by Merry Jones
I closed my eyes. What could I say? I had no defense. There was a lot of truth in what she’d said. I did try to protect myself and my daughter from the ugly parts of life. Was that so wrong? Once again, I saw Detective Stiles pick up the finger and drop it into the Baggie. Thwap. I opened my eyes. Susan dumped the bowl of apples into the tin and slapped the rest of the dough on top.
“Sorry,” she barked. “I don’t mean to sound harsh, but that’s how I see it.”
I watched her cut off the extra crust and squeeze the excess into her fist. She moved abruptly, without tenderness. Susan was ferocious. Not her usual self.
“So,” I asked, “what’s wrong?”
“Who said anything was wrong?” she snapped. Then she relaxed, lowering her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Zoe. Everything’s wrong. Tim’s traveling again, so I’m the only parent again this month. Bonita’s got final exams, so she’s not sitting regular hours. I’m up to my ears in lunches and laundry and homework and car pools and baths. And a huge caseload—three felony cases. That means three people will go to jail if I mess up.” She threw the pie into the oven and slammed the door. I felt a familiar rush of fondness for her.
She sighed, leaning against the stove. “You know, except for Tim, you’re the only one who ever does that.”
Uh-oh. What had I done? “Does what?”
“Pins me down. Makes me say what’s bothering me. Always knows when something’s bothering me.”
“Well, you’re not exactly subtle about it.”
“What? I’ve been completely calm and composed.” She yanked a dish towel off the rack.
“Right, Completely. A moment ago, if I’d said another word— another syllable—I’d have been wearing that pie.”
She grinned. “No, I never waste my pies. Maybe a bowl of flour, but not a pie.” She sighed and sat on a stool. “But you’re right. I’m on overload. I’m nuts. Completely bananas.” Her eyes wandered to the wall clock. “Speaking of nuts and bananas, it’s time for dinner. Staying?”
“As long as it’s not finger food,” I smiled. “Or hand and cheese.”
Susan winced. “No. Today’s special is knuckle sandwiches.” She handed me a cutting board. “Here, give me a hand.”
“Hey, I’m the guest. Guests don’t have to lift a finger.”
“Yes they do, just not the middle one.”
“Oh, cut it out.”
“Just chop the damn carrots. Watch your aim.” “Quartered or sliced?”
“And skinned.” She threw a tomato at me. “Heads up.” Lettuce flew into my arms. Something green—a cucumber?—whizzed past me onto the counter. Scallions and then a green pepper bounced off my shoulder. I dodged, laughing, and caught the endive midair.
“Shut up and cut up.” She dropped a knife onto the cutting board, raised her index fingers, and, waving them, shimmied to the stove. Manic again.
So I chopped. Being busy felt good. The carrots were not body parts. Susan and I were making salad and frying flounder, easing back into the steady rhythm of our friendship.
Susan poured us each a glass of wine. We sipped and talked. I felt the tension ease out of me. My shoulders felt lighter and my neck looser. I’d almost completely relaxed by the time Lisa and Julie thundered in, flushed, shouting, tripping over the dog.
“Mom!”
“Mom! Guess what—”
“Guess who was on the news!”
“Remember Claudia? She sat for us? She’s—”
“She’s the third one—”
“—missing!”
Susan and I got to the television just as the picture switched from a young woman’s snapshot to the anchor.
“... five-month-old girl,” he said, “was found unharmed at home, asleep in a laundry basket. Like the other two missing childcare workers, Claudia Rusk disappeared in broad daylight, while working. We’ll keep you posted as police release further information. In other news, an Amtrak train—”
Susan snapped off the television. Her face was dark, drained. “No more TV,” she announced.
“But Mom, what happened to Claudia?”
“I don’t know. Set the table,” Susan breathed. “Zoe and Molly are staying for dinner.”
“She’s the third one missing. What’s going on? Do you think she was kidnapped?” Lisa squealed.
“No, stupid,” Julie replied. “Why would they kidnap the babysitter and not the baby?”
“Because of sex, stupid,” Lisa shook her head. “You’re too young to understand.”
