What You Don't Know

by Merry Jones

  Annie’s laugh was the tinkle of a bell. Light glowed in her eyes. “Your turn.”

  Nora heard her mother scolding. What’s your hurry? You’re too young. Don’t rush things.

  But the situation was clear. Nora had to choose: Did she want to be cool like Annie or not? She pictured Tommy, alone with his bugs and his camera, friendless, the butt of jokes.

  With the sense that she was doing something terribly wrong, she took the can and sprayed foam onto her leg. It tickled, especially around her poison ivy. She tried to keep her hand steady as it slid the razor up her leg like a plow through snow, leaving a bare track.

  She told herself that her mother wouldn’t notice. When was the last time she’d looked at Nora’s legs? And Annie was laughing, saying how sexy Nora’s legs were. They slathered on skin lotion and ran their fingers up and down each other’s smooth, silky skin. Giggling, they checked under each other’s arms to see if there were any hairs there to shave. They discussed the other hair sprouting between their legs, even peeked into each other’s panties to compare.

  “I’d be dead if Heather found out I shaved my legs.” Annie put the razor away.

  “Heather?”

  “My mother.”

  “You call her Heather?”

  “That’s her name, isn’t it? My father is Kirk. Why? What do you call your parents, Mommy and Daddy?” She asked it as if the idea were absurd.

  Nora imagined calling her parents by their names. Marla and Philip? They would freak if she addressed them that way. Still, why shouldn’t she? Those were their names, weren’t they?

  “I’m serious,” Annie went on. “I’m the baby, and you wouldn’t believe how strict my parents are with me. Thank God they’re so clueless.”

  They went back downstairs and were eating fresh banana bread when Annie said those few unexpected, devastating words. “Next time, let’s go to your house.”

  Let’s go to your house. The words hurdled at Nora, bashing her face, ricocheting inside her skull. Nora stopped chewing. Banana bread stuck in her throat, almost choking her. She should have anticipated this situation, should have been prepared. All these weeks she’d pretended to be just like Annie, when really, she was nothing at all like Annie, whose house was always full of cool kids and noise and the aromas of cakes baking and roasts roasting.

  What should she say? Sorry, no. I don’t want you to see my brother? What would Annie think? She’d think Nora was weird and creepy. She’d stop being her friend. Nora fumbled, didn’t know what to say. So she said, “Sure.”

  Annie gulped milk and asked her to describe her room. She asked what her house looked like, what it was like to be an only child. Nora’s stomach twisted, and she stumbled over her words, changing the subject before she had to tell Annie that she wasn’t the only child, that she had a brother. Talking instead about boys, a topic Annie never tired of. Making up a story, that she’d heard Luke liked Christine. Anything to change the subject.

  It worked, for now. But sooner or later, she’d have to figure out a reason that Annie couldn’t come over.

  Cripes, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t her fault that Tommy was so embarrassing that she’d never even mentioned him to Annie. If Annie came over, Tommy would sneak around, peeking and snapping their pictures. Annie would hear all of Tommy’s gross names for her, like Piss-face. He’d barge in with his disgusting bug collections. Or he’d just slink around with his musty smell and unshaven, zitty face, and uncombed hair, showing Annie that Nora wasn’t her caliber. That she was the sister of the neighborhood loser, the kid everybody picked on no matter what, always had, always would. The kid that got tossed out of the school bus. It wasn’t right, wasn’t fair that Tommy was her brother. He’s unique. He has a brilliant mind. He’s not like average kids. But she wanted him to be average. Or at least not so embarrassing. Why should she have to miss out on a normal life just because of him?

  By the time she got home that night, Nora was determined to set things right. Her mother—no, Marla—was dipping pieces of flounder into milk and breadcrumbs. Nora didn’t hesitate. After all, her cause was righteous.

  “I want to invite my friend Annie over.”

  Marla kept dipping. “Okay.”

  “But I don’t want Tommy around.”

  “Well, that’s kind of unreasonable.” Her mother turned to her, holding a limp piece of fish. Milk dripped onto the floor. She lowered her voice. “Your brother lives here, too—”

  “Tommy Tommy Tommy Tommy.” Nora’s voice was too loud. “Everything’s always about Tommy. Let’s build him a dark room. Let’s buy him a freezer for his bugs. What about me? Can’t I ever have anything just for myself, without Tommy ruining it?”

