Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Hi, Jess! You’re not busy, are you? You know, I was sitting here trying to decide whether to do a third load of laundry or tackle me job of cleaning that nasty old oven, and finally I decided to make a pot of herbal tea and put my feet up instead. Care to join me?”

  Jessica, slightly giddy from her morning with Terry, felt willing to take on any challenge, even a social encounter with Lorraine.

  “I’ll be over in two minutes.”

  As she closed the gate behind her and glanced over at her destination, a perky little cottage that looked like it had been sublet from the three bears, she wondered at what point Lorraine Denholm had graduated from a mere irritation to one of her pet peeves. Was it simply that she was getting crabby in her old age? Or was it because her next-door neighbor personified everything she had striven all her life not to become?

  “Hi-i-i! Anybody home?”

  Already she was talking in that phony, cheerful Sandra Dee voice, and she had barely poked her head inside the door.

  “I’m in here, catching the end of Sally Jessy Raphael,” Lorraine called in from the living room. “Come on in. This’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”

  So Jessica was going to be forced to play second fiddle to Sally Jessy Raphael. The show’s guests consisted of a trio of cross-dressing entertainers, men who pretended to be famous women singers in the name of entertainment. Men pretending they were women . . . wasn’t that a hoot? Jessica chose to pass.

  Instead, she lingered in Lorraine’s kitchen. She picked up the November issue of Good Housekeeping and sat down at the table, a safe distance away from the pan of freshly baked brownie-type squares that was sitting on the stove.

  Not me, she thought, eyeing them warily. Not this time. What a stroke of luck that I vowed to start a brand-new diet not ten minutes ago. A serious one, this time.

  Glancing idly at the pages of the magazine, she was struck with the realization that Lorraine’s choice of decor—and Jessica used that word loosely, even in her own private ruminations— followed to the letter the advice so readily doled out by magazines like this one. The Denholms’ house was, in fact, a living tribute to the home-decorating editors of the dozen magazines routinely on display at check-out stands. Women’s magazines, they were called.

  On the kitchen counter, for example, there was a utensil holder made by decoupaging the bottom two-thirds of a plastic Clorox bottle. Next to it, hanging on the wall, was a framed needlepoint sampler, made from a kit, that read, Keep this kitchen clean. Eat out! Lorraine had mastered the art of doing precisely what she thought she was supposed to do.

  “Goodness. Some people,” Lorraine said with a loud sigh, snapping off the television. As she came into the kitchen, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Don’t you look nice. Lipstick and everything. You don’t usually wear makeup, do you?”

  “Well, I... Oh, you know how it is. I was in one of those moods this morning where I just felt like looking good.’’ Apologizing for looking decent, was this a new low or what? Jessica shrugged her shoulders as she searched for an explanation. “Maybe it’s because winter is coming.”

  “Uh-huh.’’ Lorraine gave her one more odd look, then turned to fiddle with the teapot. “Well, I’m sure David will appreciate it. How is David, anyway?”

  “Oh, David,” Jessica replied with a wave of her hand.

  Anyone else would have recognized this as a sign that it was time to move on to another topic of conversation, something innocuous like the weather report for me upcoming weekend. Lorraine, however, interpreted Jessica’s reluctance as coyness.

  “What do you mean?” She blinked innocently. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, not really. I’m just a little annoyed with him lately.” She could feel Lorraine’s eyes burning into her, and she knew that a more detailed explanation was required. She decided to keep it simple. “I don’t know. I guess it’s that he’s been working such long hours lately that he hasn’t been around much to help out with Sammy.’’

  Lorraine was nodding with great enthusiasm. “I know exactly what you mean. You know, whenever I get mad at Jim, I do little things to irritate him. As a way of getting back at him.’’

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, like . . . like offering to make him a cup of coffee and then putting too much sugar in it.” She giggled. “Maybe you should try that some time, Jessie. I know it always makes me feel better.”

