by Josie Brown
“Or spreading rumors about you and your wife.” Pete slams down his tea mug. “Do you know how often my wife has cried herself to sleep because of those women?”
Having sat there as the board ground Masha Shriver’s reputation into coarse gossip grist, I can only imagine.
Suddenly it hits me that I never stood up for her. Or any of their other targets, for that matter.
Instead, I nodded, or giggled, or simply kept my mouth shut.
And certainly I never challenged them, because that would have been social suicide.
That would have enticed them to talk about Ted and me.
As if they don’t already. . . .
Pete shakes his head in wonder. “It’s a shame it got voted down, for sure. But I’m not opposed to making a case for it in the Bugle.”
The men seal their newfound friendship by turning seamlessly to the universal language of sports.
The waitress finally appears and slides my fully loaded plate in front of me. But by now, I’m no longer hungry. Thinking about Margot’s power over our lives will do that to me.
Harry, on the other hand, must have found his appetite, because he reaches over and snatches up one of my pieces of bacon and devours it with gusto. Never realizing that what’s stuck in my throat is the crow I’m eating, he waves the waitress back over and happily announces, “Hey, I’ll have what she’s having!”
20
“The ‘Wedding March’ always reminds me of the
music played when soldiers go into battle.”
—Heinrich Heine
Wednesday, 20 Nov., 9:07 a.m.
The crash of trash cans out back means one of two things: either Harvey, our perpetually ravenous Lab, has a hankering for last night’s leftover lasagna, or the family of raccoons that once lived under our house is back and has brought a few cousins along. I grab my tennis racket as backup, and pray it’s one of those scenarios or the other, but not both, since I don’t have time to squeeze a trip to the vet in between Olivia’s ballet and Mickey’s piano lesson—
That’s when I see the Wilders’ dog, Lucky, gnawing on the puppy version of an after-dinner mint: one hundred twenty-eight dollars’ worth of vintage red leather boots, girl’s size one.
I wasn’t pleased when Ted brought them home for Olivia, who had been begging for a pair for a week. “Hey, it’s only money” was his excuse.
“But these are Romagnolis! They’re vintage leather! Trust me, Ted, she won’t appreciate them!”
“She’s my baby. Let me indulge her.”
“But I could have gotten the Disney princess boots at Payless for a fifth of the price—”
“You’re just jealous.”
As my daughter danced an ecstatic jig in her new boots, I wondered if maybe he was right about that. I couldn’t remember the last time Ted had bought me a gift that wasn’t a cooking or cleaning gadget, let alone a simple bouquet of flowers.
In three weeks’ time, the boots were so last week. Caked in playground mud, they’ve sat on the back stoop. Until now, when one is getting a second life as Lucky’s new chew toy.
Nope, not going to happen. Not as long as children go barefoot in Africa. It’s the principle of the thing.
“Out again? You’re a regular Houdini, aren’t you? Lucky, come—” I fall to my hands and knees and inch closer to him. My game plan is to distract him so that I can snatch the boot away. But no, Lucky takes this as a sign that I want to play with him and his new little toy. Immediately he crouches low too, taunting me to grab it out from under his nose. Instead, I pause. Then, very slowly, I lift one hand into the air, far away from him. While his eyes follow it, the fingers on my other hand crawl within inches of the boot—
Only to be nipped before he grabs it with his teeth. “Damn it, dog! Give me that!”
As if. Instead, he prances away, teasing me as he tosses his head from side to side.
Show-off. “So, you want to play tug-of-war, eh?”
I grab hold of the toe and pull with all my might. But his teeth, the end result of several millennia of wolves-mate-dogs, aren’t going anywhere.
If I let go, he wins. Well, sorry, I’m not going to let that happen. There is a reason why we humans don’t walk on all fours: unlike the rest of the animal kingdom, we’ve got to be able to open refrigerator doors.
I shake my head at him, then turn and walk away slowly. He stops, perplexed, then follows me into the kitchen, the boot clamped in his jaws. But before he gets there, I’ve already grabbed a leftover chicken breast from the fridge. “Yummy! Want a treat?” I crouch down, placing it right in front of me . . .
