat her. At anything. It’s impossible.”
    As a statistician, Joanne would have had a talent for math and that meant a talent for games—certain types, in any event. I knew my skill at numbers, and my analytical mind, helped me play.
    In backgammon, which I happen to be good at, I knew the general strategy was to play a “running game,” moving quickly around the board, offensively. If that didn’t work, players had to fall back on a holding action, trying to create an anchor on the opponent’s side. While not as complicated as chess, it’s a sophisticated game. I would have liked to see how Joanne played. But the interest was purely theoretical. In all my years as a shepherd, I’d never played a game with a principal, though on occasion I’d been tempted.
    Maree gestured toward her computer. “Tell me what you think?”
    “What?” I asked.
    “Come ’ere, Mr. Tour Guide. Take a look.”
    She motioned me over and typed some commands into her computer. A logo came up, GSI, Global Sofware Innovations . I’d heard of them but couldn’t recall where. After a moment the program loaded. It was apparently a picture editing and archiving program; folders of Maree’s photos appeared.
    Maree’s fingers paused, hovering over keys. I thought at first she was unfamiliar with the software, but it turned out the hesitation was due to another reason. With a wistfulness in her eyes, she said, “It’s Amanda’s program. We had a lot of fun installing it together. . . . I feel bad for her. She’s got to be terrified about this whole thing.”
    I glanced into the woman’s eyes, focused blankly on the logo. “She’s stronger than a lot of my adult principals. She’ll be fine.” This was not just for reassurance; it was the truth.
    Maree exhaled softly. “Jo thinks she’s stronger than I am.” A look up at my face. “As a rule I never agree with my sister but she’s right about that.”
    Then she seemed to toss aside the serious thoughts—as I’d been doing all day—and concentrated on the photo software.
    She typed quickly and two pictures flashed onto the screen side by side.
    “I can’t decide which of these two are the best.” She laughed, looking up, and patted the chair beside her. “It’s okay, I don’t bite.”
    I hesitated then sat down. I noted that, unsurprisingly,she was the source of the pleasant spice, not Joanne. And, as I’d observed yesterday, she was wearing makeup, skillfully applied. She had ironed and donned a new outfit—a sheer skirt and silk maroon blouse. This was curious. Not only do principals tend to ignore fashion like this when their lives are in danger but if Maree was as flighty as she seemed and the artist she claimed to be, I would have thought she’d have been inattentive to personal details. Or been more of a jeans-and-sweats woman.
    She leaned close. I felt her arm against mine and the sweet aroma wafted around me. I must have eased away slightly because she laughed again.
    I felt a ping of impatience. But I did as she’d asked and I looked at the computer screen. “The gallery show I was telling you about? I’m submitting one of these. I’ve got to send it in by Tuesday to meet the deadline. What do you think?”
    “I . . . what’re you asking? Which one I like better?”
    To me they were almost identical although one was more tightly cropped than the other. They depicted two somber men in suits, businessmen or politicians, having an intense discussion in the shadow of the government building in downtown D.C.
    “Who are they?”
    “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I was just walking down the street last week, near the Treasury Building, and saw them standing there. They look powerful, they look rich. But don’t they seem like little boys in a way? On the school yard? Forty years younger, they would’ve started a shoving match.”
    At first, I didn’t get that but then I saw, yes, she was right.
    “The theme is about conflict,” she explained.
    “I don’t see