What Happens in Suburbia… (Red Dress Ink Novels)

by Wendy Markham

  “She doesn’t know you know,” Mary Beth told me. “She said not to tell you.”

  Picturing Stefania bringing my mother hot soup and fluffing her pillows, I informed Mary Beth that I would be visiting as soon as I can get there.

  On Tuesday morning, Jack and I board the Metro-North train for our first-ever commute to the city. So much for my fantasy of cozily riding together to the city, sipping coffee and sharing the paper. We can’t even find seats in the same car. The train is jammed.

  At least it’s on time, as always.

  Then again, I find myself wishing the train had stalled in the tunnel for a change. I dread what I’m going to find when I get to the office.

  In the lobby, as we wait for the elevators among a much smaller crowd than usual, Jack gives my hand a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay,” he says.

  “I’m about to get fired, Jack. How is that okay?”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do. I feel it in my gut.”

  He doesn’t argue. “Just keep your head up and don’t forget to copy your hard drive onto that flash drive I gave you.” He’s so matter-of-fact about the whole damn thing you’d think he wasn’t freaking out inside about the impending loss of income.

  But I know he is. He didn’t sleep either last night, and he didn’t even want to have sex, which is ordinarily his favorite insomnia antidote.

  I get off the elevator alone on my floor, and see that there’s no receptionist. Not a good sign. Did she get the ax, too? The place is like a ghost town.

  I make my way to my office, where I immediately spot the yellow Post-it note stuck to my computer screen.

  See Me—Jim

  Jim is the creative director.

  Trust me: there is no more ominous phrase in the corporate world than See Me.

  So that’s it, then. My fate has just been sealed.

  I death march down the deserted hallway like a doomed queen to the guillotine. Remembering what Jack said, I hold my about-to-be axed head high.

  Mental Note: you have become quite the pessimist lately, haven’t you?

  That’s true. I mean, why am I automatically jumping to the worst conclusion? It’s like yesterday when I thought my mother must be dying.

  Maybe I’m not about to be fired after all. Maybe Jim just wants to update me on the layoffs and promote me to assistant creative director.

  Yeah.

  That’s not what happens.

  Jim, looking somber, tells me to take a seat and informs me that they’re going to have to let me go.

  Turns out I would have made a lousy doomed queen, because not only do I forget to keep my head high, but I pretty much collapse in a puddle of tears, dripping all over Jim’s desk.

  “I’m sorry, Tracey,” he says, handing me tissues and a folder from human resources. “This outlines your severance package. It’s been a pleasure working with you, and if you ever need a reference, I’ll be happy to provide one. Good luck.”

  And just like that, my corporate life is over.

  Goodbye, Madison Avenue copywriter.

  Hello, suburban housewife.

  After tearfully calling Jack with the bad news, furtively copying my hard drive onto the flash drive, sorrowfully packing up my office and stoically meeting with human resources, I head home alone to Glenhaven Park.

  The train is just about empty going north midmorning on a workday, and I get a triple seat to myself. The others on board appear to be students, blue-collar or medical workers just ending their shifts in the city and household staff about to start theirs in tony Westchester towns like Chappaqua and Bedford and Glenhaven Park.

  I don’t really fit in on the train.

  I no longer fit in in the city, for that matter.

  Nor in Glenhaven Park.

  As I trudge across the deserted commuter parking lot, I realize that I no longer have a life, and it’s all I can do not to cry.

  Now what? I wonder as I slip behind the steering wheel.

  I even feel out of place here in the car. Until now, Jack’s done all the driving.

  For years, living in Manhattan, I’ve relied on public transportation to get myself around. My driving skills are definitely a little rusty.

  Hesitant to turn on the engine just yet, I decide to call Jack and let him know I’ve arrived safely in Glenhaven Park. He was a little harried when we spoke earlier—things are chaotic in the Media Department today because of the restructuring.

  I can’t reach Jack. Or Sally, who was laid off on Friday.

  Poor Sally.

  Poor me.

