“Are you even listening to me, Mack?”
He focused on Jess. “Sure I am.”
“Then what was I saying?”
“That I don’t really listen,” he said, hazarding a guess. “And that I don’t open up.” But she was already on to a new criticism.
“It’s like you still think you’re seventeen and you’ve got all the time in the world to figure things out. But you’re not a kid anymore, Mack, and neither am I. I’m thirty and I can’t just hang out with you like we’re still in high school.”
That was so wrong it made him laugh. “I don’t think I’m seventeen.” Jesus Christ, at seventeen, his biggest fear had been getting stuck in some boring job fixing engines down on Church Street. But that was never going to happen to him, because he was moving to Charlotte, North Carolina, to race stock cars. At seventeen, he’d worried about not getting the right opportunities, but he’d never spent a single moment wondering if he might not be up to the challenge. Oh, no, he’d known that when the shit hit the fan, he’d be brave and decisive and quick to act. And he’d never doubted for one single second that he was basically a nice guy. A nice, normal guy.
“Okay, fine, you’re all grown up,” Jess was saying, her arms folded together over her chest like a pissed-off schoolteacher. “So why aren’t you making any effort to get your life together?”
For a moment, Mack stood there, suddenly feeling stupid standing there with his shirt off, conscious of his army tattoos, the clumsy eagle and flag on his chest, the Special Forces dagger on his arm, like an old uniform he could never take off even though it didn’t fit him anymore. Why wasn’t he getting his life together? He tried to think of something to say in his own defense, but all he could think of was that wasn’t the right question. He didn’t know what the right question was, but he did know that wasn’t it.
Just then Mack’s pager went off at the same time as the siren from the firehouse. He pressed the first number in his cell phone’s memory. “Dutchess 911, this is Arcadia 5627 responding.”
“Arcadia, you are responding ten ten for an automotive accident between Route Eighty-two and Wildwind Road. One occupant, male Caucasian, possible head trauma.”
“On my way.” Mack felt the familiar kick of adrenaline and ran out to his truck, where he kept his EMT and firefighter gear. Jamming his left arm into the sleeve of his blue coverall, he pictured the curve between 82 and Wildwind, and figured he’d better take the rescue truck in case they needed to do an extraction. Shoving his bare feet into his work boots, Mack wondered if either of the other EMTs would be responding. Cory was a police officer, so he might be working on a Sunday.
“So that’s it? You’re not even going to say good-bye?”
Mack turned to see Jess standing on the grass in her bare feet. She’d wrapped her arms around herself, as if to keep warm. Incongruously, a bird warbled happily in the background.
“What do you want me to do? I have to go,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “We’ll talk later.”
Her arms still folded, Jess shook her head slowly, no, they wouldn’t. But he was out of time, so he ran to the car and started the ignition without bothering to buckle himself in.
When he got back, two hours later, the kitchen was still a mess and Jessica was gone. She’d left him a note, but his head was hurting, so he didn’t bother to read it. The accident victim, a high school senior, had died on the way to the hospital.
Mack went out to the hammock that hung between the two Norwegian pines and laid down in it. It was only noon or so, but he felt exhausted. The day had turned oppressively hot and he stripped off his shirt, now stained with blood, and stared at the sky through the tops of the tall trees, rocking himself with one foot on the ground. He wanted to sleep but wound up thinking about the dead teenager, the story the skid marks told, the way most problems usually boiled down to not having enough reaction time to correct a mistake.
Three
O n her last day as a New Yorker, Zoë took Maya to Harry’s Shoes to buy new school shoes appropriate for stomping through muddy fields. As usual, the store was swarming with determined older women in search of serious German walking shoes, frazzled middle-aged women in pursuit of something that looked like a stiletto but felt like a sneaker, and anxious young girls trying to convince their mothers that the miniature cowboy boot really was comfortable enough for everyday wear. Looking trapped and miserable, the men, boys, and toddlers roamed the aisles, tripping over outstretched feet and unattended strollers. They may not have liked it, but they accepted the necessity of being there. With its two large parks, wide sidewalks, and gently sloping hills, the Upper West Side of Manhattan was a walker’s paradise, and walkers require good shoes.