And wait for the trade-off: Olivia’s muddy boot for cold KFC Original Recipe.
As the jaws of strife open to take the bait, I make my move with the kind of speed possessed only by a mom whose toddler has waddled onto a four-lane highway.
It’s the kind of sleight-of-hand motion that David Copperfield would appreciate. But I don’t have time to pat myself on the back, because I have to give Lucky the Heimlich maneuver instead. Chicken bones are certainly tastier than vintage leather but, as it turns out, more dangerous, too.
9:21 a.m.
Lucky’s escape was no feat of derring-do, just a matter of one of the kids leaving the back gate open. . . .
Or not. Yes, the gate is open, but whoever opened it is still in the house.
DeeDee.
At first she doesn’t see Lucky and me because her arms are piled high with clothes, knickknacks, and file folders. She maneuvers her Christian Louboutin booties around a floor strewn with toys, sneakers, and dirty laundry, trying not to trip over the flotsam and jetsam left in the wake of a single dad raising two kids on his own.
I know that this is one of the rare days on which Harry has gone into his office in the city. Apparently she does too, and is taking advantage of his absence. I’m so angry that I forget my pledge to myself not to get involved. “Excuse me, but I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”
Just as I say that, Lucky leaps out of my arms and runs over to her. He’s pawing her legs so hard that she can’t help but drop the boxes. “Damn it, Lucky!” She pretends to be mad at him, but it’s me she’s glaring at.
She bends over to pick up the files, now scattered about her. “Maybe I should say the same to you. What are you doing here? What’s this obvious fascination with my family?”
“None. Your dog—the kids’ dog—got loose. I found him raiding my garbage can. I guess he got out when you broke in.”
“Despite the rumors that I’m sure you’ll spread about me the minute I drive away, I did not break in. These things are mine, and I have a right to get them.”
“So, Harry does know you’re here?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business—that is, unless you and Harry are . . . Oh, my God, he’s not fucking you, is he?” Her laugh could curdle milk. “That would be a pip, for sure!”
“Me—and Harry? No! We’re just friends.” My mortification creeps up my neck in a hot rash of embarrassment. But why? It’s not like we have anything to be ashamed of. . . .
She stares at me for so long, she could be made of stone. Finally, she shakes her head. “Yeah, sorry. My bad. As if you’d be Harry’s type.”
That does it. I park my foot on the pile of folders, whip out my cell, and hit 911. “Yes, I’d like to report a break-in: 56 Inman Circle. . . . Yes, right now. Thank you, as soon as possible.”
“That wasn’t neighborly.” DeeDee smacks my thigh in the hope that I’ll move my leg.
No go. In fact, I nudge her back with my knee, and step on her arm to show her I mean business. “You’re no longer my neighbor.”
DeeDee shakes her head, as if it’s all a joke. “Oh yeah? Well, that’s for the courts to decide.”
I hit Harry’s cell number on speed-dial. I imagine he’s on his way to work, but if he knows about this, he’ll want to turn the car around and confront her.
I can hear Harry’s voice, b
ut it sounds a million miles away. “Hello? Anyone there?” DeeDee wrenches a file from under my foot, and it tears in half. Taken off guard, I fall on the floor next to her.
I grab for it, but DeeDee kicks it out of reach.
“Mom! What—what the hell are you doing here?” Until now, neither of us saw Jake standing there. Of course, he’s not supposed to be home at this time of day. But having been caught playing hooky only emboldens him. “Dad said you’re not supposed to come here—”
“Help me pick this stuff up. Seriously, Jake, I don’t have all day.”
He wavers, looking from her to me, and back to her again. “No! Please get out of our house.”
“‘Our’ house? Is that what your father is telling you? That the house is yours and his, but not mine?” She stands up. Even as tall as he is, with her back ramrod straight and in three-inch heels she hovers over him. “How dare he turn you against me? How dare he—”
They are almost nose-to-nose now. “Mom, he didn’t turn us against you. You did! You ran away, not Dad.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but stops. For a moment, it hangs there, open: the dark O of her bow-shaped lips is the abyss into which DeeDee the mother has fallen, in order to protect the secrets of DeeDee the woman.