  I do reach Buckley, who sounds frantic when he answers the phone. “What’s up?” he asks. “How’s the new house?”

  “I just lost my job.” I manage not to cry, but I feel like I’m going to.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes…what am I going to do?”

  “Geez, Tracey, I’m really sorry. That sucks.” He sounds a little breathless.

  “Where are you?”

  “LAX. I just landed and I’ve got to grab my bags and find the driver the studio sent for me. I’ve got a meeting in an hour and then this Realtor’s going to show me some stuff.”

  Well, I guess that says it all, doesn’t it?

  He’s riding around in limos, shopping for mansions and meeting with studio executives on the West Coast, and I’m sitting jobless in a Hyundai reluctant to go home to my fixer-upper on the East Coast.

  “Let me let you go,” I tell Buckley, who doesn’t protest.

  “I’ll call you later,” he promises distractedly.

  “You don’t have to. I’ll talk to you when you get back. You are coming back, right?”

  “Of course.” Pause. He’s still panting like he’s jogging. “I’ve got to get all my stuff.”

  Right. Buckley is moving away.

  I hang up and consider calling Raphael to cry on his shoulder about my job loss. But he’s still pissy about the move. He’ll probably tell me I had it coming because I already had one foot out of Manhattan.

  When I talked to him on Saturday and mentioned the amputated couch leg, he had a one-word, unsympathetic comment. “Karma.”

  Which I foolishly asked him to clarify, inviting him to pontificate on all the reasons I shouldn’t have left the city. When he tried to make the mutilated couch a metaphor for our friendship, I told him I had to go hang my wet laundry on the clothesline.

  Okay, so I didn’t have wet laundry and I certainly don’t have a clothesline in my new backyard. But it was strangely satisfying to feed his suburban stereotype. I should have thrown in a car pool and a Mary Kay party I had to attend.

  So, no calling Raphael. Not for a while.

  Feeling utterly alone and abandoned, I reluctantly turn the key in the ignition.

  There’s still an aching lump in my throat, and it seems to be swelling by the second as I back out of the spot.

  Especially when a passing car honks its horn as if I’m going to plow right into it.

  Okay, maybe I actually was going to plow right into it. In my defense, it came out of nowhere, and was speeding.

  Shaken, I turn toward the business district.

  Freshly fired and cast adrift in suburbia, I’m in no hurry to go to an empty house, where—still without cable—there won’t be much to do besides unpack boxes and wallow in misery. I can’t even raid the cupboards for a satisfying junk-food fix; Jack and I polished off the Little Debbies last night.

  Maybe I’ll linger here on the main drag for a while, explore my new hometown and figure out the lay of the land.

  Driving down the main drag in the sunshine, I feel a little better. Lots of people are out and about on this beautiful weekday morning—albeit no one I can relate to on sight.

  The sidewalks are filled with upscale-looking mommies and nannies and mannies pushing strollers and holding toddlers’ hands. It’s like a kiddie promenade, and I have to wonder again, seriously…

  What the hell am I doing
here?

  Maybe I should have hung around in the city and waited for Jack after all. I considered it, but without an office or apartment there, I wasn’t sure quite where to go to pass six or seven hours.

  I’m not sure quite where to go here, either, though…until I drive past Bug in a Rug and spot that huge rag doll in the window and an empty parking space right out front.

  I impulsively pull into it, and the front tires hit the curb with a jolt. Oops.

  I’m sure I’ll get the hang of this driving stuff again. What choice do I have? It’s not like there are buses and cabs here, unless you count the luxury short bus that shuttles senior citizens around town.

  Everyone else seems to rely on their Mercedes-Benz or Jaguar or Lexus or Hummer, from the looks of the lineup of cars parked along the street.

  I call Jack again. Still not there.

  “Where are you?” I say into his voice mail, trying not to whine. “I’m back in Westchester, but I stopped off to buy my niece that big doll for her birthday. Call me when you get this. Love you.”

