A Simple Favor

by Darcey Bell

  Sean and I bought lottery tickets every week. If we won, we would quit our jobs and move to rural Italy or the south of France and live there for as long as the money lasted. Then we’d figure out the next step.

  I was the one who thought of a different sort of . . . lottery. A lottery over which we had more control. The jackpot we needed to save ourselves. To live large, to have the lives we wanted. To have time for our son and not be tired and stressed all the time, even when we weren’t working.

  That’s what I told him we wanted. Now it turns out that he wants Stephanie. Which is fine with me.

  I always wanted Nicky. I wanted my kid. I still do.

  I made Sean watch the films I liked, black-and-white thrillers from the thirties and forties. I streamed them every night. That was how we began to joke about insurance fraud. It was a joke, at first. Sean never imagined how far I would take it.

  I explained the logical steps, and Sean went along, like the all those scammed, bewitched men in those movies. He was the Fred MacMurray, I was the Barbara Stanwyck.

  We needed Stephanie—or someone like her. She was almost too perfect. Sometimes I had the scary feeling that I’d created her to be so exactly what we needed that we could skip a few steps on the way toward putting our plan in action.

  She was so perfect that everything made more sense than it did before she came along and unknowingly became a part of it. It began to seem more possible than when we were daring each other, when our plan was just a fun idea.

  Stephanie couldn’t suspect. I was sure she wouldn’t. She was so happy she’d found a friend. Whenever she used the phrase “a mom friend,” I thought I was going to be sick.

  I picked her out of a crowd. A gaggle of mothers waiting for their kids to get out of school.

  When people talk about predators, what they mostly mean is sex and power and weakness. Criminality. Pedophiles prey on children. Rapists prey on women. In nature, predation is driven by hunger. The big sharks eat the smaller fish. The strong prey on the weak.

  But this wasn’t like that. Stephanie is an adult. It was perfect that her son was Nicky’s friend. It was meant to be.

  It was always about Nicky. Sean and I worked so hard—late nights, sometimes through the weekends—that we hardly saw him. He was growing up, and we never got to spend time with him. He was our only child. We were never going to have another.

  Conceiving him had been easy, but giving birth to him had been very hard. Our doctor called us into his office (never a good sign) and told us that trying to have another child could prove fatal for me and the baby, even if I succeeded (small chance) in carrying it to term.

  I’d gone on the low-dose birth control pill, and it seemed to work fine, with no side effects. Or none that the doctors would admit. If you ask me, I felt excessively irritable, even more restless and impatient. But maybe it wasn’t the pill; maybe it was life. Everything and everyone annoyed me. Everyone but Nicky.

  I wonder what sort of protection Sean is using with Stephanie, who has a disturbingly uneven record when it comes to contraception. She claims that Miles was unplanned, that she and her husband conceived him by accident after an expensive hipster wedding.

  My scheme—and Sean’s capitulation—was the result of a combination of things. Those old films and the new employment contract that I actually read. Twenty-some pages, clause after clause, dozens of bright plastic labels flagging blanks for Sean to initial. And then—what do you know?—page twenty-two was an application for life insurance for Sean and his spouse, a gigantic payoff in return for a teensy paycheck deduction.

  I was relentless. Every morning I’d mention it, every time we were together. Sometimes I’d wake Sean in the middle of the night and pick up where I’d left off. He was reluctant, at first. He lacked the vision to see the beauty of what I was suggesting. He probably thought I was crazy. But he knew I meant it. And if he said no? The result of his refusal would be worse than whatever I wanted him to do. Maybe worse than he could imagine.

  One night, after we had sex, always the best time to approach Sean or any man, I brought it up again. Maddening. You have the smartest, coolest idea in the world, but you have to fuck them first.

  “Our lives aren’t so bad,” he said. “We’re working our asses off, darling, but we won’t be forever. Nicky seems happy.”

  I said, “Is this what you want, Sean? Working round the clock, hardly ever seeing our son—the only child we’ll ever have. Do you want to wake up one day and realize he’s in college? Gone? Do you want day after day of this sameness, this . . . boredom?”