  She turned away and began leafing through a stack of junk mail. “So what else is new, Jessie?”

  “Oh, not much. Sammy’s really enjoying school. He seems to like the routine. And we finally got the refrigerator repairman in a couple of days ago. He said that—”

  “Who was that man who came over this morning?”

  Jessica’s jaw immediately snapped shut. If Lorraine wanted to play spy, she was thinking, she could at least try being a little more artful.

  “Oh, you must mean the LILCO man.” She tried to sound casual as she pretended that Terry Nolan, the man who could make her heart pound even faster than Jane Fonda’s aerobics tape, was in reality no one more important than a representative of the Long Island Lighting Company. “I had set up an appointment for somebody to come by and give us ideas for cutting down on our electric bill.’’

  “Oh.” Lorraine looked disappointed. “And what did he tell you?”

  “Not much. Not much at all.” She looked over at the kitchen counter where the tea was brewing and said brightly, “Now, how about some of that tea?”

  Once the tea was poured, Lorraine leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “Ah, this is nice. Everything is so different when Jim and the kids are gone. Don’t you love the feeling of having the house all to yourself? It’s so quiet. So peaceful.”

  “Yes, it is kind of a relief,” Jessica agreed, sipping her tea.

  “It’s the only time I can really breathe,” Lorraine went on. “Don’t you feel sort of lost when other people are around? Like . . . like part of you has been absorbed into them?”

  “Well, I do feel overwhelmed sometimes.” Jessica frowned. “Not absorbed, exactly. But I know how it can suddenly feel like it’s just too much. Sometimes I fantasize about getting on an airplane and never coming back.”

  “Me, too. And then I start feeling guilty for thinking that way.”

  “Lorraine,” Jessica asked hesitantly, leaning forward, “do you ever talk to Jim about how you feel? Do you tell him the kinds of things you just told me?’’

  “Oh, no.” She waved her hand in the air dismissively. “He’d never understand. Jim’s not very big on feelings.”

  “You don’t feel you can confide in him?”

  Lorraine shook her head. “Men aren’t like us, Jessie. They don’t feel things the way we do.”

  “You don’t really believe that, Lorraine, do you?” The blank look she encountered gave her the answer. “Well, at any rate, I understand. You can always talk to me when you’re feeling overwhelmed. You could even drop the kids off at my place if you ever need a break. Really, I’d be happy to help out.”

  Suddenly Lorraine straightened up. “Jessica, I can handle my own life perfectly well, thank you. I don’t need help from you or anybody else.”

  “I was just...” Jessica gave up without much of a fight. “I know that, Lorraine.”

  “My goodness, what kind of hostess am I?” Looking a trifle distracted, Lorraine jumped to her feet. “I haven’t even offered you an oatmeal square! Here, try one. I just made them this morning.”

  “Thanks, but I just started a diet. And this time, I really, really mean it. I’ve been carrying around these extra seven pounds for too long.’’

  When she saw Lorraine’s crestfallen look, Jessica didn’t know whether to feel triumph or regret.

  * * * *

  “So how was work today?” Jessica asked casually, tossing aside the TV Guide and concentrating on her husband.

  “Oh, just the usual,’’ David replied, barely moving his mouth. He was stretched o
ut on the couch, recuperating from his commute home from New York City. In the background, the familiar theme song of the Inspector Gadget show was playing. Sammy, predictably, was glued in front of the television, already hypnotized.

  “Nothing interesting happened?”

  Usually, Jessica barraged her husband with questions about his day because she was so hungry for information about the outside world, so starved for social interaction with an adult. This evening, however, she was, for a change, looking for a chance to spill her own little tidbit of news.

  “Really, Jess, it was just another boring day.”

  “Well, something kind of interesting happened to me today.’’ She cleared her throat. “Remember Terry Nolan, the guy we met at the progressive dinner?”

  “Was he the one who kept referring to himself as ‘the video king’?”