Maya looked at the crowd and groaned. “This is going to take forever. Why can’t we get new shoes in the country, Mom?”
Zoë pushed her glasses higher up her nose as she made a quick journalist’s assessment of the number of people in the store. “Because I have no idea where to go there. From what I remember of Arcadia, the town consisted of a small general store, a video shop, and five real estate agents.”
“But I hate this place.”
“So quit growing so fast.” Zoë led them to a pair of seats filled with shoe boxes, which she promptly placed on the floor.
As she sat down, Maya pulled a face that Zoë recognized as the English Dowager.
“Pardon me, madame,” she said in a haughty, upper-class British accent, “but are you saying that I have large feet?”
“Growing feet, milady, not large.” Out of the corner of her eye, Zoë saw an elderly woman give her a sharp look, clearly irritated that her shoes had been ousted from their chair. She left in a huff, complaining loudly to the salesman.
“Remember,” Maya drawled, still in character. “Large feet are common.”
“Absolutely. Hey, wait a minute, I have large feet!”
“Indeed,” Maya sniffed, raising her eyebrows. “Pray do not speak of it.” Then, switching back to her regular voice, she said, “I wish we could just come back later.”
Zoë looked into her daughter’s face, struck as always by the strange dance of genetics that had given her this petite, slender, delicately beautiful child with straight blond hair. Strangers sometimes assumed that Maya was adopted, and Zoë didn’t always correct them. The real story—that she’d had a fling with a man who’d left his unborn child with his phenotype and nothing more—she shared only with intimates. “The problem is, it’s not going to be as easy to get around in the country.”
Maya frowned. “Don’t they have buses and cabs?”
“They do, but not as many as in the city, and everything’s much farther apart.”
“Are we going to get a car? Because my vote is for a pink Cadillac convertible. With real leather seats,” she intoned silkily, rolling her r’s. “And, of course, a bike rack. And a kayak rack. Can we have a kayak, too?”
Zoë laughed. “You know who you remind me of? Carole Lombard.”
“Who’s she?”
“She was one of the great comediennes of the 1930s. She was a sort of strange and wonderful combination of glamour-puss”—Zoë made a gesture that encompassed her daughter’s pink sequined top, embroidered jeans, and silver sneakers—“antic goofball, and natural athlete.”
Maya looked pleased with this description. “Can we watch one of her movies? She sounds cool.”
“Absolutely. And have I mentioned today that you, my child, are also very cool?” That her daughter should be so was as big a surprise as Maya’s fair coloring. Unlike Zoë herself, who had shuffled through childhood as a clumsy, frumpy bookworm, Maya was never teased by the other children. Teachers, who had always given Zoë report cards that contained high grades with caveats such as “stubborn” and “opinionated,” called Maya “a joy to have in the classroom.” Maya did not, of course, receive the high grades, but Zoë did not expect her child to be a carbon copy of herself. Other mothers boasted about their children’s similariti
es to themselves; Zoë boasted of her child’s differences.
“So, Mom,” said Maya, bouncing a little in her seat, “are we getting a car? Do I get to help choose?”
“You would if we were, but we’re not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t drive, honey.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. I just never learned.”
Maya frowned. “So how are we going to get places?”
“We’ll manage.” The truth was, Zoë hadn’t quite figured out the logistics of life in the country yet. Ever since the car accident that had nearly ended her life at sixteen, she’d had a bit of a phobia about cars. For the first few years, she hadn’t even been able to bring herself to sit in the front passenger seat. After some intensive work with an excellent therapist, she’d gotten to the point where she could ride in the front without hyperventilating, and these days she seldom even thought about crashing and dying, unless the driver was particularly young or inept. Learning to drive herself, however, was not an option she’d ever considered seriously. They didn’t make passengers with flying phobias learn to operate airplanes, did they? Zoë had told the real estate agent to make sure that the house she was renting was a short walk from the village. She had a vague idea that she would ride a bike in the good weather, like an English lady, and put her groceries in a basket. Once a week she would take a taxi or hire a neighbor with a car to make a larger shopping trip, and on weekends, they’d take the train back into Manhattan.