  I’d said too much. I’d come too close to revealing something about myself that I would just as soon keep hidden. Everyone has secrets, as Stephanie says, ad nauseam.

  “Are you saying you’re bored with me?” Sean asked.

  I was. But I wasn’t going to admit that.

  “Sean, don’t you want to take a risk? Put all our chips on the line. Gamble. Live recklessly. Live on the edge. Do you want to get to the point where we say, ‘Is this all there is?’”

  That stopped him. He could tell that what I meant was, Are you all there is? What would prevent me from finding a man with more money and time than Sean—and taking Nicky with me?

  I would never do that. Sean was Nicky’s dad. Nothing could change that, and no one could replace him.

  I hammered away at him. If we wanted to keep leading the life we were living, the life that was leading us—the mortgage, the car, the art on our walls, the clothes that cost plenty even with my office discount but that I had to wear to work—we were trapped. There was no way out. Property values had flatlined since we moved to Connecticut, and if we sold the house, we would take a loss. We couldn’t afford to move back to Manhattan unless we wanted to live in Bushwick or squeeze into a postwar one-bedroom in Midtown. Even with Sean’s salary and mine we’d need a huge mortgage, or we could rent, which would be expensive and not ideal.

  For the first time, I didn’t object when Sean wanted to relax in front of the TV. But now I made him watch House Hunters, House Hunters International, and all the house-hunting shows. Every night a couple decided to start a new life in some exotic place. Antigua, Nice, Sardinia, Belize. Why? Because they wanted to get away from the rat race, to spend more time with their family.

  “They’re doing it,” I’d tell Sean. “Those losers are doing what you’re afraid to try.”

  “Where did they get the money?” he’d say. “They never tell you.”

  “I know where to get the money,” I said. “Money is not the problem. You’re having the balls to do something about it is the problem.”

  I hadn’t forgotten the look on Sean’s face when he put his mother’s ring on my finger on the plane. It was just a matter of time until he did what I said.

  Sean would take out the maximum life insurance that his company offered. I’d disappear. Lie low for a while. I’d have to fake my own death. This was the difficult part. But people did it in books and films all the time. And in real life. And they got away with it!

  So it must be possible. That part needed some thought.

  I’d stay out of sight for however long it took, depending on how hard the authorities seemed to be looking for me. Then I’d change my look. Get a fake passport.

  Sean would collect the insurance money, and we would move to some paradise in Europe where no one would ask any questions about the attractive American expat couple and their adorable son. We’d pay the rent in cash.

  When the money ran out, we’d take stock. But if we were careful that wouldn’t happen for a while. And we’d have fun. We’d do what we wanted, all the time. We would never be bored again.

  It wasn’t the most sensible plan. It had a few wrinkles that needed to be ironed out. Maybe no sane person would have imagined that this was going to work. I liked that it was a long shot. The opposite of tedious and safe.

  I’ve read about what’s called folie à deux. Two people (here comes another sickening word
) enable each other’s mental illness. I reread In Cold Blood, and this time I paid attention to the evil chemistry ignited when those two guys met, and to those killings that wouldn’t have happened if either had been on his own.

  Could Sean and I be like that if we embraced this scheme and went for it? Could we enable each other to do things we would never do alone? And who were we harming, really? We weren’t blowing away a decent, hardworking farmer, his wife, and their two beautiful children. We were helping ourselves to funds from a company that had stolen the money from decent, hardworking people like that farmer and his family.

  Maybe it wasn’t a good sign that we both found it sexy. Talking about it began to turn us on. Scheming was foreplay, and sex was almost as hot as it was when he’d put his mother’s ring on my finger on the plane from the UK. Almost.

  I told myself that it was a good sign. A hot marriage was good for us, good for our bodies and souls, good for Nicky.

  On the outside, we looked like normal people. Better than normal. A successful upper-middle-class couple who could hold down two important jobs and have a fabulous house and raise a wonderful kid. And oh, yes. Make a best friend.

