by Lada Ray
Silence… just a creak of a floorboard somewhere upstairs and a sound of a body sinking into bed behind the closed door.
“You must forgive him,” said Adelaide apologetically, something suspiciously wet glinting in her eye. “He's trying to re-adjust. This is only his second week back.”
“Of course, there is nothing to apologize for. We understand.” The women wanted to smooth out the awkward situation.
“So, Adelaide, how are you feeling?” Maria hurried to change the subject.
“I'm fine, just fine. A little tired, that's all,” said Adelaide distractedly, her eyes still lingering on the top of the stairs where her son disappeared just a minute ago.
“How's that foot?”
“Oh, that's a bit painful. Has been difficult to get to my charities.” Adelaide smiled weakly. “I don't feel right skipping yet another week, you know.”
Then, realizing that I had no idea what she was talking about, she explained, “I volunteer at the battered women's shelter. They are always in need of an extra pair of hands there. Besides, I do some work at the shelter for homeless animals. Lily and I are lucky,” she glanced fondly at Princess Lily, who was now purring contentedly on my lap. “We both have a good home and security, but how many out there don't.”
“She is just modest,” said Anne. “She does a lot of work at both places. She's practically there full time.”
“Yeah, and she's also their major financial supporter,” said Karen.
“O-okay ladies, what else can I get you?” said Adelaide, looking embarrassed.
“Oh, we should be going.” Everyone started gathering their things over the half-hearted protests of our hostess and although my journalistic antenna was up big time and I wouldn't have minded getting to know better this interesting woman and her unusual son, I knew it was time to go. Still, I felt with every fiber of my body that there was much more to their story than caught the eye.
“Now, don't you be a stranger,” said Adelaide, giving me a goodbye hug.
“I wouldn't dream of it,” I responded earnestly, “especially since my house is only several blocks from yours.”
Chapter 4
“Hey, how's the life of leisure,” rang in the phone Rachel's cheerful voice and my mood immediately went up a few notches.
Rachel and I were close for years, ever since freshman year at Columbia. She stayed at our alma mater for graduate school and now she was Rachel Weise, Ph.D., a young, but already fashionable psychoanalyst, her Manhattan office located not just anywhere, but at the highly coveted and awfully expensive Central Park West. All, thanks to generous contributions from her guilt-ridden, divorced mom and dad, as well as a battalion of Jewish relatives scattered all over the world, but firmly united in the pride and support of a high achiever from the Weise clan. Rachel, the practical, common sense soul that she was, made a very good use of all this windfall. And knowing her relatives, I am sure, they didn't expect any less of her.
Usually, whenever we happened to pick up our friendship after a period of either my travels or Rachel's super busy schedule, it flowed naturally, as if a dry spell had never happened. At the sound of her enthusiastic voice in my phone, I would readily spill all my news, big and small, and listen to hers, with equal interest.
Irrationally, I've been a bit peeved at Rachel lately. It so happened that when my husband had made that infamous unilateral decision to rent me a house in Stepford, he had tried to enlist Rachel's help in persuading me that it was, in fact, a swell idea. Rachel listened to our heated discussion silently – she was a pro and much too smart to take sides in my husband's presence. But when Paul, exasperated with my resistance, finally left for his office, Rachel wisely stayed back. As soon as the door closed behind him, she told me that in her professional opinion, he had a point.
“E tu Brutus!” I exclaimed indignantly, considering that to be a punch way, way below the belt.
She sighed in resignation and then, completely demolished me with her lecture that in my humble, non-professional opinion was worthy of appearing in some fancy-shmancy psychology textbook.
“Emotional and physical requirements of a pregnant woman are different. An expecting mother's desire to protect the unborn child may cause a subconscious system rebellion, unless it is placed in what it deems a safe and protected environment.” She fixed me with that professional psychologist's stare of hers, but seeing that I wasn't yet duly impressed, went on.