Zoë turned back to her daughter and saw that she was suddenly looking forlorn. “Are you okay, honey? What’s the matter?”
“I just don’t feel like shopping today.” Her face had lost its usual animation, and Zoë was forcibly reminded that they’d just sold the only home Maya had ever known. Up until now, her daughter had revealed nothing but uncomplicated excitement at the prospect of going to a new school, and Zoë had felt as if she were the only one experiencing the stress of the change.
She put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders as shoppers babbled and pushed and test-walked new shoes in the aisles all around them. Leaning in to press her lips to the top of her daughter’s head, she caught the scent of strawberry shampoo and sun-warmed hair. “What are you feeling right now, Bunny? A little overwhelmed?”
“A little.”
“Me, too. But I know this is the hardest part, when you know everything’s about to change but it still hasn’t happened yet. Hey, I have an idea. How about we go to Constanza’s for pizza after we finish here?”
Maya brightened. “Is this a special occasion? Can I rot my teeth with a Coke?”
“It’s a deal. Hang on, I think I see a salesman. Over here! We’re next!” Zoë raised her hand and flagged down a burly man with a white handlebar mustache. The man paused, looking at their feet the way the damned in hell might look at a pitchfork. “What do you want?”
“I need a good school shoe for my daughter that can handle mud and, I don’t know, maybe snow as well. And can you check my daughter’s size?”
Just then, someone else called out for assistance, and the salesman gave a dyspeptic grunt and lowered himself down to measure Maya’s feet. Zoë glanced up to see who’d been trying to poach their help and saw her daughter’s best friend Polly. At first glance Polly looked as if she could be Maya’s sister, but their personalities were very different. While Maya was more socially adept and easygoing, Polly was academically and athletically driven. Zoë wasn’t sure how much of this was nurture, or the lack thereof; Polly’s mother, Celia, was high-strung and intensely focused, and made Zoë look like a laid-back, bohemian earth mama by comparison. If their daughters hadn’t thrown them together, Zoë wouldn’t have spent more than five minutes in the other woman’s company. But in Manhattan, affinity sometimes counts for less than proximity, and Celia lived less than two blocks from Zoë. In addition, she was a freelance graphic designer, with a similar schedule.
As a result, Celia and Zoë had spent a great deal of time in each other’s houses, gone out to lunch together, and had even spent an entire Sunday ice skating, but always attended by their daughters. Although Zoë had told Celia all about her failed relationship with Jeremy the history professor, and Celia had confided to Zoë that she fantasized about having an affair with her computer repairman, their friendship still belonged to a category that Zoë termed “child-provisional,” meaning that the adult relationship was entirely contingent on the children’s. This was due, in large part, to the fact that Celia’s achievement-oriented parenting style always left Zoë feeling both irritated and inadequate.
“Hey, Maya,” said Polly, clomping over strollers and shoe boxes with the same determination she showed on the soccer field. “What are you getting?”
Maya put her left foot down for the salesman to measure. “School shoes. What about you?”
“Cowboy boots.”
“Awesome.” Maya turned to her mother. “Mom, can I have cowboy boots, too?”
“Sorry, pardner, not today.”
“Hello, Zoë,” said Celia, who was casually dressed in khaki slacks, loafers, and a patterned blouse that was undoubtedly part of some designer’s latest collection. “Mind if we join you?”
“Not at all.” Zoë moved her bags over to make space. “How’s life?”
“Oh, just crazy. I can’t keep up with Polly’s schedule anymore. Fencing, horseback riding, piano—and we’ve just had her retested to see if she qualifies for Hunter.”
