Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  CLOSE TO HOME

  Cynthia Baxter

  Chapter One

  Somewhere, thought Jessica McAllister, there are people whose biggest problem right now is deciding between the veal marsala and the coq au vin. She plunged a wooden spoon into the tub-sized aluminum pot and dragged it forcefully through two gallons of simmering beef stew. Those people, she thought, are sitting in the finest restaurants in Manhattan, those with the busiest decors and the priciest menus, every now and then casting disparaging looks at waiters whose obsequiousness fails to measure up to their usual standards.

  Jessica took a moment to wipe her hands on her canary yellow Crazy Eddie T-shirt, then continued with both her stirring and her daydreaming. Coolly, she thought, they lean forward to smooth their wool Sonia Rykiel skirts. They cross and uncross their legs to show off their unscuffed Joan and David pumps, they run their tongues over their Clinique lipstick every few minutes to make sure their makeup is still perfect. Or, in the case of the men, they throw back their heads and let out hearty laughs that say that even though they have made it to the top, they haven’t lost their sense of humor. Meanwhile, they chuckle over the executive vice president’s faux pas at that afternoon’s meeting, or sigh over the difficulty of securing tickets to Les Mis or Phantom.

  Somewhere, thought Jessica McAllister, there are such people.

  With a loud sigh, she looked around the kitchen to compare her daydream of how life could be with how she was spending the twilight hours of this gray, rainy Wednesday in late September. Here she was, slaving over the proverbial hot stove, trying to stretch dinner for three into dinner for five, hoping that those extra chunks of carrots and potatoes she had craftily slipped into the stew pot would manage to pass themselves off as beef.

  As usual, there were more toys strewn about the house than in a Fisher-Price warehouse, so much bright yellow and red and blue that the first floor of the house resembled a kindergarten. That was just the beginning. Thanks to her three-year-old son, Sammy, at the moment entranced by Sesame Street’s enthusiastic celebration of the letter F, the top of the kitchen table had been converted into a collage of grape jelly, blue Play-Doh, and Day-Glo orange poster paint.

  “If they could see me now,” Jessica muttered.

  By “they,” she meant the men and women she had worked with for nine years at Klinger-Wycoff, one of the country’s largest pharmaceutical manufacturers. Those other marketing types with whom she had conducted probing consumer interviews and crunched numbers and written reports and suffered through interminable meetings and relaxed with a couple of beers and those teensy-weensy cocktail hot dogs after work, all a mere . . . Good lord! Had it really been three and a half years already?

  Using her son’s age as a convenient measuring tool, she realized that it had indeed been that long since she had started every morning promptly at 7:20, plugging in Mr. Coffee and beginning her precision-timed routine of showering, blow-drying, dressing, and making up. At 8:20, she kissed her husband David good-bye and floated down fifteen stories to the lobby in the sleek wood-paneled elevator, looking like a Savvy cover girl.

  That was how the people at Klinger knew her. As the career woman. The climber. The whiz kid who was going places, armed with her Barbara Walters-style interviewing skills and her uncanny ability to read between the lines. Back then, Jessica was precisely what every woman of the seventies who was worth her salt was supposed to be.

  She had joined the business world after four years at Swarthmore College, confident that she was at least as sharp, aggressive, and committed as her male counterparts. And it hadn’t taken her long to earn the respect of everyone she dealt with. She reveled in the knowledge that she could hold her own in a competitive and demanding world—one that her mother’s generation had labeled “a man’s world.”

  Ah, yes. The old Jessica, she thought, throwing caution to the wind and dumping a hefty teaspoonful of salt into the stew pot just for the heck of it. That Jessica, the old one, wore elegant tailored suits. She would never have been caught dead wearing a Crazy Eddie T-shirt. Or a pair of cotton pants with an elastic waistband that she hoped would allow her to fit into the garment even after she tortured herself back into model thinness once again, whenever that would be. Or using the rubber band from a bunch of broccoli to tie back her blunt-cut, light brown hair, thankfully marred by only a few strands of gray.