  “No, that was Arthur Mortimer. Terry Nolan was at the Balazs’s. Remember? Lloyd Nolan’s brother?”

  “Oh, right. The one you got stuck talking to all evening.”

  “That’s him. Anyway, the strangest thing happened. I ran into him last week and he asked me if I’d help him find out something about his brother. Uh, about who might have killed him. Anyway, I agreed, and today he—”

  “Wait a minute.’’ David’s attention was no longer focused on the evil doings of Dr. Claw. In fact, he had even sat up. “He asked you to what?”

  Jessica took a deep breath. “He, uh, asked me to help investigate Lloyd Nolan’s murder.”

  “Jessica, that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Who do you think you are, Dick Tracy?”

  “I think Inspector Gadget would be more au courant.” Her entire defense system was gearing up for combat. After all, her capabilities as an intelligent, clear-thinking adult were being challenged.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “My question about what qualifies you to investigate a murder. Any murder.’’

  “Oh, so you think you need some special qualifications to poke around town, asking questions and using a little common sense to try to fit the pieces of a puzzle together. You think that’s too difficult for someone like me, even though I used to do exactly that for one of the nation’s—excuse me, one of the world’s— largest drug companies.”

  “Stop talking so loud!” Sammy insisted. “I can’t hear the TV!”

  In a lower voice, David said, “Look, I wasn’t questioning your ability to handle it,” David returned. “I was just wondering about its ... its appropriateness.”

  “Appropriateness? Oh, now there’s a loaded word if I ever heard one.” Jessica punctuated her statement with an arrogant toss of her head. “I understand there was a time when it was considered ‘inappropriate’ for women to smoke. Or wear pants in public. Or ... or vote or get a college education or ... or . . .”

  Jessica’s anger was escalating, getting the best of her. But instead of helping her out, it was catapulting her out of a rational state.

  “God, Jessica. I hate it when you go all feminist on me.” David was shaking his head.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” Jessica countered. “What, am I stepping out of line here or something?’’

  “Stop talking!” Sammy commanded.

  David just glared at him. “No, you’re using all the wrong arguments, that’s all. I’m not talking about the fact that you’re a woman, Jess. What I’m saying is that you have absolutely no business getting mixed up in something like . . . well, something like murder!”

  “I think your feelings on this are pretty clear by this point, David.”

  “Didn’t it ever occur to you that it could be damned dangerous, playing Detective Gadget?”

  “That’s Inspector Gadget.”

  “Whatever. You could get killed, Jessica. I don’t know why you’re unable to see this, but it sounds to me as if you’re getting in way over your head.”

  “Oh, nothing’s going to happen to me. I think you’re just worried that if I get involved in something besides playing haus-frau, it might end up making things a little less convenient for you.”

  “Oh, come on. You know darned well that’s not the point. I don’t begrudge you your freedom.” David sounded more exasperated than angry. “It’s just that this whole thing sounds so ridiculous. I mean, come on. Investigating a murder?”

  “Daddy, stop talking!”

  “Look, David, I’m simply helping Terry. He’s in constant contact with the police. Neither of us is going to do anything dangerous. You’re just threatened by this, that’s all.”

  “You’re damned right I’m threatened. I’m scared to death by the thought of my wife hunting down a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “It’s obvious to me that you’re not interested in looking at this rationally,” Jessica said in a lofty tone. “I’m not asking for your approval, David. I simply wanted to let you know about something that’s important to me, that’s all. Something I plan to get involved in over the next few weeks or months or whatever it takes.”

  “Oh, Jess.”

  In those two syllables, David managed to express everything he was feeling. His exasperation, his disapproval, and his annoyance over having to deal with it at all. Looking at him, this scowling man draped across the couch— her couch, one she had bought at Conran’s back during her third year with Klinger-Wycoff—she found herself wondering who he was and what he was doing here.

