The Good House: A Novel

by Leary, Ann

  So at my inquisition—oh, excuse me, intervention—I listened to the girls declare my various shameful lapses like tearful little magistrates. They had somehow convinced Sue to join forces with them, and she stammered something about how the clients were starting to notice. All the other brokers knew. She wept, too, and, like my daughters, she finished her statement by lunging at me so that she could encircle my shoulders with her arms and sob into my neck. I’m not a big hugger, but I placed my arms around each of them and tried to come up with the appropriate responses.

  “Oh,” I think I whispered. “That’s an interesting point of view.”

  Really, what are you supposed to say?

  I knew there was no use in arguing. No point in stating my case. I had read the Betty Ford autobiography. You can’t prove you’re not an alcoholic once everybody has announced your affliction and tearfully told you how your “disease” has affected them. The more you protest—“deny,” as they say—the more they stoke the flames of shame that have been dancing around you since the inquest began.

  But there was hope. Jenny, of the orange hair, was from Hazelden. She offered a solution: a twenty-eight-day program in Minnesota.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I have a business to run.”

  “I’ve taken care of everything,” chirped Sue. “It’s so slow right now, I’ll just have Wendy”—Wendy Heatherton was then my associate broker—“take over your clients. It’s just a month. We’ll say you’re in Florida.”

  Sue did take care of everything, and I took care of Sue just a few weeks after I returned from Minnesota. I fired her.

  * * *

  At Wendy’s party, I stood with Peter and Elise, scanning the crowd to see whom else I might know, and almost immediately Wendy was upon us. Wendy, in addition to being slim and bubbly, is one of those women who must always clasp everybody’s hands. She won’t just shake your hand; she traps it between both of hers and cocks her head so that she can smile at you from what she seems to believe is a captivating display of her profile.

  “Peter! Elise! Hildy!” she exclaimed, taking turns sandwiching each of our hands and tilting her head this way and then that. “I’m so glad you made it. You’re just in time. We’re about to sit down to dinner, but first, come. Come meet our wonderful guests of honor, the McAllisters. Well, Hildy, of course you know Brian and Rebecca.”

  Wendy was leading us over to the far side of the crowded patio. She was still holding on to Peter’s hand, and he had reached around and grabbed Elise’s, and as I followed them, I had a passing thought that I should grab Elise about her slim waist to form a snaking conga line.

  I hadn’t been able to admit it to Linda Barlow, but I really do hate parties now.

  We finally reached a corner of the patio where a group had formed around Brian McAllister, who was talking about the Boston Bruins. Many people in the area know that Brian is a silent co-owner of the Bruins, along with Jeremy Jacobs and some others, and, well, this is Massachusetts. Most people are hockey nuts. Everybody had questions about the new recruits and where the hockey team was headed. Mamie’s husband, Boatie, a slightly annoying Republican from an old Brahmin family, interrupted several times to bluster on about Phil Esposito and Bobby Orr and the good old Bruins of yore.

  “Wait until this season,” Brian promised him, swigging his beer and smiling. “I think we’re gonna have a great season.”

  I saw Rebecca standing a little off to the side, and I walked over to say hello. The Newbolds followed me and I introduced them. They all shook hands and then Rebecca sort of peered up at Peter in that way she has, the way of the petite, and she said, “Haven’t we met before? You seem so familiar.…”

  “I’m not sure,” Peter said. He was looking at her carefully then. “I don’t think so. I have one of those faces. I’m always reminding people of somebody else.”

  Rebecca was smiling up at him, still not convinced, when Peter said, “I’m sure your husband gets sick of people wanting to talk hockey all the time.”

  “No, not really. He sort of gets off on it, actually,” she replied.

  I saw Peter glance back at Brian and then smile at Rebecca, amused.

  “What do you do?” Elise asked Rebecca.

  “Um, well, nothing really,” Rebecca said, laughing nervously.

  She seemed, suddenly, self-conscious, and I was aware of an impulse, which I of course resisted, but an impulse to pull Rebecca close to my side, the way a mother might shield a shy child from a stranger. Elise was asking Rebecca what she did so that Rebecca would, in turn, ask her what she did, and then Elise could carry on about her annoying writing.