  “Nora, what’s got into you?”

  “He’s weird. Face it. Nobody likes him.”

  “Nora—”

  “Nobody. But he doesn’t like them either. He just likes his bugs.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “Kids make fun of him.”

  “Nora, stop—”

  But Nora couldn’t stop. “He smells bad. He doesn’t use deodorant—”

  Upstairs, a door slammed. Had Tommy been listening? Well, tough if he had.

  “And I don’t want people judging me because of Tommy.”

  “Okay, that’s it.” Her mother slapped the fish onto the plate, sent breadcrumbs flying. “Who exactly do you think you are, some perfect, flawless princess? Too good for your family? Let me remind you something, Miss Fancy Prima Donna. Tommy is different because he has a unique and brilliant mind. More important, he’s your big brother. Your blood. Which means you stick up for him no matter what. Friends come and go, but family is forever.”

  “Why should I stick up for him? He only cares about himself.”

  “How can you say that? Tommy loves you.”

  “No, he stalks me. He pinches me and calls me names.”

  “That’s how he shows affection. He’s at an awkward age, Nora. He’s having a rough adolescence and doesn’t know how to act. But he’ll grow out of it and be amazing. Besides, who are you trying to impress? I don’t know this girl Annie, but if she’s really your friend, she’ll accept your brother the same way Charisse and Natalie do.”

  Nora rolled her eyes. “Charisse and Natalie are so lame.”

  Marla’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? Since when? You’ve been friends forever.”

  “Not for ages. I’ve outgrown them.” The conversation wasn’t going as planned. Nora’s eyes filled with tears. “Look. All I’m asking is to have a friend over without Tommy messing it up. Why can’t he schedule a driving lesson that day? Or stay in his room with his bugs.”

  “I’m not banishing him, Nora. Invite your friend over, she’s welcome in our home. But it’s Tommy’s home, too.”

  “That is so not fair!”

  “Hello? Life isn’t fair.” Breadcrumbs caked her mother’s

  fingers as she picked up a towel and glared.

  From his room upstairs, Tommy thumped on the floor, doing God knew what.

  Nora spun around and left the kitchen, stomped up to her room.

  Her mother’s voice followed, telling her to wash up and set the table. Dinner would be ready in fifteen minutes.

  Later that evening, Nora called Annie and said she was sorry, but when they’d talked earlier, she’d forgotten that her house was being renovated and men were working inside. So, it wasn’t a good time to have friends over and wouldn’t be for a few months. Nora stopped breathing, waiting for Annie’s reaction. Annie accepted the lie, suggesting they go to the mall instead. Still, angry tears blurred Nora’s vision.

  Saturday, August 11, 2018

  O

  n Saturday morning, Dave dropped the girls in Gladwyne at his mother’s for their weekly visit and went to his tennis match. Despite having a heart condition, Edith loved having the girls, baking cookies, setting out good china for tea parties, making ragdolls, helping them dress
up in her old clothes and high heels. Nora didn’t go along, respecting her mother-in-law’s time with her grandchildren.

  Instead, Nora welcomed these mornings as time for herself. Usually, she tackled chores or hit the gym before going to book club or brunch with friends. But that day, she sat on the sofa doing nothing. Just listening to the faint electric hum of the house, its appliances, its air conditioning. Watching rays of light pour through the windows onto a sea of tiny floating flecks of dust. Staring at the rich hardwood floors, the Persian area rugs and baby grand that had been her grandmother’s, the pristine crystal and porcelain pieces that had been handed down through generations. Replaying Dave’s departure.

  He’d rushed the girls out the door, shouting an abrupt goodbye. Had he taken his racket case? Of course, Nora had seen it in his hand. But had she caught a whiff of his cologne? Why would he wear cologne to a tennis game? He wouldn’t. She must have imagined it.

  Good God, was this her new normal, doubting Dave’s every move?

