Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Gee, I thought I’d spend the morning watching game shows and doing my nails,” she said sarcastically.

  “I envy you,” David returned, picking up his cup of coffee and sauntering toward the living room. “You’re lucky to get some time to yourself. I never do.”

  * * * *

  The first thing Jessica noticed as she swung her Volvo into the crowded parking lot of her son’s new nursery school was that her car was the only one in sight that wasn’t either a Mercedes or a BMW. The second observation she made was that the campus of North Shore Day School was fancier than the campus of her alma mater, Swarthmore College, a college noted for its graceful architecture, tasteful landscaping, and large endowment.

  As a matter of fact, she thought, eyeing the main building through the rearview mirror as she shifted into Park, pulled up the emergency brake, and carried out all the other steps of the routine that always made her feel like the pilot of a Boeing 747, Sammy’s nursery school looks like it’s a few notches above Tara. It consisted of a huge mansion, complete with white columns that cried out to be described as “stately,” a circular driveway the size of a small town’s Main Street, and acres of property dotted with more buildings than a modest World’s Pair. Just looking at it made Jessica crave a mint julep.

  But this was not the grand old South. This was modem-day Glen Cove, and as she well knew, that three-story palace that was the setting for her son’s first important real-world experience housed computers, VCRs, and the kind of toys that most kids could only dream of playing with. There was a stable with two amiable horses, ready to provide riding lessons to every kid old enough to say the world “horsie.” There was a swimming pool, those acres and acres of grassy fields, three separate playgrounds, and courts for tennis, basketball, squash, and a couple of sports she had yet to identify. All this, and the oldest student at the school was six years old.

  Of course, the tuition for Sammy’s nursery school was more than most people’s annual mortgage payments.

  I guess there’s something to be said for that old expression, You get what you pay for, she thought as she unstrapped Sammy from his car seat and hoisted him up into her arms. She checked out the parking lot once again, this time noting with relief that there were some other makes of automobiles sitting there after all, indicating that not quite everyone who sent their kids to this school was reveling in a full-scale version of the American Dream. Unless, of course, some of those Chevrolets and Hondas belonged to the hired help.

  “Well, Sammy,” Jessica breathed, giving her bouncing baby boy an affectionate squeeze as she headed for the front door, reminding herself of the momentousness of this occasion, his First Day of School, “this is it. This is your new school. You’re going to have so much fun here!”

  “Are there toys?” he asked, casting a wary glance over at the main building.

  “Yes, there are toys,” she assured him. “Many, many toys.”

  “And other kids?”

  “Yes. There will be lots of kids at your school.”

  Sammy brightened. “Can I punch them?’’

  Jessica hugged him a little more tightly, wondering if it was her own ineptitude as a mother that was steering him toward a life of holding up Seven-Elevens.

  “No, Sammy. You can’t punch them. Look, honey, the other boys and girls will become your friends. You’ll play with them. You’ll share toys with them. You’ll have fun with them. ...”

  Sammy’s face lit up in anticipation of the social interactions that lay ahead. I’m gonna get a gun and shoot them.’’

  Jessica sighed. “Why don’t you at least wait until you’ve met them before you start passing judgment?”

  The first Monday of every month was designated as Parents’ Day, when mommies and daddies were welcome to stay in the classroom and observe during the first part of the morning. There were still a handful of confused-looking fathers wandering about;

  otherwise, the school day was already underway. Jessica was so absorbed in trying to get to the nursery classroom before it got any later that she didn’t even see Lorraine Denholm until her neighbor called out to her.

  “Why, Jessie! What a surprise!” she chirped, sounding delighted. She was standing right inside the entryway, fussing with Stacy’s hair. Today the little girl was dressed all in blue: blue dress, blue hair ribbon, even blue socks. Jessica would have bet anything that her underpants were the same color. “What are you doing here?”

  “Uh, hi, Lorraine.” She immediately experienced a wave of guilt. She hadn’t been making much effort in the neighborliness department. “Actually, I’m taking Sammy in for his first day of nursery school.”