“I am not—”
“That’s enough,” Susan yelled. “Stop it, both of you. We don’t know what happened. There’s nothing we can do about it, and it’s not our business, so let’s just have our dinner in peace. Go set the table.”
Muttering, the girls stomped into the kitchen. Susan stared vacantly after them. White knuckled, she held on to her ring finger, twisting her wedding band.
“Susan?” I asked. “Who’s Claudia?”
THREE
CLAUDIA RUSK WORKED FOR SUSAN’S NEIGHBOR. SHE WAS A friend of Susan’s nanny, Bonita, and had helped Susan on many occasions when Bonita couldn’t. Like Bonita, Claudia was a college student at night, earning tuition as a nanny by day. Now, Claudia had disappeared, leaving the neighbor’s baby in the laundry room, stuffed in a basket among dirty towels and undershirts. It made no sense. Why would she do that? Where had she gone? Why?
I thought about Claudia as I tucked Molly in. I thought about her as I went downstairs, made myself a cup of tea, and snuggled under an afghan on my overstuffed crimson chair. I thought about her as I laid my head back and closed my eyes. Stop worrying, I told myself. Worrying won’t help. There’s nothing you can do about Claudia or her disappearance. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if, on the day she disappeared, Claudia had been wearing red nail polish.
I took deep breaths. I told myself to center my energy, not to think of the finger, Claudia, or the other missing women. Our doors were locked; Molly and I were secure inside our brown-stone. My bubble. It was a good bubble. I’d worked hard to put it together, and it was cozy. I looked around my tiny, cluttered living room. The built-in shelves filled with books and small treasures. My great-grandmother Bella’s heavy brass mortar and pestle for grinding flour, and her porcelain soup tureen, now stuffed with dried flowers. On the walls, paintings by people I knew, aspiring artists like I used to be. A huge abstract oil, bold strokes of umber, yellow, and beige. A fat nude. An etching of a farm beneath a crescent moon.
The furniture was sparse and strewn with stuff: one of Molly’s many half-finished art projects with her jars of beads and bottles of Elmer’s glue, a half-dressed baby doll, a lone red knee sock, a well-worn teddy bear. In the far corner, the Stair-Master gathered dust, sulking and nagging at me. Last year, my New Year’s resolution had been to work out. I knew I should, but I hadn’t gotten around to it; the machine served primarily to take up space and tug at my conscience.
I adored my heavy purple sofa, the handwoven blankets draping its back, the cabinet I’d painted with funky designs, the chair I’d found at a flea market. Nothing matched. Colors, textures, and shapes had nothing in common except that I liked them. Yet, gathered together, all the pieces seemed to fit. Like odd members of a family, a collection of strays, they made this a home. I sipped my tea, feeling it warm my blood. Gradually, I let myself relax and felt the tension lift and went up to bed.
But I couldn’t sleep. I thought about Claudia; then I began to think about our sitter, Angela. She wasn’t a college student, not even trained as a professional nanny, but I trusted Angela and relied on her. She was almost a member of the family. She had her own house key. She’d once snaked our toilet. She scolded me about the way I loaded the dishwasher, tried to teach me how to organize my cabinets. Angela knew what went on behind our closed doors, our private stuff.
She stood maybe five feet tall, wore lots of large gold accessories, and blue eye makeup, had long sculpted fingernails, and dyed her hai
r purplish black. She had a throaty voice and a loud, hoarse laugh. She’d been with her boyfriend, Joe, since high school and planned to marry him. Born and raised in South Philly, second youngest of five kids, she didn’t like to leave her neighborhood; Queen Village, a few blocks north, was about as far away as she’d venture. Except for the mall.
I usually smiled when I thought of Angela, the twang of her vowels, her street-smart, in-your-face attitude. Except now, I didn’t smile; I worried. Claudia and two other local nannies were missing, and someone had lost a finger. Angela could be in danger. I couldn’t bear to think about that; the idea was too awful. Besides, Angela was a babysitter, not, technically, a nanny. I wondered if the kidnapper would make the distinction.