“Jade, given that your lifestyle prior to pregnancy had been that of danger and uncertainty, you are a high risk. Call it an overactive baby protection system, if you will. When your mind assumes that your lifestyle is dangerous for the seed of new life in you, just like an overactive immune system in some people, such a rebellious baby protection system may become unruly, causing major complications and even a loss of your child.” She had pronounced all that psychological mumbo-jumbo with a very serious air and although I felt that I was being pushed to make a decision I didn't want to make, it got me thinking.
That night I had agreed to move to the Berkshires to Paul's inexpressible relief, but I never mentioned to him Rachel's role in my unexpected turnaround.
“That I've got to see - you doing nothing!” meanwhile continued Rachel's voice in the phone and my irrational resentment evaporated as a wisp of smoke. I had to admit that she was right, and so was Paul. Within a week since my move to the blessed Stepford environment, my nausea and morning sickness disappeared without a trace. Granted, my skeptical side objected, it could be that I was simply way into the second trimester and my first trimester woes were naturally over. But hey, with my appetite coming back and my life finally settling down, I wasn't about to complain.
Rachel was very glad that I was doing well and promised to come visit me the following weekend. My mood dramatically improved, I decided that a little celebration was in order. Let's see, what could I have for lunch? Something nice, yet healthy. Hmm... I didn't feel like cooking, so eating out seemed like a good idea. But where? Obligingly, into my consciousness drifted the inviting smells that usually emanated out of the Blue Peacock Inn, a multilevel colonial that sprawled it's grand body across a whole block of Main Street, easily dwarfing my favorite library next door. It had a luxuriously deep veranda, as large as a dance floor, where guests and restaurant goers lounged and mingled, complete with two marble statues of peacocks majestically flanking its main entrance.
The inn was the destination of Stepford and so, forty-five minutes later, I found myself at the Blue Peacock restaurant. My table was in a somewhat secluded corner that, nevertheless, afforded a full view of the room, including the entrance. This was a habit of a die-hard investigative journalist. See everything, hear everything, yet stay as unnoticed as possible. Eating at a restaurant by myself wasn't my first choice, but it beat cooking and I had to admit that smells wafting out of the inn's kitchen were irresistible. Besides, I was making up for my torturous nausea days, so skipping meals was definitely a thing of the past. After all, I was now eating for two!
And as for eating alone, I took care of that as well. How? By bringing with me a companion, namely, Nikolay Gogol's immortal satirical comedy The Incognito From St. Petersburg, which I was heroically attempting to read in Russian. Political intrigue in a small town, deception, hidden motives, mistaken identity and in the end... well, naturally - everyone got what they deserved. Delicious!
The restaurant was half empty. There was an elderly couple sitting at a table by the window and a few tourists scattered around the room. By the wall opposite the entrance, I noticed a mismatched group of three men: two in expensive business suits practically screaming “country club” and one in a faded blue shirt that was in desperate need of an iron. All three of them looked like they were in their thirties and appeared to be immersed in some important discussion conducted in hushed voices. One of the men in suits – the good-looking one – got up and headed towards the bathroom. The remaining two kept a hushed conversation going, while throwing p
eriodic surreptitious glances in the direction of the entrance.
I ordered grilled salmon on a bed of basmati rice with baby tomatoes and basil, and sat there, sipping Evian and reading The Incognito. The door opened and a man wearing a policeman's uniform came in. He was big, broad-shouldered - the way bodybuilders are – with muscles bulging through the thin fabric of his summer uniform. In fact, everything about him was a bit too big for comfort and seemed out of place in this room, where flowery Victorian teapots and delicate china dominated the decor. The man quickly surveyed the place with his small eyes, tucked away behind the visor of the uniform hat, and resolutely headed straight for the table with the three men. The glass display cabinets with Victorian teapots in them trembled slightly, as the oversized policeman passed.
“Nick, glad you could join us,” said one of the men, shaking the new arrival's hand.