  Lorraine frowned. “Oh, Jessie, you should have asked me before you signed Sammy up for nursery school. You made the best choice, though. Stacy’s been going here since September. Whose class is he in. Miss Linda’s or Miss Maryann’s?”

  “I think he’s in Miss . . . uh, he’s in Linda’s class.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Stacy is in Miss Maryann’s class. That’s the one that’s only three mornings a week. So, what, Sammy is in five mornings a week? Every single day?’’

  “That’s right,” Jessica said. “I felt it would be good for him to go every day. To have a regular routine, you know?”

  “Oh, gee. I could never bring myself to have Stacy in school every day. She is only three.” Lorraine paused for a moment, then added, “Of course, every mother does things differently. It’s not as if there’s any one right way or anything. It’s just that that’s what’s best for us.”

  Jessica forced a smile. She could imagine Lorraine doing thorough research on all the nursery schools in the area, finally picking one because of its commitment to superior education, its exemplary cleanliness, and its admirable student-teacher ratio. Jessica, on the other hand, had made her choice on the basis of the school’s willingness to accept a new child after the semester was already under way, the wisdom of her decision supported even further by its ready availability of parking.

  “But it’s great that our kids will be on the same schedule at least some of the time,” Lorraine said. “That way we’ll be free to get together and have coffee.”

  “Sure, Lorraine. We’ll have to do that some time. But right now, we’re already running late. I’ve got to get this little guy off to school.”

  Lorraine nodded. Responsibility to one’s children, after all, was serious indeed.

  Inside the classroom the other mothers were already in place, no doubt having established one of those morning routines that Jessica was always reading about, the ones that were supposed to be so crucial in developing a sense of security in small children. In her household, of course, she was pleased if she actually managed to get Sammy to consume something other than half her coffee for breakfast and positively thrilled to get at least two brushstrokes through his hair before he dissipated into a full-scale temper tantrum.

  At one end of the classroom, little wooden chairs were arranged around little wooden tables, on top of which were placed various educational toys, abacuses, puzzles, and sorting games. Perched on the little chairs were half a dozen mothers, each one keeping an eager eye on her own child even as she participated in congenial grown-up chatter.

  As soon as his mother put him down on the floor, Sammy raced over to the child-sized kitchen across the room. It had everything, including a miniature dishwasher, a microwave, and a garbage compactor.

  My kitchen should look so good, Jessica thought enviously.

  For the moment, however, her main feeling was one of relief that her son appeared to be doing satisfactorily in the social interaction department. So far, at least. At the moment he was playing nicely with a little girl in Smurf barrettes and a little boy in designer jeans, sharing recipes with them rather than attempting to pulverize them, Rambo-style.

  “And whose mother are you?” asked the beaming young woman who came fluttering over to Jessica, the latest interloper.

  This blond woman
with blue eyelids just had to be the teacher. Her tone was somewhere between that of a compassionate dental hygienist and Mr. Rogers. And if that wasn’t enough of a giveaway, she was wearing purple sweat pants and a white sweatshirt across which a merry host of teddy bears chased after red and blue balloons.

  “I’m Sammy McAllister’s mother. Uh . . . Jessica McAllister.”

  “Ah, yes. Our newest little friend. Hello, and welcome. I’m Miss Linda.”

  She smiled again. Jessica had an almost irresistible urge to curl up in the woman’s arms, thumb in mouth. Instead, she held out her hand.

  “Glad to meet you.” Jessica offered her firmest handshake and her most steely eye contact.

  “I’m sure Sammy will have a rewarding and fulfilling year here,” Miss Linda went on reassuringly. “I’m really looking forward to getting to know him.

  “Now, why don’t you go on over and sit down with the other mommies?” Miss Linda suggested. “That way, you can get acquainted with them while I get acquainted with Sammy.”