  Then again, the old Jessica hadn’t had a child.

  As always, thinking about her son that way, in the abstract, elicited a rush of emotions. They ranged from intense, all-encompassing love to bewilderment over how such a small person—someone who had never even heard of the I.R.S.—could have had such an incredibly overwhelming effect on her life.

  She thought back to when she was in college, majoring in Economics, a cocky senior hell-bent on taking on the business world. How differently she had seen things then! In her Women in Literature course she could remember having been annoyed whenever the discussion turned to the role of motherhood. That was one issue for which she had had no patience, no sympathy. Why couldn’t a woman who chose to have babies just stake out a corner of her Wall Street office as a play area, in which happy, gurgling little Joey or Josephine could play quietly hour after hour while Mommy orchestrated unfriendly takeovers?

  Now, of course, she realized that having children, being the person who was ultimately responsible for the life of another human being, was what created the real differences between men and women. That responsibility was something that no father, no baby-sitter, not even the most devoted full-time housekeeper, could ever fully understand.

  It was only now, in fact, with a three-year-old son of her own, that Jessica was beginning to comprehend what it all meant. The changes—physical, psychological, and everything in between—that motherhood wrought.

  Yes, Sammy was wonderful. Cute beyond belief, his very being so wonderful that it was often difficult for her to digest the magnitude of that wonderfulness. And she had no regrets about her decision, some four years ago, to take a leave of absence from her job to take care of him.

  Her leave had started out as a professional, no-nonsense six weeks, just long enough to set things straight before resuming her old life again. She had had no trouble deciding to extend it to six months. That sounded much more reasonable, enough time to catch all those “firsts”: the first smile, the first time rolling over, the first time grasping a toy. Now, of course, it looked like that “leave” was about to stretch out to six years.

  Now, Jessica and David McAllister even owned a house in the suburbs. It was a funky little house, one of those “handyman’s specials” that would one day be wonderful. At the moment, however, it was not quite to that point. Jessica was quick to remind herself of its incredible potential, trying to wriggle away from the bad mood that was threatening to descend upon her as she stood at the stove, feeling more than a little bit sorry for herself.

  You only moved out here a couple of weeks ago, Jessica reminded herself. You’ve got to start thinking of living in this house as a challenge. She peered at the runny beef stew she had been stirring for what seemed a small eternity, hoping for the magical appearance of gravy. She had a vague recollection of something her mother had once said, a golden tidbit about the miracle of cornstarch.

  You and David have only been out here for two and a half weeks, she thought. Eighteen short days. Bravely she clung to the words of Lloyd Nolan, the real estate broker who had found this little jewel for them, ferreting out what was certainly the only house on the North Shore of Long Island that the McAllisters could afford. He had been most sympathetic to their quest, this search for a new home for two refugees from New York, something that could accommodate their shift from a carefree, fashionable Manhattan couple to a f
amily, that sacred nuclear unit in which baby made three.

  “You know, kids,” the unctuous man had said, slapping David on the back with one hand and fondling Jessica’s shoulder with the other. “When you’re dealing with a property in a town like Sea Cliff, it’s not what you buy, it’s what you do with it.”

  But what the house still lacked their new hometown more than made up for. This seaside village was one whose name invariably shared sentences with words like “quaint” and “charming,” largely because of the multitude of Victorian houses that was scattered over the cliff. And its reputation contended that the residents were as varied and as interesting as the houses. Of course, it was too soon to have met anyone yet.

  The fact was that out here in the suburbs, there was relatively little opportunity for meeting and greeting. What a contrast to city life, where just walking down the street had always made her feel connected, like a citizen of the human race. Despite her expert rationalization, she felt an unexpected stab of loneliness.