  “You’re so pretty,” Elise persisted. “Didn’t I read someplace that you model or something?” She said this in an almost accusatory tone, and there was a moment of awkward silence before Rebecca, clearly flustered, stammered, “No, I, well, I used to do some acting, but now I just, you know, take care of my kids.”

  “Oh,” said Elise. “But before that?”

  “Well, I paint,” Rebecca said. “I used to ride horses pretty competitively. Now I decorate our houses and … nothing really.”

  In fact, Rebecca had been short-listed for the U.S. Equestrian Team when she was only nineteen. In fact, she was the daughter of Col. Wesley Potter, the former Carter administration cabinet member, who had once been a CIA agent, and whose appointments had enabled Rebecca to live in Germany and Africa during her youth. In fact, she was the great-great-granddaughter of J. P. Morgan on her mother’s side. You learn these things about a client. Her lawyer talked to mine. My lawyer talked to me. And, of course, we brokers all Google these days.

  “How are the kids liking Wendover?” I asked Rebecca.

  “Well, they love the beach and the new house.…”

  “How old are they?” Elise asked.

  I could sense Rebecca’s unease. Why wouldn’t Elise stop interrogating her?

  “They’re five and seven. Excuse me,” Rebecca said, “I need to go inside … and wash my hands. I was in the garden all afternoon,” she said, and then she turned and made her way through all the wonderful guests to the dark house. A few minutes later, Wendy rang a little silver bell and announced that dinner was being served, and so we all followed the torch-lit path to the dinner table.

  Brian was seated across from me. On my right was Peter Newbold and on my left was my friend Mamie. Now Mamie gets all self-conscious about how much she drinks around me. We’re still friendly when we see each other, but I haven’t been to her house in ages, nor she to mine. It probably goes without saying that in a town like this, when you disappear for twenty-eight days, everybody knows where you’ve been. While I was at Hazelden, I imagined the gossip. Yes, she did like her drinks. Remember the O’Donnells’ Fourth of July party? Remember the Langs’ Christmas party? Didn’t she get a DUI? There are plenty of people in this community who drink more than I ever drank, but I’m the one who is branded an alcoholic. If I had allowed the server to fill my glass with wine, there at Wendy’s party, I imagine that everybody would have gasped in unison and then there would have been a spontaneous and unanimous attempt to wrestle the glass from my grip.

  Rebecca sat toward the far end of the table, several seats away from Brian, and to Brian’s right was Sharon Rice. Sharon is a lean woman in her mid-fifties who has allowed her hair to whiten naturally. She wears it cut in a bob. Sharon is the head of the Wendover Land Trust, which preserves all the beautiful woods and wetlands and salt marshes that run in and around our town. She is also on the zoning board and the school committee, is president of an arts program for underprivileged children in Lynn, organizes weekly activities at the Wendover Senior Center, and, every Election Day, drives the elderly and disabled to the polls. Her husband, Lou, is in insurance.

  After quickly introducing himself to those seated around him, Brian stabbed at his salad with his fork. Instead of placing his napkin on his lap, he gripped it like a little cloth bouquet in his left fist, which he rested on the edge
of the table.

  After a few moments, Sharon cleared her throat and said, “Brian … Rebecca … I’m so happy to finally meet you after hearing such lovely things about you from Wendy.”

  “Yeah? Well, nice to meet you, too,” said Brian, barely looking up from his plate.

  “What brought you and Rebecca to this area?”

  “Well,” Brian replied, rubbing his mouth with his napkin and glancing up at Sharon, “Rebecca went to boarding school here.…”

  “Oh, Rebecca, you went to Wendover?” Sharon said, calling down the table to Rebecca.

  Rebecca looked up at Sharon and was about to say something, when Brian said, “Yup. She loved it. Loved this area, and ever since we got married, she talked about moving up here. We lived in Boston until the kids were born, and while they were small, but Rebecca had horses that she was boarding up here, and, well, she grew up in the country, and that’s how she wants the kids to grow up, too.”

  “How do you like it here?” Boatie asked. “Didn’t you grow up in Southie?”