  I needed someone to believe me and tell the world my version of the story. Most of all, I needed someone who would take care of Nicky during what was going to be a hard time for him until our little family was reunited. I had Alison, Nicky’s terrific nanny. But she was determined to go back to school, and she’d never wanted to work more than part-time. I needed someone who would make Nicky her highest priority, maybe one place beneath her own son, but that was close enough.

  It was a crazy plan. The kind of insane Hail Mary–pass scheme you read about in the papers and think: Who is going to fall for that? Who would imagine that anyone would buy it? But Sean and I couldn’t manage to sit down and find a reasonable step-by-step exit strategy. That would have been bad for our marriage. Sean still needed to see me as the rebel girl who’d invited him, on our third date, to watch Peeping Tom. And he still needed to see himself as that rogue girl’s husband.

  I became a friendship predator, on the prowl for a new best friend. It wasn’t about sex or power but about closeness and trust. About raising our kids. About motherhood.

  Every Friday afternoon, I got off early from work. That had been something of a struggle, though Dennis Nylon Inc. made a lot of noise about being flexible and family friendly. I was the one who wrote the press releases about our flexible family friendliness, so it would have looked bad if Blanche—Dennis’s second in command, his attack dog—told me I couldn’t leave early on Fridays to pick up my son at school.

  I stood under a tree near Nicky’s school. I watched the other mothers. I was looking for Nicky and at the same time trolling for the right mother.

  The best friend.

  It was easy compared to what I had to do for work at fashion shows, promotional events, and meetings, scanning the rooms and arenas for the first flutter of disruption. A celebrity had gotten the wrong brand of vodka! Disaster!

  Looking for a mother to befriend, I felt like a pervert trawling the mall for that insecure, overweight preteen girl chewing on her hair. I was looking for Captain Mom.

  Captain Mom was what Sean and I called the ones with the backpacks and front packs and harnesses and strollers, the portable cribs and high chairs, the baby harnesses strapped to their bodies, the quilted jackets like space suits in which they could rocket to Mars, if they had to. With Baby all warm and safe.

  I was looking for the Captain Mom who wanted to be best friends. The Captain Mom who was looking for me.

  Stephanie was right about the other mothers being unfriendly. But Sean and Nicky and I had lived on the Upper East Side, so frostiness was nothing new to us. Months later, we were still thawing out from that Manhattan cold shoulder.

  For the first few weeks of school, I saw Captain Mom looking in my direction. But it wasn’t until that rainy day, when she’d forgotten to bring her umbrella, that we made eye contact. Even from a distance I could see that flicker of panic. As if forgetting her umbrella was a catastrophe. It wasn’t even cold, nor was it raining hard. I was accustomed to celebrities acting that way, but not normal people. Then I saw her looking anxiously at the school door, and I realized she wasn’t worried about getting wet but about her child getting wet during the one-minute walk to her car.

  I waved her over. I’d brought the company umbrella, which Dennis’s licensing people designed to be extra sturdy, wide—and light.

  They made a dozen of them and then canceled. Too goofy for the price. After that Dennis went traditional. The next prototype was a masterpiece. Practically a tent. Modeled on a British umbrella, a traditional banker’s accessory. Sean was touched when I gave him one of those, as if I’d had it tailor-made for him. It wasn’t till after we’d moved in together that he figured out that I’d gotten a half-dozen for free; they were extras from some celebrity event at which Dennis Nylon Inc. gave out top-of-the-line swag. Those parties were so much work. There was always some diva trying to make my assistant get her special shoes we didn’t make. Dennis Nylon has sold a hundred thousand of those banker’s umbrellas, mostly in Japan.

  Anyhow, I invited the super-anxious mom—“Hi,” she said, “I’m Miles’s mom, Stephanie”—to share my oversize designer umbrella decorated with swimming ducks. It was made for Stephanie; that’s who it was made for. As usual, Dennis was correct about it not being right for the brand’s demographic.

  You would have thought that my cruise ship had picked up Stephanie’s life raft bobbing on a shark-infested sea. Letting Stephanie share my umbrella was like asking an overexcitable puppy to share your bowl of kibble.