  She hoped it wouldn’t be long before new people would ease into her life. But for these first weeks, it had been just the three of them, Jessica and David and little Sammy. They were lone pioneers feeling their way in a strange new place, grappling with garbage pickups and gas meters and varieties of bugs she had never encountered before—things that were as alien to city people as exposure to nature had been to the homesteaders who had conquered the wilds of Oklahoma and North Dakota.

  Which was why David’s announcement that he had invited their next-door neighbors for dinner that very night was so momentous.

  Jessica only wished that she had had a bit more time to prepare for it. The beef stew still looked like something that would best be served in army helmets. Once again she considered her mother’s tip about cornstarch. Violet had been wrong about so many things; was this something she could trust?

  The clock said it was time to take definitive action, so she reached for the yellow box and cavalierly shook in some of the white powder. Meanwhile, from the living room came the sounds of Ernie and Bert listing their favorite words beginning with F.

  “Fig, fix, fox,” said Ernie. “F is for frankfurter, F is for fun.”

  “F is for fast food,” Jessica muttered, punctuating her statement with a loud sigh, wrestling with feelings of defeat as she watched the cornstarch turn into brown, cement-like lumps.

  “I see you’ve got everything under control. Hey, what is that, anyway?” David McAllister came bounding down the stairs, popping into the kitchen and peering over Jessica’s shoulder. He was buttoning the cuff of a blue Buffalo plaid shirt, part of the casual après work outfit he was donning, along with his casual après work personality. She barely glanced at him, at the moment unmoved by his brown eyes, his thick dark hair in need of a trim, and his swarthy good looks that in earlier, more romantic days Jessica had likened to those of a pirate.

  “Oh, no, Jess,” he said with a groan. “Not beef stew.”

  She sighed impatiently. “Considering that I had less than two hours’ notice that the Durhams were coming ...”

  “Denholms, Jess, Denholms. Pronounced like the jeans. Durhams are cows. Jim and Lorraine are not cows.”

  “Well, whatever they are, they should just be glad they’re not having hot dogs and Cheerios, like the Galloping Gourmet over there.”

  With her chin, she gestured toward their son. Sammy was lying propped on his elbows, his little face turned up reverently toward the television screen, mesmerized by Big Bird’s discourse on why it was important to hold a grown-up’s hand whenever crossing the street.

  “Well, I think Jim might have said something about him and Lorraine being vegetarians, that’s all.”

  “Great.’’ Jessica contemplated searing the skin of her husband’s cheek with a boiled carrot. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? I mean, I’m glad we’re finally having some people over, but you could have told me a simple fact like that a little bit sooner.”

  “Well, I didn’t say I’m positive they’re vegetarians,” he said defensively. “Besides, if it turns out that they are, they can just pick at the roots and berries and politely leave the meat on the sides of their plates. What have we got for dessert?”

  Jessica cast him a look that was hotter than the carrot she had considered using as a weapon. “Dessert? Gee, how do Jim and Lorraine feel about animal crackers?”

  “Hey, that reminds me.” David snapped his fingers. “I did mention that they’re bringing their two kids, didn’t I?”

  Jessica cast him one of her best glares.

  “Listen, I’ll tell you what. I’ll just run out to Haagen-Dazs and pick up a couple of pints.” Already he had picked up his car keys. “Chocolate and rum raisin okay? Be back in a jiff.”

  “David,” Jessica began, aware that this was hardly the best time for an argument but unable to resist nonetheless, “it would be nice if you could help a little.’’

  “I am helping,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m getting dessert.”

  As he pulled the back door shut after him, it closed with just enough force to be considered a slam.

  Jessica remained at the stove, stirring, stirring. All the while seething, seething. And once again thinking about her mother. She thought about the conversation—for want of a more accurate word—that she and her husband had just had. They had been pretending to discuss carrots and ice-cream flavors, when what they were really talking about was respect and consideration and forgiveness and all those other things that came under the heading of Love.