I lay back and watched the darkness, listening to night sounds: wailing sirens, revving engines, screeching brakes, and, whenever I’d begin to doze, the patient flapping of black wings.
I puffed up the pillow. I tossed. I flipped. I looked at the empty pillow next to mine. My ex-husband’s ex-pillow. I frowned at it and turned my back. I already had too many scary images in my head; I didn’t need to stir up more by revisiting my former marriage. Desperate for diversion, I reached for the remote. Colors flickered. Animated candy bars sang Christmas carols and flew in reindeer-driven sleighs. I changed channels. A green convertible careened around a corner, pursued by police. Click. A talking head with a necktie and an authoritative voice updated the news. I turned him off before he could mention the missing nannies.
Finally, giving up, I got out of bed. Go downstairs and exercise, I told myself. Go work out. You’ll get tired. You’ll sleep better. You’ll feel better about yourself. I thought about it. I imagined turning on the StairMaster and climbing to exhaustion long into the night.
Instead, I went to the window. Occasional cars passed, even at this bleak hour. Across the street, the electric Santa blinked on and off, bathing the street with alternating beams of light and darkness, darkness and light. Victor’s upstairs light was on, a solitary silhouette behind his shades. Apparently, he couldn’t sleep, either. Old Charlie was up, too. He was out on his porch, sitting alone in the cold shadows, smoking a pipe.
FOUR
I OVERSLEPT. MISSED THE TRAIN—I’D HAVE TO FIND A CAB. I’D already kissed Molly good-bye and headed for the door. I was almost gone, and would have been if I hadn’t stopped to answer the phone. Who knows why I did it—Angela would have picked it up. Maybe it was habit, a trained reaction. Maybe I was like those lab animals and had a conditioned response. Hear the bell ring; get the phone. For whatever reason, though, I answered it.
“Hi, Zoe.”
Damn. Why hadn’t I just kept going? “Zoe? You there?”
No, I told myself. I’m not. In fact, I’m not even me—I’m the wrong number. I’m the maid.
“Hi, Michael,” I finally said. “What’s up?”
Why? I asked myself. Why had I answered the phone? And why had he called? What did he want now? I had no patience, no time, no energy for Michael. Not that I was bitter or anything. Michael and I had parted “amicably”—wasn’t that how people described divorces that didn’t involve actual hit men? Our divorce had been that kind of “amicable.” In fact, we still spoke regularly; Michael called every few weeks to ask for something— a favor, a recipe, a book or CD. Our living room furniture. Our silver. Of course, maybe this time it would be different. Maybe he just wanted to hear my voice. Or ask my opinion. Or maybe he had to tell me something—like that someone had died. But I doubted it; there weren’t many people we both still knew. When we’d divorced, along with the bath towels, we’d split up the friends. We hadn’t shared anyone in over five years. So what did he want?
“How are you, Zoe?” His voice was chatty, casual. He talked as if we spoke every day. He droned on, telling me news of his work, his parents, his sister, his new car, and for a moment it seemed as if the corpse of our ten-year marriage had stirred to life. As if Michael were just at the office, calling to see what was for dinner. I fought the dreadful impulse to ask what time he’d be home. What was going on? What did he want? upstairs, Molly and Angela argued about what Molly would wear. Angela was losing.
“Michael? Look, I’m on my way out. What’s up?”
“Oh. Okay, then. I’ll call back when you’re not busy.”
He sounded disappointed. Actually, he sounded desolate. A very unlike-Michael way to sound. And it wasn’t like him to back off. Michael never hesitated to ask for anything; he seemed to think I owed him whatever he wanted. So why was he offering to call later? Something was wrong. Did he need money? Or—oh God—was he sick? Dying? Lord. Maybe he needed bone marrow. Or a kidney.
Or a finger.
There it was again. The damned finger kept poking its way into my thoughts. I looked out the kitchen window. Jake, a local contractor, hurried by carrying a large sack and a toolbox, wearing a sleeveless sweatshirt and cutoff jeans. Jake dressed for summer no matter what the weather, and his beefy shoulders and biceps rippled in the morning light. Across the street, Charlie stepped out onto his front stoop, carrying his trash. He looked around, squinting into the frosty sunshine.