Besides, what can she say, when she knows he’s right?
Nothing. And that’s why, instead, she pushes past him, but stops to hug him to her chest, before walking out the door empty-handed.
Whereas she has nothing to say to him, her tongue loosens up as she brushes brusquely past me: “Don’t gloat. We aren’t the only broken family in the neighborhood. But I guess you already know that.”
9:48 a.m.
Her car has just turned the corner when the police drive up, siren blaring, with Harry on their tail. Neighbors peek out from windows and doors, but shake their heads knowingly when they realize all the hullabaloo is coming from the Wilder household. Seeing Jake being questioned by the police, of course they presume the worst: that his truancy has finally caught up with him. More than likely he’s committed an even bigger crime.
He has. And, sadly, crimes of the heart are self-imposed life sentences. With a hollow-eyed sullenness, Jake shrugs off the cop’s questions as to whether he’s the culprit or the victim.
Harry, both a concerned dad and a lawyer, covers for Jake’s truancy in light of the circumstances. “Officer, I gave him permission to stay home from school today. He’s had a toothache, and the dentist can’t see him until tomorrow.” Harry’s no-nonsense tone puts any doubt to rest. “What happened was a domestic matter. . . .”
Harry takes the police officer aside, reassuring him in sotto voce manspeak and with a firm but gentle grip on his shoulder: now that he’s home, things are under control. The cop smiles and nods. His pitying glance at me, the supposed troublemaker, would normally incite me to commit a 243—assault on a police officer—if I weren’t trying to set an example for Jake. Finally the officer gets in his car and drives away, growling his siren once for good measure at an au pair with a baby carriage who dares to stroll outside the crosswalk.
Harry waits until the police car is completely out of sight before turning to Jake and me. “So, who wants to tell me what happened?”
Jake studies his Nikes, which leaves the floor open to me.
“I found Lucky rummaging in our garbage can. When I brought him here, the back door was open and DeeDee was inside, so I called the police, then you, too. Jake insisted that she leave. I don’t think she had time to take anything. I mean, what she was carrying, she dropped when I . . . when we . . .”
“Yeah. I think I heard something to that effect.”
“Oh . . . yes, I guess you did.” Even as I let that trail off, I wonder if I’ve now left Harry with the notion that DeeDee and I had some kind of hair-pulling catfight in his kitchen.
Harry looks Jake in the eye. “And what were you doing home?”
“Like you said. Toothache.”
Harry frowns. “Don’t be a smart-ass. Listen, Jake, I know this is hard on you. I know you’re angry with Mom and me right now—”
Jake shakes his head, throwing his hands up in the air. “You don’t know anything! If you actually did know something, Mom would never have left!”
That earns Jake a slap to the face.
As I look on, mortified, I wonder if I’m the only one who saw Harry blow his stack.
Unfortunately, I know I’m the only one who sees the regret cross his face, because it does so just as he turns to follow Jake, who has already run inside.
Harry is too late to reach Jake before he has a chance to slam the door to his room and lock it behind him. I watch as Harry shakes his head in frustration. But so that he doesn’t see me pitying him, I glance down quickly, shoving the items that fell from DeeDee’s arms back into the boxes scattered to and fro on the floor.
Harry, noticing the files on the floor beside me, breaks out in a raucous laugh.
I stop, dumbfounded. “What’s so funny?”
“She fell for it. She thought the files she was stealing would prove I was hiding money from her.”
Perplexed, I pick up one of the manila file folders. It’s labeled as last year’s tax return—but the forms inside are for Minnie and Mickey Mouse. Another file, tabbed “Partnership Contract,” is nothing more than a printout of what looks to be the first twenty pages of Moby-Dick hole-punched at the top and bound with a gold bracket.
“Too bad she didn’t take them.” Bitterness ruins his smile. “It would have been priceless to imagine her face when she got these home. Oh, well. I’ve got to remember: first thing tomorrow, a locksmith.”