  I gave her the umbrella because I wanted her to feel special, chosen. I told her it was the only one Dennis had made. Later, when we got to my house, I saw her eyeing all the other umbrellas like it, and a warning bell went off. Girl, I told myself, get your story—your stories—straight. And I have, from then on.

  Nicky and Miles were friends. She’d assumed I knew that. Otherwise, this being snooty Connecticut, I would never have waved her over.

  I knew that Nicky had a friend named Miles. But at that point Nicky and I didn’t talk that much. We didn’t have time. He was often asleep before I got home, fed and put to bed by Alison. Sometimes Sean didn’t see Nicky all week.

  That was the reason behind our plan. Or a part of it. Reason one: I wanted to see my son. Reason two: I needed to do something that was risky and not boring. Reason three: Who could pass up a chance to make two million dollars just for having a little fun?

  I invited Stephanie and Miles back to our house. I knew Sean would be working late, even on Friday night. The two boys ran off to play, thrilled to be together.

  I can’t remember much about that first conversation. I probably agreed with everything Stephanie said. Yes, motherhood was demanding. Yes, it was all-involving. Yes, the emotions and the responsibilities had come as a total surprise. A shock. Rewarding. A nightmare. A joy.

  I nodded and nodded.

  Stephanie was ecstatic. She’d found a kindred spirit. And I’d found the magician’s helper who runs the sword through the box from which the pretty assistant has mysteriously vanished.

  Years ago Pam, the creative director at Dennis Nylon Inc., set up a fashion shoot. Professional poker players, guys who appeared on TV, were supposed to be photographed wearing the skinny suits Dennis was showing that year. Tropical, light, vaguely gangster, a slightly shiny charcoal.

  Pam hadn’t thought it through. The poker champs wore weird sizes. Fat cowboys, stocky guys from Hong Kong. Geeky mathematicians who would have looked like crap no matter what they wore.

  Only one guy was hot, a famous player everyone called George Clooney though he wasn’t George Clooney; he just looked like him. He had a girlfriend, Nelda, an eighties punk rock star, also a serious poker player who might win or lose thirty grand in one game and come back the next night.

  The shoot had a lot
of problems, and by the end it was clear that it had cost a fortune and likely couldn’t be used. The idea was cool, but all the guys except George Clooney made the clothes look like garbage. It was embarrassing and expensive. It cost poor Pam her job.

  After the shoot, I asked George Clooney and Nelda out for a drink. A drink on Dennis Nylon, just to apologize for how badly the day had gone. I was doing what I could, trying (unsuccessfully) to salvage the situation for Pam.

  George Clooney and Nelda didn’t want to go, especially when they found out that Dennis Nylon wouldn’t be joining us. But they couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. There was a nice tequila bar nearby, which I knew my way around, and pretty soon George Clooney and Nelda were telling me about poker.

  I wish I could remember the things they said because all the little tricks and techniques would be so helpful in daily life. What I remember is this:

  There is always one person in a high-stakes game whom the others call “the fish.” And by the end of the game, the fish will have lost all his money.

  George Clooney said, “If you don’t know who the fish is, chances are good that you are the fish.”

  Stephanie was the fish. Under no other circumstances would I have become friends with someone who had been blogging about how she wanted to reach out to like-minded moms.

  At that first conversation, I talked about my job. Stephanie talked about her blog. I said I was eager to read it. That completed the circle for Stephanie. We weren’t friends just because we had kids. We had minds and careers. We worked. We admired each other’s professional life.

  I knew that she had been widowed by a horrible accident. You couldn’t live in our town without having heard about it. But it was better to pretend not to know, to wait for her to tell me.

  The blog was what clinched it. The banality, those nerdy posts about being the perfect mom and reaching out to other moms, helping other moms, and maybe once in a while stepping back so you can reflect on the culture’s efforts to turn you and the other moms into baby-making childcare machines with no life or identity of your own. Surprise, moms! It’s already happened!