“It’s just that this is real important, Zoe. I need to ask a big favor.” I swallowed. I wasn’t willing to part with an organ. I’d give blood, but that was it.
“Well, not a favor, actually. I’ve told you about Margaret.”
Margaret? Phew. I was off the hook. He didn’t need a donor. This was about Margaret, the woman he’d been seeing off and on for a year. Had she dumped him?
“Well, we’re going ahead with it. We’re tying the knot.”
The knot? Marriage? Oh. He was getting married. Well. That explained why he’d been afraid to say what was on his mind. But did I care? No. Of course not. I’d thrown him out. I wasn’t in love with him, didn’t want him back. Michael’s life was his own business. So why was I having trouble following what he was saying? Why was my stomach upside down?
“. . . since you don’t ever wear it anymore. Besides, it was intended for the woman who is my wife.”
“Sorry?”
“That ring’s been in my family for two generations, and I want to keep it there. I want it back, Zoe. What do you say?”
What did I say? A reflexive, absolute, irrefutable “Gosh, Michael. I don’t know.”
“Come on, Zoe. What would you want with it?”
Truth was, nothing. It sat in a velvet box at the back of my sock drawer. I never even looked at it. But Michael had called to get it back. Not to ask for a kidney. Not even to tell me about his upcoming marriage. No, he’d only wanted the ring. Maybe I should give it to him—wait, whoa, I told myself. Just a second. Whether I wore the ring or not wasn’t the point. The point was that Michael had to stop asking me for stuff. I always gave in to him, had already given him enough. Too much. Our leather sofa. The Oriental carpet. The dinnerware. The camcorder. The hutch. Now he wanted the ring. Next time it would be—what? My electric toothbrush? The trash compactor? How about my pearl earrings? They’d been his mother’s, too. As had my roasting pot. And my eggbeater. Would he want them, too? No, this had to stop. Michael had to detach. He seemed unable to accept that we were divorced and that whatever was mine wasn’t necessarily his as well.
I stared at the cement mixer down the street, parked where Michael used to park. Five years ago, I’d asked him to leave. I’d stood at this same kitchen window, watching him load his car and drive off, his taillights fading into the night. When they were out of sight I’d exhaled, finally alone with a half-empty medicine cabinet, a half-empty closet, and my freedom. But I’d kept the engagement ring. Why?
“Mom!” Molly ran into the kitchen. “Look—do you think it’ll come out today?” She wiggled her tooth. It clung pretty tightly in place.
I covered the mouthpiece. “Don’t think so.” She ran out, then back in. “Do you know where my red sweatpants are?”
Amazingly, I did. “The dryer.”
She headed to the laun
dry, with Angela trying to catch up.
Michael was still talking. “Look, it’s not like you’d miss it. You don’t wear it anymore, but Margaret would, and she loves antique jewelry. Besides, it belongs with my bride.”
So Margaret wanted my ring. Why would someone want her husband’s ex-wife’s ring? I picked up Molly’s cereal bowl and plopped it into the sink, picturing gems hopping from woman to woman, finger to finger.
“What do you say, Zoe?”
“I don’t know, Michael—”
“Why?” He was annoyed. “What don’t you know? What could you possibly want with that ring? It was my grandmother’s, for godsakes.”
“Try to understand this: It isn’t about the ring. It’s about you wanting things all the time. Why I do or don’t want the ring—or anything else in my possession—isn’t your business.” Damn. How had he managed to twist it so that I sounded wrong for not automatically giving him back something he’d given me years ago? Oh Lord. Why had I picked up the phone?
“Zoe, I thought you’d be more reasonable. Please do this for me.” He was beginning to whine, a grating sound, like a cat in heat.
“Look, okay. I’ll think about it.”
He pounced on that as encouragement. “When? I need to know.”
His voice was pathetic. It was too easy to be mean to him. And what was the point? There was nothing to win; we were finished.
“I’ll let you know.”
“Great. I’ll call you tonight.”