The chair creaked pitifully, as the policeman sat down. He took off his uniform hat and placed it on an empty chair next to him. The trio at the table put their heads together and resumed their whispered discussion. A few moments later, the policeman lifted his head and scanned the surroundings, while I observed him from my corner, unnoticed. Apart from the small sharp eyes, his face was in total discord with the rest of him. It was simply too young and ruddy cheeked. It didn't go very well with the imposing air the man exuded and with the eyes that were way too cold, way too cutting for such a young man.
My curiosity went on high alert. The Incognito forgotten, from that moment on, I became all eyes and ears. Of course, there was nothing wrong with a policeman having lunch with a few local business people. Except that the four of them – two in expensive business suits, one in a wrinkled shirt, and one in neatly pressed police uniform – made up an odd group.
Meanwhile, the good-looking suit was on his way back to the table and as he noticed the new comer, a quick shadow seemed to pass through his face. But a mere second later, he was again all smiles and shaking the burly policeman's hand.
At that moment, a stocky man in his sixties, accompanied by a suntanned woman, her dieted and exercised body in a well-cut beige dress, entered the room and headed to a table, not far from where the odd group of four ate their lunch. The new arrival noticed the oversized policeman and greeted him jovially, “Good to see you Chief Nordini! How is everything going?”
“Everything's under control, Your Honor,” responded Chief Nordini, rising slightly in his chair.
“Splendid, splendid,” said the man, gallantly pulling the chair out for the woman.
Chief Nordini? Must be the same one Anne mentioned the other day. What was it she said? Oh yes, Chief Nordini – a nice man with a lot of experience. He felt sorry for Adelaide and personally spent days and nights looking for evidence that would point in another direction, but alas, it was all pointing squarely at Jason.
Except it couldn't have been him – age didn't match. It happened good thirteen years ago and the police chief, if he was as experienced as Anne said, at the time should have been at least forty or older. This man was much too young for that. Even though his uniform and his size made him look imposing, the face betrayed his real age. He definitely looked to be in his thirties. As a matter of fact, he looked young enough to be the same age as Jason. That meant that he would have been twenty or less, when Rebbecca's tragedy took place.
Meanwhile, the other three greeted the stocky man as well: “Good day, Your Honor!” “How are you, Judge Bowman?” “Good to see you, Your Honor!”
Judge nodded to all of them genially. “Marc, I trust practice is doing well? Jack, how's your dad's health? So you are running the company now – good man! Peter, I'll need to talk to you about some investments. When? Tomorrow at lunch? That should work – splendid, splendid.”
The waiter started taking the judge's lunch order and I got busy with my steaming fish. For a few minutes I enjoyed the meal, but after first hunger was satisfied, thoughts returned. Did I just witness a gathering of who's who of Stepford? Something about this whole scene seemed strange, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
Half an hour later, I was done with my lunch and deciding against coffee (I must be good for the baby) was ready to ask for the check, when the policeman abruptly got up and quickly left. A minute later, the other three headed out in a group. On the way to the exit, they unexpectedly paused by my table.
“Excuse me,” said one of the suits, the bigger and taller one. “Are you Jade Snow by any chance?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised. “I don't believe we've met. How did you know?”
“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, smoothly conjuring his card out of thin air. “Allow me to introduce myself. Marc Catcham, Law offices of Catcham and Catcham, at your service.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the card reluctantly. “I'll keep that in mind. But I still don't understand, how do you know me?”
“Oh, yes,” he flashed me a smile, his face with protruding chin and hawkish nose failing to show even the slightest sign of embarrassment. “One of your knitting friends works as my paralegal – Beth Miller. I understand you are a journalist and your husband is on an assignment to Africa.” He shrugged his shoulders disarmingly. “In a small town news travels fast. And,” he added as an afterthought, “the knitting club is dubbed The Gossip Central of Stepford not for nothing.”
“So I see,” I said slowly, processing this new bit of information, while at the same time examining his card. “Catcham, Catcham. Rings a bell. Where could I've seen this name?”