  No. She wouldn’t. She wasn’t going to be that kind of wife. She would take her husband at his word. Dave said he was playing tennis, so he was playing tennis. He loved tennis, played every weekend with Ted Oliver, his doubles partner. She needed to stop fixating on this imagined infidelity, get off the sofa, and stop watching dust settle. Get dressed. Exercise before book club.

  Fine, yes. She’d do all that. But first, maybe she’d just call Ted’s house and check to see that he was playing today. She could pretend that Dave’s phone was turned off and she had a message for him—like she wanted him to pick up some milk on the way home. Except, no. She couldn’t do that. It was embarrassing, underhanded. She didn’t need to check up on her husband.

  Nora headed into the kitchen, telling herself that she was going for a cup of coffee, not for her phone which happened to be on the counter beside the coffee pot. But as long as it was there, she picked it up and punched in her code.

  Don’t look for trouble, her mother hissed. But Nora ignored her, imagining the conversation instead.

  “Hi, Jeanie,” she’d say when Ted’s wife answered. “Hey, did Ted leave yet?” And when Jeanie said, yes, he’d gone, Nora would say, “Okay, sorry, never mind. It’s nothing important.”

  But what if Jeanie said, “Leave? No, he’s right outside washing his car.” Or mowing the lawn. Or sleeping. Or whatever.

  In that case, Nora would stutter and fumble, having uncovered a heart-swallowing lie.

  Better if she didn’t call. Better not to know.

  Nora set her phone down and poured coffee, carried the mug to the table, sank onto a chair. Eyed the remnants of breakfast. Half a bowl of soggy corn flakes afloat in two percent. A crust of toast smeared with grape jelly. An empty juice glass.

  A banana peel.

  Nora’s shoulders eased. Her stomach unknotted. Dave always ate a banana and a granola bar before tennis. The banana peel testified that he hadn’t lied, that he was indeed playing tennis. That there was no affair. Which of course she’d known all along.

  Nora danced around the kitchen, clearing breakfast dishes, arranging them in the dishwasher, wiping jelly stains off the counter. She took comfort in the mundane normalcy of chores, the way they underscored her roles as wife, as mother. When she finished, she headed upstairs.

  In the shower, she scrubbed until her skin was ruddy. She would not be the kind of woman who suspected her husband was cheating. She would be proud, confident, self-assured. She would not doubt Dave. His word was gospel. His love, a given. Nora blow dried her hair, carefully dabbed foundation onto her face, applied eyeshadow, mascara, and just the right shade of plum lip gloss. She selected a bright floral print sundress that covered her still-after-almost-five-years-not-totally-faded stretch marks and showed off the definition in her upper arms, the muscled length of her legs. She stepped into strappy sandals. Ensemble complete, she stood in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, pretending to meet herself for the first time. What would her impression be of the woman in the mirror? Was she too noticeable in bold yellow, magenta, green, and purple? Was the fabric too flimsy for a strong body with ample breasts? She stepped closer to the mirror, examining the chin-length, almost black hair, the occasional strands of white. The deep brown eyes. Were they too intense? Were the eyebrows too thick? The nose too thin? And the lips—were they just a tad too wide? What did all these parts add up to? Was she pretty? Would women admire her? Would men find her attractive? Would Dave, if he saw her for the first time today?

  Nora stood straight, twirled, struck a pose looking over her shoulder at the mirror. Turned, stuck her hip out and posed again, pretending to be saucy. She practiced a broad smile that would seem confident and proud. The secure smile of a woman adored by her husband, children, relatives, and friends. When she was sure she could be convincing, she grabbed her bag and phone and hurried downstairs.

  Saturday, August 11, 2018

  T

  he bloody mary at Don’s Firehouse was a meal in itself—rich with horseradish, a big stalk of celery, and juicy, fat olives skewered on a toothpick. Nora checked the time on her phone. Where was Dave now? Had he finished with tennis? Was he having a beer? Calling his girlfriend? Stop it, stop it, she scolded herself. What’s wrong with you? Be with your friends.

  Barbara was disheveled, having arrived late. She sat across from Nora, all harried and flushed and apologetic. Barbara stood out in the group, partly because she wore a diamond ring the size of an avocado pit and looked like a runway model, but mostly because her husband was a newly-announced candidate for the U.S. Senate. Barbara didn’t flaunt it though. If anything, she seemed to treasure the company of her run-of-the-mill suburban mom book club friends.