  “Yeah, I’m a city kid. My dad was a Boston fireman for forty years. Most of my relatives still live there. But we love it here. I don’t even mind the commute as much as I thought. Sometimes I stay in town a few nights during the week and then work from the house on Fridays and Mondays.”

  “Well, I’d love to talk to you sometime about the Wendover Land Trust. Your name came up at a recent board meeting,” said Sharon.

  “Sure, remind me to give you my card before we leave. I love all the work you preservationists do up here. It’s what keeps the area so nice. We’d be happy to get involved.”

  This sent Sharon Rice into a sort of rapturous frenzy of praise, stammering about how fabulous that would be. How wonderful.

  Those wonderful McAllisters!

  Then Brian admired my watch. I had splurged the previous year, after a big commercial property sale, and bought myself a beautiful Cartier watch. I had never owned any fine jewelry and never a nice watch of any kind. But I had noticed this watch in a magazine and decided I had never seen anything so exquisite in my life. So I bought it. It was my little reward to myself. For my success. For my sobriety. I don’t wear it every day, so I was thrilled that somebody noticed it.

  “Nice watch ya got there, Hildy,” Brian said. “I bought a Cartier for Rebecca, years ago, but she destroyed it. She’s one of those people who can’t wear watches. Something in her body chemistry, some static electricity or magnetic pull or something, makes all watches stop when she wears them.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” Mamie said.

  “Yeah,” Brian said, “well, don’t let my wife try on your watch, that’s all I have to say. She interferes with car electronics, too. She’s destroyed every goddamn stereo and GPS in every car she drives. Isn’t that right, Becky?”

  Rebecca had been talking to Lou Rice, who was seated next to her, and she turned to Brian with a quizzical expression. She couldn’t hear him, apparently.

  “I won’t let her sit in my car,” said Brian.

  “I think I have that.” I chuckled. “Things are always breaking on me.”

  “This is different,” Brian said. “We’re on our second TV in the den, and how long have we lived in that house, Becky? Three months? Now she doesn’t go near the thing. Oh, and we’ve never had a refrigerator that will make ice. In our house in Aspen, the apartment in Boston. Here. No matter how expensive the Sub-Zero or whatever, the ice maker dies once Rebecca tries to use it.”

  Peter Newbold was laughing, too. “You don’t really think these things could possibly have anything to do with Rebecca’s body chemistry?”

  Brian took a long swig from his beer and said to Rebecca, “BECKY … BABY … tell him about the time the cord on the brand-new toaster started smoking when you plugged it in. The thing was brand new. Hey, Becky?”

  Rebecca had been about to take a bite of her salad, but she turned back to face Brian, and it was clear she didn’t find this as amusing as he did. There was an awkward moment before she laughed and said, “It’s because I’m a witch, apparently.”

  We all laughed, but truthfully, it was a little awkward. Then Mamie made it more so by hollering across the table, “IS IT TRUE YOU DESTROY THINGS WITH YOUR MIND?”

  Rebecca said, “With my mind … no. But I do stop watches.” Then she turned to those seated around her, and I could see her pointing to her wrist and shrugging some kind of explanation.

  Peter was amused. “I hate to tell you this,” he said to Brian, “but your wife’s just had bad luck with watches and electronics.”

  “Peter’s a doctor,” I explained.

  “Yeah? What kind?”

  “I’m a psychiatrist,” replied Peter. “I just think we might have touched on this type of thing in medical school if it existed.”

  “I’m telling you, I’ve heard of this,” said Mamie. “I know I have. I’m gonna Google this when I get home.”

  Peter just chuckled and shook his head. Then I saw him look down and across the table at Rebecca. She was playing with one of the rings on her slender finger, and when she looked up and saw his eyes on her, she looked away. After a moment, she looked back at Peter, who was still gazing at her.

  “Sorry,” Peter said, smiling and blushing a little. “My wife is always criticizing me for staring. It’s what I do for work. I’m supposed to study the people I’m working with, so I end up studying everybody, everywhere we go.”

  “It’s okay,” said Rebecca.

  “I bet she can make you stop. WITH HER MIND,” shouted drunken Mamie.