  Jessica nodded, hoping she had remembered to wash behind her ears. Then she retreated to the elfin furniture in the back of the room. Already she felt nervous. As far as she was concerned, this first day of school business was no easier the second time around.

  “Hi,” Jessica said, pulling out a tiny chair and folding herself up into it.

  The two mommies closest to her looked up. The one who was sitting across from her, on the other side of the colorful wooden peg board considerately left there for their enjoyment, smiled shyly. She was chubby with frizzy hair and that distinctive just-dragged-herself-out-of-bed look. Jessica felt drawn to her immediately.

  As for the other mommy, she looked as if she were on her way to a fund-raiser for some obscure but horrible disease. She had on more makeup than a country and western singer. Her frosted hair looked as if it had been lacquered on, piece by piece, by some manic live-in hairdresser who rose with her at dawn each morning. But the most remarkable thing about her was her sweatshirt. It sported not teddy bears but sequins. Jessica couldn’t remember having ever seen sequins earlier than ten A.M. before.

  “Which child is yours?” Jessica asked the chubby woman, sensing that deep down, this woman’s insecurities could well match her own.

  “Robert. Over there. The one with the black hair and the Ernie sweatshirt.”

  Sure enough, as Jessica politely craned her neck, there was a walking advertisement for Sesame Street, at the moment attempting to chew on a plastic frankfurter.

  “My, what beautiful eyes he has.”

  Jessica was always quick to admire other people’s children, even though she never for a moment believed that any of those snot-nosed kids came close to her Sammy. And she knew in her heart that all other mothers felt the same way. But that was okay; it was the natural order of things, she figured, a way of preserving the species.

  “And which one is yours?” she asked Sequin Sally.

  “The little girl in the flowered dress. Her name is Noona.”

  “Ah.”

  Noona was wearing more ruffles than any one person had a right to wear. She was also wearing white tights, black patent leather shoes and, as a finishing touch, a big hair ribbon. It was even crisper than the type Lorraine Denholm was so fond of.

  “Do you live in Glen Cove?” Noona’s mother asked. She was trying to sound casual—pleasant, even—but Jessica sensed that this simple question was merely round one in an impromptu game of Let’s Compare.

  “No. We live in Sea Cliff. My husband and I just moved out of the city a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, really? Sea Cliff?”

  Five points for her, Jessica knew. Saying you lived in Sea Cliff, at least in this part of the island, was almost the equivalent of mentioning that you had an M.B.A., a summer home, or problems with your au pair.

  “We used to live in Sea Cliff.” A particularly thick row of sequins, cascading down from the shoulder to the left nipple, shimmered dramatically. “But we simply had to get a bigger place. When I had my second—Noona’s little brother, Wythe— I knew I had to have live-in help.”

  “Where do you live now?” Jessica knew she had to ask that one, whether she wanted to or not. It was expected.

  ‘‘ Upper Brookville.’’

  “Ah,” Jessica said once again.

  Well, well, well. The full fifty points for Sequin Sally. Not only did she have live-in help, her house was in one of the ritziest towns on the North Shore, where horses and built-in swimming pools were as standard as toilets and front doors were for the common folk. She only hoped that she and Sammy might one day be invited to a birthday party over at Noona’s so that at least for a couple of hours, she, too, could play Mistress of the Manor.

  “Moving is such a pain,” offered Robert’s mommy. “We moved out here from Brooklyn about a year ago. And we lugged eight cartons of my husband’s medical journals, going back to 1982, all the way out here. It was the third time we’d moved them in seven years. But he simply insists that we can’t throw them out until he goes through them one more time.’’

  So. Ten points for Robert’s mommy. Her husband was a doctor.

  “I know,” Sequins was quick to agree. “My husband still has all his old books from law school. And you know how big those are.”

  Only eight points for Noona’s mommy, at least with Jessica as scorekeeper. Lawyers may have been up there, but they still weren’t quite as godlike as doctors.

  That left Jessica wondering if it was her turn to complain about all the space her husband’s engineering junk mail took up, all those flyers advertising thick juicy tomes like Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about Foundations but Were Afraid to Ask, or the twelve-volume definitive study on air vents. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to play this game.