  “Sorry.” She swung her highlighted hair behind her shoulder. “It was Oliver’s fault.”

  Oliver, their new seventeen-hundred-dollar Welsh Corgi puppy, had chewed up a pair of Paul’s fifteen-hundred-dollar Italian loafers. Paul had been furious, yelling and threatening to turn the poor thing in to the SPCA. The kids had cried hysterically, and the nanny had been unable to calm them. It had been a complete meltdown with little Colin and Harry locking themselves in the bathroom with the puppy until Paul relented. He ended up promising on his mother’s life not to get rid of Oliver. After that, she’d had to fight traffic on the Schuylkill to get into Philadelphia. Barbara ordered a mimosa, thought about it, then called to the waiter to bring two.

  Nora tried not to stare at Barbara or let on that she doubted her story. But she did doubt it. She didn’t know Barbara’s husband, Paul, very well—he was always out of town for business or, lately, his campaign—but she doubted that a public figure like him would so easily lose his temper. And, from what Barbara had said, Paul had been raised on a Main Line estate where he’d had menageries of animals—horses, cats, dogs. Surely, he’d know how to deal with a puppy and wouldn’t have allowed it near his good shoes. But why would Barbara go to the trouble of concocting such a story?

  Nora studied Barbara’s strong cheekbones, her freckled, sunburned, surgically-perfected nose. Her sparkling, highlighted hair. Her jingling, gold bangle bracelets.

  Barbara must have felt Nora’s stare. She turned to her with twinkling eyes and a startlingly cheerful smile. Nora smiled back and looked away, refocusing on the conversation, preparing to say something about this month’s book.

  But no one was talking about Where the Crawdads Sing. It had been Katie’s choice, and Katie wasn’t even there. She was home with a sick kid. But it didn’t matter, because club members seemed disinclined to discuss the book. They were more interested in discussing some television series that Nora hadn’t watched. Nora positioned her lips into a pleasant smile and let go of the conversation. She scanned the half-full restaurant, looking especially at couples. Were they on dates? Married? Had one of them ever cheated? Were they cheating now? A man noticed her and met her gaze. She averted her eyes as if she hadn’t been studying him. Overhead, a huge wooden
rowing shell was suspended with—she counted one, two—eight extended oars. Under it, the front walls of the restaurant had been folded back, opening the place to tables on Fairmount Avenue. Nora wondered how they kept the heat from flowing in. She thought of Dave, playing tennis in that heat. Where was he now?

  “Bottom line, I just can’t stand her acting,” Patty said. “She’s totally flat. Her face never changes. She never shows emotion or raises her voice.”

  “You want your lemon?” Alex plucked it from Nora’s drink before she could answer.

  “That’s deliberate. She keeps a poker face so no one can tell where she stands.” Barbara spread cherry compote on a corn muffin.

  Patty nodded. “Well, she’s doing a good job. You can’t tell if she’s happy or sad, telling the truth or lying, guilty or innocent, friend or enemy.”

  “But that’s her character,” Barbara said. “She’s a lawyer. They’re all like that.”

  Nora raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘they’re all like that’?” She looked from one face to another. They all knew her husband was a lawyer.

  “She’s talking about the show.” Patty dismissed the question. “She didn’t mean real lawyers.”

  “You’d get it if you’d watched the show.” Barbara crinkled her perfect nose, scrunched her shoulders. Nora didn’t understand the body language. Was Barbara trying to be cute?

  Alex reached over and gave Nora’s hand a squeeze as if to say, “Hang in there, we’ll be done with television talk in a minute.”

  Meantime, they discussed the upcoming series finale, predicting which plot points would be resolved and what the cliffhanger might be. Nora only half listened. She sipped another bloody mary and chomped a piece of ice. Did her friends really think lawyers were dishonest? Did they think Dave was? Was he? Would he have been more honest if he hadn’t become a lawyer, if he’d been, say, a dentist? She pictured him in a white jacket, probing a patient’s mouth with an instrument. The patient became a woman, and the instrument his tongue. Nora shut her eyes, shivered just a little. She was being irrational, beginning to obsess.