  I’m halfway to the door of the boutique before I remember to turn back, aim the key remote at the car and press the button. The remote chirps, confirming that it’s locked, which makes me feel vaguely ridiculous.

  I mean, it’s not as if I think a gang of street thugs is staking it out around here in broad daylight. “Hey, Lefty, we gotta get our hands on that smokin’ pea-green Hyundai.”

  I bet I could leave it unlocked with the keys in the ignition—running—and no one would go near it.

  In the window of Bug in a Rug, my niece’s future birthday present seems to beckon me in, saying, Please buy me and give me a beautiful home with a sweet little girl who will cuddle me to sleep every night.

  Perfect; Hayley will love this doll.

  They’re celebrating her birthday in Brookside next weekend. Jack and I had been hoping to drive up for it, but now he doesn’t think he can get away from work. I’m thinking maybe I’ll go alone, since time off is no longer an issue for me.

  Even though the immediate danger has passed with my mom, I just want to see for myself that she’s okay, and maybe get a chance to talk to her doctors about those tests.

  Then again, a four-hundred-and-fifty-five-mile solo road trip might be an ambitious undertaking for someone who has difficulty pulling into and out of parking spots.

  As I enter the children’s boutique, a little bell attached to the door dings merrily. The place is hushed, with classical music playing in the background, and smells of potpourri and cinnamon candles. Very inviting.

  Behind the counter, a woman with a tight bun and tiny reading glasses perched at the sharp point of her nose looks up with a not-quite-as-inviting-as-you’d-expect expression.

  “Hello,” she says warily.

  “Hi!” I say in my friendliest voice, which comes out booming and practically rattles the cute little glass figurines on the shelf beside me.

  She seems to wince. Maybe she’s trying to smile, but her bun is too tight. I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  Might as well cut to the chase. It’s not like I’m here to browse, and even if I wanted to, I get the feeling she wouldn’t want my grubby hands pawing through her clothing racks with their delicate pastel pink and blue garments—although, at a glance, I see that they aren’t pink and blue and pastel at all.

  There seem to be a lot of unusual shades, like chartreuse and pumpkin, and even a leopard-print onesie thrown in for good measure.

  Clearly, this isn’t your average children’s boutique. I think I need to just get the giant doll and get out.

  “I love the rag doll in the window,” I tell Bunhead. “Can I see where you have them?”

  “Them?”

  “The dolls.”

  “There’s only one. And it’s one of a kind.”

  “Oh! That’s nice.” Hayley will be the only kid in the world to have one. What could be better? “Can I please see her?”

  “Her?”

  “The doll.” I imagine Bunhead had a Barbie-deprived childhood and feel vaguely sorry for her.

  “Of course.” Again with the wince.

  Okay, I strongly dislike her, Barbie-deprived or not. I can’t help it.

  She seems so put out, practically grumbling as she opens a drawer and hunts through it for God only knows what. Maybe I need to sign a special waiver before I get to take a closer look at the doll, whose expression, I’m starting to think, I might have misread on my way in.

  I think what she’s saying is Please buy me and get me the hell away from this horrid woman.

  “There they are,” Bunhead mutters and removes a set of keys from the drawer.

  Turns out the doll is chained and padlocked to her cute little wooden chair. Sweet Jesus, get me out of here, she screams silently as Bunhead hoists her from the window and lugs her across the store.

  She deposits her on the counter with a grunt and turns expectantly to me.

  “She’s adorable,” I tell the woman, running my hands down one of the doll’s arms, and then the other, then feeling around at the back of her neck for a price tag.

  “It’s very delicate,” Bunhead informs me, emphasis on the It, and I can tell she’s itching to slap my hands away.

  I’m starting to think, much as I hate to leave her behind in chains, that I might not be able to afford this doll. Especially without a job. I did get a pretty decent severance package, but I can’t go around squandering it on fancy toys.

  I all but do a strip search looking for a price, to no avail, so I have to ask, reluctantly, “How much is she?”