  “Maybe,” said Rebecca, and then she smiled at Peter, and this time, after a moment, he looked away.

  “Speaking of doing things with your mind, Hildy’s a psychic!” Mamie exclaimed.

  “Yeah?” Brian asked. “You a mind reader, Hildy?”

  “No,” I said.

  “She is so,” said Mamie. “It runs in her family. Her cousin, aunt, they all have psychic gifts.”

  “Is that really true, Hildy?” Sharon asked. “I never knew that about you.”

  “No, it’s not true. Sometimes I can make people think I’m reading their thoughts. It’s just sort of a parlor trick, that’s all.”

  My father’s sister Peg was a “psychic” who once made her living off of the occult-hungry tourists down in Salem. She also did readings in her home. My cousin Jane and I grew up watching her, so we picked up a few tricks, which made us wildly popular on the slumber party circuit. I’ll still stage a reading for fun sometimes, just for skeptics, but I have to be in the right mood.

  “Hildy, come on. Do Brian,” Mamie said.

  “Yeah, Hildy, let’s see what you got,” said Brian, and soon everybody around us, even Peter, was cajoling me.

  “Oh, okay,” I said. I wouldn’t have agreed if Brian hadn’t already proved himself to be a rather easy read. I paused for a moment, then said, “Okay, Brian, I’d like you to think about something that happened to you in the past. A memory. I’m going to present a few questions. Just try not to nod or give anything away with your eyes. It should be easy, here, by candlelight. Easier for you not to give me any signals.”

  “All right,” said Brian.

  “You’ll have to give me your hand,” I said.

  Brian extended his hand as if for a handshake and I took it in mine and then turned it so that it was palm-up and resting on the table. His fingers curled in slightly toward his palm, and I smoothed them gently with mine so that they were lying flat on the table. I kept my hand resting lightly on his open hand, each of our fingers barely touching the other’s wrist.

  “Just look at me. By keeping your gaze passive, you’ll avoid giving me cues. Sometimes people give cues, by kind of blinking or nodding. Try not to do that. Now think about this memory. Think about it.… Oh, it’s a happy memory,” I began.

  I knew he was going to be easy, but not this easy.

  “It’s from your childhood—no, don’t nod,” I said.

 
“I didn’t nod.” Brian laughed.

  “I didn’t see him nod,” said Sharon.

  “He gave a little nod,” said Mamie.

  “Shush,” I said. Then: “It wasn’t a regular day. It was a special day. I’m not sure if it was Christmas.… No, it wasn’t Christmas. Was it … Yes, it was your birthday.”

  Brian grinned. “You’re good.”

  “Stop helping me,” I said. Then I said, “It was when you were still a child, not very young, not very old. Were you … nine—no, wait, ten. I believe you were ten.”

  Brian was trying on his poker face now. Too late.

  “It was something you were given. A present. Think about where you were when you first saw it. You weren’t in the house.… No, you were outside.”

  Brian was trying not to smile.

  “Outside. You were led outside and you saw it and you were very happy. Was it…”

  Now I paused. I always find this a good place to pause and look intensely at the other person, look intensely into their eyes and cock my head a little, as if I’m trying to hear something. And if I’m in a group, as I was that night, you can hear a pin drop. You want people to think you’re still probing the other’s mind. You don’t want it to look too easy.

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “Your memory is of your tenth birthday, when your parents gave you a bike.”

  “Holy SHIT!” exclaimed Brian. “THAT WAS IT! That’s amazing.”

  “EVERY TIME,” Mamie said.

  “You’ve seen her do this before?” asked Sharon. “Is it always a birthday that a person thinks of? Is that the trick?”

  “No, it’s always something different. She always nails it,” said Mamie.

  “Not always,” Boatie said.

  “I’m not always right,” I agreed.

  “You’re almost always right, Hil,” conceded Boatie.

  “That’s fucking freaky,” said Brian.

  I released Brian’s hand and took a sip of my nonalcoholic beverage. I won’t lie; I was pleased with myself. I’ve struck out before, but this was easy. I’m so much better at this now that I’m not half-tanked when I do it.