  In the midst of it all was the predictable emergence of her anger. Her anger over his announcement, made upon his arrival home from work, that that morning over the back fence he had invited their new next-door neighbors over for dinner, yet he hadn’t bothered to tell her until after five. Her anger over this kind of thoughtlessness in so many other situations, too numerous to count, too trivial to talk about without feeling petty. Her anger over the fact that he hadn’t bothered to buy her an anniversary present last June on their seventh wedding anniversary, that he had insulted her best friend Nikki the last time she visited, that he never remembered to throw his socks in the hamper, no matter how many times they discussed the equitable sharing of household duties.

  Along with all that had come his anger over her not being precisely what he had hoped for either.

  She had heard this kind of interchange before. All her life, in fact. Was it really possible that, despite all her vows to the contrary—made to therapists and friends and her religiously kept journal—she was becoming just like her mother?

  On television, Bert and Ernie were back to thinking up all the words they could that began with the letter F.

  F is for flower. F is for finger. F is for fair, five, furniture.

  Jessica blinked hard, aware that succumbing to the tears that were threatening to fall would only make her stew that much runnier and that much saltier.

  Bert and Ernie forgot one, she was thinking. F is also for flee.

  * * * *

  “Hi-i-i!” Jessica sang in her friendliest, most Donna Reed-like voice. “Come on i-in!”

  She peered over her husband’s shoulder, eager to get a look at the small parade of guests filing in through the front door. Her years as a market researcher had made her a fairly good judge of people, and it was by now second nature to make a sort of game out of comparing her first impressions with later conclusions.

  First came Jim Denholm, a baby-faced man with a thick neck and a reddish-blond mustache. Underneath his windbreaker, pulled across his bulging middle, was a navy blue St. John’s University sweatshirt. He was holding the hands of his two kids, who were looking around shyly.

  Behind them, holding back a bit, was Lorraine. She was tall and thin, but gawky rather than elegant, partly because she walked with a subtle slouch. Her features had almost made it to pretty but had instead settled somewhere around plain. Her hair was long, hanging past her shoulders in an Alice in Wonderland
style. Despite its girlish style, however, it showed signs of having been colored. The wheat-colored strands glowed with a subtle brassiness, and there was that unmistakable darkness at the center, near the part.

  Somehow, Jessica observed, the artificially golden strands just didn’t fit with the cowed look she read in Lorraine’s face. The nervous way she glanced over at her husband every few seconds, as if to see if she were doing anything blatantly wrong. The slightly embarrassed way she checked her two kids every so often, as if afraid they might be doing something inappropriate.

  “Things still kind of crazy from the move, huh?” Jim wore a huge grin and talked much louder than was necessary. He glanced around, surveying the disarray in the McAllister household. His eyes were still fixed on the piles of boxes pushed into corners as he added, “Hey, babe, just make sure the kids don’t make it any worse, will ya?”

  Lorraine’s jaw tightened. “Sure, honey,” she said. “By the way, thanks for inviting us over like this.” She flashed a shy, grateful smile at Jessica. “I mean, you guys must have a zillion things to do.” Frantically she sought out her children, her eyes darting around the room until she located them, crouched in front of one of the many scattered piles of Sammy’s toys. “Be careful, kids. Jim Junior, keep an eye on your sister, will you? We don’t want you two making a mess now.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Jessica said with a wave of her hands. “At this point, what’s a little more chaos? Just make yourselves at home.”

  “You can just throw your coats on the chair,” David was suggesting congenially, eager to show that he was just as low-key as his wife.

  Gingerly Lorraine placed a cake pan covered with aluminum foil on the coffee table. “Thanks, but if you don’t mind, I’ll hang mine up.”

  Oh, boy, thought Jessica. We’re in for a long night.

  “So, Lorraine, can I get you something to drink?” she offered, clinging to her role of cheerful hostess. “We have wine and beer. . . .”