  She thought back to the first time she had ever seen David McAllister, trying to remember how that same face had looked then. He had appeared on the scene when she was just about to give up—on relationships in general, and on New York men in particular. It was right around the time that Nikki and Jared were talking marriage—and, even more significantly, shopping for a two-bedroom apartment. This in a town where jointly owned real estate counted for a lot more than any marriage license.

  The Manhattan apartment Jessica lived in was about to go co-op. Before the renters agreed to buy the building from their landlord, they wanted to make sure they knew exactly what they were getting into. While as renters the residents had been concerned about the tackiness of the gold-flocked wallpaper in the lobby, now everyone was suddenly determined to understand every last detail concerning the life expectancy of the boiler and the importance of renovating the mailroom. The more technical it was, the more enticing it seemed. Even the little old men who shuffled around the hallways in their bedroom slippers took to muttering about wrap-around mortgages and balloon payments.

  Then there was the pressing issue of water damage. When Jessica learned that an engineer was coming to inspect each apartment for leakage, she expected a crusty old codger with muddy work boots and a tattoo. She wasn’t at all prepared for the charming, if slightly shy, young man who appeared on her doorstep.

  “Hi,” she said, slightly baffled. “You’re not the engineer the tenants’ association hired . . . are you?”

  “I know. I don’t quite look the part, right? Here I am, trying to look like an authority on high-rise structures,’’ he complained cheerfully, “and so far I’ve had two different women my grandmother’s age offer me hot chocolate. Mind if I take a look in your closets?”

  He was supposed to be there for five minutes. Instead he stayed for more than an hour, finding within the walls of Apartment 12C a lot more than light to moderate seepage. For both Jessica and David there had been an immediate sense of connection, that impossible to define thing called chemistry that drew them to each other from the start. In his face, in those liquid brown eyes and the features she loved to think of as craggy, she had seen her soul mate.

  At the moment, however, staring into that same face, one that was glowering at her from across the room, she was completely unable to picture the way he had looked way back then.

  “Look,” she said impatiently, “when you come right down to it, the way I spend my time is really none of your business—’’

  “Mommeee, Daddeee,” Sam
my insisted in his high-pitched voice, “stop fighting!”

  David let out a tired sigh. “Mommy and I are just talking, Sammy. We’re not fighting. But we’ll stop.”

  Glancing over at Jessica, he said, “Look, Jess, do whatever you have to do. You and I have always agreed that that was something we each had to decide for ourselves.”

  “Fine.”

  For Jessica, there was only minimal relief in their mutual agreement. After all, she knew full well that it wasn’t over for good.

  What really mattered was winning the war, but Jessica wasn’t even sure that she had won the battle.

  Chapter Ten

  Whenever she entered a hair-styling salon, Jessica experienced a certain ambivalence, a disconcerting combination of hope and apprehension. The person who came out, after all, was never quite the same person who went in. Whether that would end up being good news or bad news was invariably open to question.

  Today, on this cold gray Wednesday in late November, there was an additional layer of tension. While she was pretending to be just another mop head in search of relief from split ends, she was, in actuality, a woman with a secret mission.

  “Who’s cutting your hair today?” The Madonna look-alike behind the reception desk eyed Jessica with thinly disguised disapproval.

  “Constantine.”

  She was nervous as she sat down opposite a wall of mirrors in a bubble-gum pink chair that said just about everything there was to say about the Anastos Hair Salon. On the walls all around her were big black-and-white photographs, oversized blow-ups of people with hair. She knew those photos were intended to entice, to make the observer yearn for that same look. But, in truth, the people in the pictures looked like the kind that Jessica tended to avoid in social situations, the sort who would bore you to tears with their empty chatter.

  “Here,” she said once Constantine Anastos had emerged from the back, wearing a black rayon shirt and clutching a can of Nexxus hair spray. “Make me look like this.”

  She opened the November issue of Vogue to the page she had marked. On it was a photograph of an emaciated woman in a chartreuse miniskirt and an orange tank top who was lounging across the hood of a vintage Oldsmobile.