The two men in suits looked down at me with what felt like a condescending smile and started to open their mouths to enlighten me. That annoyed me. Look at these little, arrogant country clubbers, I thought. They think they are so smart and important, don't they? We shall see. My dormant competitive drive was all of a sudden aroused.
“No, don't tell me,” I said aloud. “I have good memory. Yes, I know. I saw your name on posters. That's it. Marc Catcham for Senate, correct?”
“Correct!” The hawkish-nosed suit was pleased, a trained politician's smile on his lips, but the smile still failing to register in his narrow eyes. “I am running for State Senate and your vote will be highly appreciated.”
He wanted to go into his campaign pitch no doubt, disregarding my raised eyebrows, when...
“Peter Burns,” quickly cut in the second suit. Somewhat shorter than Marc Catcham, he had a good looking, clean-cut face – the kind women like - and suave manners. And apparently, he noticed my raised eyebrows. It looked like little escaped this particular man's attention, as he simultaneously managed to sweep a covert glance over my breasts that got bigger, as my pregnancy progressed and therefore, were visible in the low cut of my princess top. He produced his own business card with a flourish, “President of the Burns Berkshire Bank - banking and wealth management.”
“Thank you,” I said, mentally hoping this torture by men in suits would end soon.
“Hi,” said the third man in a wrinkled shirt, clasping my hand in a surprisingly clenchy grip. His fingers were thin and long and his hand nervous and clammy, like a spider's extremity. “Jack Maloof. I work with my father,” he mumbled, avoiding my eyes and I was relieved that he didn't attempt to push on me his own business card or agenda.
“Jade,” continued Marc Catcham, “we wanted to invite you to join us at the next Rotary Club meeting.”
He was obviously unperturbed by either awkwardness or interruptions. Clearly, he would make an excellent politician, I thought.
“We all belong to the club.” He made a sweeping gesture to include his companions and God knows who else. “And we gather for lunch right here, at the Blue Peacock, every Tuesday, between noon and two. There are other business men and women, as well as prominent people of our community and perhaps, as a journalist, you would like to be a part of it, too.”
“Thank you,” I said noncommittally, shuddering at the thought of having to endure two hours at a table with these specimens. “Um... I'll consider it
.”
The trio finally headed for the exit, and I made a mental note to stay away from the Blue Peacock on Tuesdays at all cost.
Chapter 5
The story I was writing kept stalling and absolutely refused to move forward, much like a stubborn donkey, that quintessential animal of Afghanistan. And no wonder, since my eyes kept drifting in the direction of the tiny white hat I started to knit for the baby, while Adelaide's image, along with those of Princess Lily and Jason, kept invading my mind. Adelaide had missed yet another knitting club meeting and somehow, curiously, I missed her. So setting aside my computer with a sigh of resignation, I put the baby hat into my bag, handling it with trepidation of a true novice.
I should go visit Adelaide, I decided. It's as good an excuse as any: a proud beginner showing off her first ever kitting project. She'd be happy to see me, or so I hoped.
Adelaide's front garden was, as usual, sunny and serene. The majestic oak hugged the house, as well as the garden, in its protective embrace, complete with multicolor blooms, butterflies and chirping birds. Not a sound, not a move anywhere, besides the gentle ebb and flow of nature. For a hard core New Yorker, like myself, it seemed a bit too serene. I almost rang the bell, but it occurred to me that the lady of the house might be resting. Not wanting to wake her up, I peered instead into a half open window of what I knew was her sitting room. As I suspected, she was asleep in the familiar Queen Ann chair and her knitting slipped off her lap to the floor.
There was a curious scene in progress on that floor. Princess Lily, her back towards me, was bent over Adelaide's project and the impression was that she was busy knitting it. But it couldn't be, could it? Cats didn't knit and I couldn't really see what she was doing there, where the shadows deepened. Perhaps, like most cats, she just wanted to play with a ball of yarn and was in the process of contemplating how to best unravel it. After all, however smart Lily was, she was just a cat, complete with all of the feline instincts and pranks.