  And then she realized what was really going on here. This was not just a game of one-upmanship; this was a game of one-upmanship based on the success of these women’s husbands. It was like something out of 1958. What about these women themselves? Had they no interests? No careers, even something put on hold or even abandoned? Had they no journals and textbooks of their own? Jessica suddenly found herself feeling very much alone.

  Give it time. Don’t be so hard on people, an inner voice urged. This voice was the one that was inclined to remind her that she was not exactly Susan Sontag, that she, after all, was someone who missed the dishwasher in her Manhattan co-op more than she missed living within walking distance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You just met these women, the voice insisted. Don’t be so quick to judge. Who knows? Either one of them might become your new best friend somewhere down the road.

  She lapsed into silence after that, focusing her attention on Sammy. She tried to blot out the pieces of other people’s conversations that she kept overhearing. Before she knew it Miss Linda came back over to the mothers. She folded her hands in front of her as she bent over slightly before speaking, politely coming down to their level. Jessica thought the smiling teacher was going to offer them juice and cookies.

  Instead, she said, “All right, now. Mommy-time is over. I’m afraid all the grownups have to go home now. All right? Bye-bye.”

  Recess—at last. Jessica was so relieved that she was getting out that she forgot to feel any separation anxiety, even though she was leaving Sammy on his own for the very first time in his young life. He, meanwhile, was so wrapped up in playing Wash the Dishes that he was actually annoyed by her good-bye peck on the cheek and her heartfelt assurance that she would soon be back for him. He was perfectly fine, already becoming the “big guy” he so yearned to be, or at least making significant steps in that direction.

  If only she were doing as well. Jessica walked quickly as she headed toward the door, tunneling out for freedom. She was experiencing an unexpected wave of confusion, tinged ever so slightly with depression. She didn’t belong here, chalking up status points with the other mommies, basking in the accomplishments of their husbands and children as if
that were a positive reflection on them. Of that, she was certain. Unfortunately, the heavy feeling in her chest as she headed back out to the parking lot reminded her that these days, it seemed as if she didn’t really belong anywhere.

  Chapter Six

  Jessica stood by the front window of her bedroom, pulling back the homemade curtain that had begun its life as a queen-sized sheet and peering out at the dark November evening. Soon, she knew, she would be enveloped by the long nights and the bleak colorless days of winter. She would be spending an entire winter out here on Long Island, a victim of the elements in a way she had never been before.

  City buses and subways, after all, had run no matter what the weather conditions. Would her Volvo demonstrate that same pluck? In a Manhattan high-rise, companionship had always been a few doors down. Out here, where everyone lived in a house, would mass hibernation be the rule? The idea of venturing out there into the hungry blackness, especially all alone in a car, was positively frightening. It was easy for her to imagine being lured into passivity, routinely retreating to the couch right after dinner and submitting to the hypnotic power of Star Trek reruns.

  “Hey, Jess, ready to party?” As David wandered into the bedroom, he looked like a man in search of cocktails and canapés in his herringbone sports jacket, crisp white shirt, and gray knit tie. He eyed the bathrobe she had slipped on over her No Nonsense pantyhose and a similarly no-nonsense Jockey bra and underpants set in practical, go-anywhere-under-anything white. “What’s this? You’re not dressed yet? Don’t tell me you’ve been too busy playing Peeping Tom with our new neighbors.”

  Jessica sighed as she turned away from the window. “No, I was just thinking.”

  “Uh-oh. Not that.”

  “David, I’m afraid that living in the suburbs is already turning me into a wimp.”

  “You? A wimp?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Because you’re a Superwoman, that’s why.” David put his tweed-clad arms around her. “Face it. You’re the woman whom every other woman wants to be. You’ve conquered both the calculator and the Cuisinart. And you’re pretty good at the whole motherhood thing, too. You’ve done it all, you’ve had it all. . . .”