21
“A man’s growth is seen in the successive
choirs of his friends.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
7:07 p.m.
Whom did you say? Harry Wilder? He’s keeping such a low profile, you’d think the poor dumb bastard had disappeared off the face of the earth . . .” Brooke’s voice trails off casually. In truth, she’s fishing.
But I’m not biting.
It’s my turn to host the league board’s meeting. Since Ted is working late yet again, I’ve bribed Tanner to keep Mickey and Olivia busy upstairs while I play host to my own firing squad.
We’re only a week away from Thanksgiving. You’d think that, by now, the drive was on its way to being a success, that I’d be coasting to a sure victory as the next president of the board—
Wrong.
Thus far, the drive has been an unequivocal disaster. Most of the barrels in Paradise Heights’s schools sit empty, except for the handful of cans that rattle the death knell of my dreams of being Margot’s successor as board president.
Most of my class chairs have flaked: too many volunteer activities, so little time. And the smiley face–shaped notes I’ve been stuffing into the children’s knapsacks have rallied few parents to my cause. E-mails—pinging parents’ in-boxes weekly at first, but now daily, and soon to be hourly—are apparently being junked without even being opened. Is it the frantic subject line (HELP! PLEASE! GET OFF YOUR CANS) that scares everyone off?
Well, subtlety has never been my strong suit.
Needless to say, the board thinks I have a lot of explaining to do.
To prolong the inevitable, all night long I’ve been shoveling out my patented lobster salad canapés to the board, along with avocado dip and salty chips by the bagful, then pouring pitcher after pitcher of margaritas in the hope that this will sate the board’s thirst, if not its hunger to eat one of its own.
That one being me.
All because I dared to take on the neighborhood’s one-woman juggernaut, its female whirling dervish of productivity, its queen bee.
What a fool I am.
It is only because Colleen is more than just a wee bit tipsy that she has wondered out loud about the One Dad Whose Name We Dare Not Speak. Despite his banishment, deep down she has not given up hope that the board’s prodigal DILF will once
again be clasped to its ample if augmented bosoms (hers being the amplest of all, thanks to her covert nursing of three-year-old McGuyver).
Hearing Harry’s name being bandied about, Isabelle bares her veneered fangs. “That guy? Believe it or not, I saw him just this afternoon with—well, you’ll never guess who!” Isabelle is so smug about trumping Brooke with this latest piece of hot gossip that she doesn’t notice I missed her glass completely when I tried to refill it. Quickly I grab a handful of napkins to sop up the puddle by her sleeve, resisting the urge to cram them down her throat.
“Oh, I saw them too,” exclaims Tammy.
Not to be outdone, Isabelle joins her in blurting it out: “With Pete and Calvin.” Then they both cackle with laughter.
Margot looks up from the notes she’s been preparing since she darkened my doorstep. “My, my, how the mighty have fallen. So now there are three stooges. That’s fitting, I guess.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t surprise me in the least,” gloats Tammy. “We all find our own levels, don’t we?”
Watching me bite my lower lip, Brooke puts her hand on my arm to caution me, but I can’t take it anymore. Instead of giving in to the temptation to pour what’s left of the margaritas down the back of Tammy’s Lilly Pulitzer halter dress, I blurt out, “Frankly, that’s pretty great company, if you ask me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Isabelle’s head snaps around.
Seriously, she’s got nothing on Linda Blair. If I weren’t wearing the tiny silver cross Ted gave me last Valentine’s Day, I’d be more worried. “No, I’m not! It just so happens that Calvin is a really sweet—and very normal—guy. In fact, he’s a security consultant with the government.”
“Hah! Is that what he told you? Are you sure he didn’t say the witness protection program?”
Colleen snorts at Isabelle’s joke. Seeing my glare, she ducks in shame.
“And as for that other lonely guy, Pete Shriver, I can certainly see what he and Harry have in common: wives smart enough to go AWOL.” Margot raises her glass to Isabelle at their mutual wittiness.