“But didn’t you test her last year?” Zoë wasn’t sure why she was bothering to ask. Many of the parents in her social circle had their children’s intelligence tested year after year, certain that the right tester administering the exam on the right day would result in a near-genius score, qualifying a child for a free, accelerated, enriched education. This, in turn, gave the child a head start on admissions to Harvard, provided the kid didn’t have a nervous breakdown at the age of eleven.
“Last year was a mistake,” said Celia. “I knew Polly was coming down with something, but it’s so hard to get a testing date with Marina Skulnik, and she’s considered the best at getting the best out of the child. So I just went along with it, and can you believe it, Polly was just three points away from a qualifying score. Three points!”
“You know, Hunter isn’t for everyone,” said Zoë, who’d graduated from the school back in ’82, when the competition for admission had admittedly been a tad less frenzied. She had liked the school, but recalled that the rapid pace and heavy workload had taken its toll on some of her friends.
“But I do think Hunter would be right for Polly. I just don’t feel that West Side is challenging her enough. I mean, she’s reading Camus’s The Stranger.”
“Existentialism at age eight? That seems a little premature.”
“That’s what I said, but she insisted. She’s such an advanced reader, she seeks out these books that are really for teenagers or adults.” Celia sighed. “Sometimes I just don’t know what to do.”
Zoë never knew what to make of comments like these. Even though Celia wasn’t aware that Maya had been diagnosed with dyslexia, the woman clearly knew that Maya was not reading on Polly’s level. When she talked as though both girls were equally proficient, was Celia slyly pointing out her own daughter’s superiority, or was she making a misguided attempt at making Zoë feel better? Zoë was pretty sure it was the former.
Resisting the urge to counterattack with some thinly disguised boast about Maya’s emotional maturity, Zoë tried to think of an appropriate response. “Still, Celia, you have to admit, worrying that your kid is too gifted for her school is kind of a baroque problem.”
Celia lifted her chin. “Do you think so? I think it’s a very real concern when a child isn’t being sufficiently challenged.”
Zoë smiled, thinking, Oh, I’ll bet having you as a mother is pretty damn challenging. On her right, she overheard Maya ask Polly, “Where do you ride horses?”
“At Clare
mont Stables on Eighty-ninth Street.”
“At my new school they have horseback riding every day.”
“God, you are so lucky. English or Western?”
“I don’t know.”
As Polly rattled off the relative merits of each, Celia tapped Zoë on the shoulder. “Hey,” said Celia, “are you changing schools?”
“Yes,” said Zoë, suddenly making up her mind to forestall any repeats of her last conversation about dyslexia. “It’s all about the horses for us. We really don’t feel the city stables are challenging enough, particularly if you’re interested in either fox hunting or barrel racing.”
“Ah,” said Celia, sounding impressed. “But the schools…”
“The way I see it, a decent elementary school education isn’t really that hard to get. But a solid foundation in equitation, at a stage where Olympic-level performance is still a distinct possibility?” Zoë looked the other woman straight in the eye. “We really want to focus on the horses.”
“You know, I told my husband we were making a mistake, having Polly participate in so many different activities. How will she ever really excel unless she picks one and really buckles down?”
Zoë was saved from having to reply to this by her cell phone, which started ringing the opening bars to the original Star Trek theme song. “Hey, Bronwyn.”
“Zoë, you can’t leave me. I’m sorry, but I can’t permit it.”
“Too late, I’ve already enlisted.”
There was a deafening wail, and Zoë held her phone away from her ear. “You’ll just have to visit me in the wilderness.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You know I’ll never be able to escape. I can barely convince Brian to let me have the odd evening off.” Unlike Celia, Bronwyn was a close friend, and had been since they’d met freshman year at Georgetown University. Married since the early nineties, Bronwyn had put off having children till last year, and was now the forty-one-year-old mother of twin boys. She’d given up practicing law to look after them, while her husband, a financial analyst on Wall Street, was compensating by working eighteen-hour days. Their marriage had known happier times.
Flirting In Cars Page 3