  “Seven ninety-nine,” is the incredible reply.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Plus tax,” Bunhead adds crisply.

  Who’d have thought you could buy a doll like this for less than ten bucks?

  See? I told you everything was ridiculously expensive in Manhattan. It’s going to be so nice to live in a place where things are reasonably priced—not just giant rag dolls, I’m assuming, but everything else.

  Except, oddly enough, for houses.

  But I guess that’s real estate for you.

  “I’ll take her,” I tell Bunhead. “My niece will love her.”

  I pat the doll’s arm, telling her silently, Don’t you worry, I’ll have you out of here in no time.

  The woman looks pleasantly surprised. She actually smiles as she asks where I want the doll sent.

  “You mean you’ll ship her directly to my niece?” I ask, fishing in my bag for my wallet.

  “Oh, absolutely. We’ll gift wrap her, of course, and pack her securely.”

  Ah, note how quickly it changed to her now that we have a sale.

  “That would be great.”

  “Yes, she’ll be in very good hands,” says Bunhead, my new BFF.

  I see that I only have a couple of fives and some ones in my wallet. “Um, how much is shipping?” I ask, thinking I might have to put it on my credit card.

  “A hundred even for second business—day service, and you know what? I’ll throw in the gift wrapping for free.”

  Free gift wrapping?

  What a bargain!

  A hundred even?

  What a…

  Wait—what?

  “A hundred dollars?” I ask, incredulous that shipping costs almost ten times what the doll herself costs. “I, uh, don’t need second-day service. My niece’s birthday isn’t until—”

  I break off as a terrible thought occurs to me.

  Did she say seven ninety-nine?

  Or did she say seven hundred and ninety-nine?

  As in dollars. Hundreds of.

  Yeah. I think so, too.

  But I can’t bring myself to even ask her, now that we’re BFFs.

  “On second thought, you know what?” I say smoothly, as though I just had a better idea than dropping a grand right here on the spot. “I think I’m going to wait and get her a l
ittle closer to my niece’s birthday.”

  Bunhead looks only slightly disappointed. “When is her birthday?”

  “October,” I lie.

  “Well, we can certainly have her all set to go and send her out whenever you like. Will that be cash or charge?”

  Nice try, Bunhead. Do I look like the kind of person who carries around seven hundred ninety-nine plus tax plus shipping in cash?

  I’m already backing toward the door as I say, “You know what? I’ll be back.”

  Not.

  I cast one final apologetic glance at the doll, whose expression I really did misread.

  Now she seems to be taunting me, saying, I didn’t want to live in zee shoddy home of your niece in zee first place.

  Yes, she has a French accent now. And fangs.

  Back out on the street, I try to call Jack again, desperately needing a familiar, loving voice. Still no answer on his cell or office phone. I leave another message, trying to sound perky and breezy and upbeat, which I’m sure he won’t buy for a second.

  I debate getting into the car and heading straight back to the house to wallow and unpack, but decide that’s just too depressing.

  Instead, I decide to go over to Pie in the Sky, buy a pie and take it home and eat the whole thing myself before wallowing and unpacking.

  Because that’s not the least bit depressing.

  But what’s a girl to do when her world is a shambles?

  I climb the stairs to the bakery, which smells mouth-wateringly of hot pastry and sugary fruit filling.

  “Hello,” says the good-looking thirty-something guy behind the counter, infinitely more friendly than Bunhead from the get-go. “How can I help you today?”

  “I want to buy a pie,” I say brilliantly.

  Duh. Isn’t that why most people come to a pie shop?

  “Our flavor of the week, which is always ten percent off, is strawberry,” he informs me, then gestures at the glass case filled with mouthwatering pies and tarts. “Those are our other flavors.”

  Let me tell you, the Mississippi Mud pie is pretty darned tempting, and so is the Southern Pecan. I’d like to say, “One of everything, please.”

  But after the doll episode this is a no-brainer: the flavor of the week is the only bargain here at ten percent off. I tell the Pie Man I’ll take a strawberry pie.