“Hey, I have fan.” Jessica was quick to rush to her own defense. “I mean, I try to. It’s just that... oh, hell. I feel so damned guilty all the time.”
“Oh, yeah? Guilt’s an easy way out, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hey, listen. Did you ever stop to think what purpose guilt serves?”
“You make it sound like it’s a choice or something.”
“Hey, man, nobody’s pulling your strings. Nobody’s forcing you to feel guilty. It all comes from you, believe me. Not Mom, not Dad, not David. It’s yours, all yours. So you gotta suppose you get some bennies from it, right?”
The two of them walked along, silent once again. Sammy, finding the rhythm of his mother’s thoughtful pace hypnotic, had dozed off, slumped over in his stroller. Jessica, meanwhile, was thinking hard, trying to wrap her mind around Peter’s question. What purpose did guilt serve?
“I don’t know, Peter,” she finally said, not up to wrestling with that one. At least, not right now. “You tell me. What purpose does guilt serve?”
“Hey, look!’’ Peter squealed, suddenly a thousand miles away from her as he began leaping up and down. “It’s snowing! Hey, man, it’s really snowing! Far fuckin’ out!”
Sure enough, without warning, without fanfare, a light snow had started falling all around them. Already the big wet flakes were transforming everything into white shadows, eliminating all the details. Soon only the big shapes would remain, bold and uncluttered.
For a while at least, everything would be masked, giving everyone a break from the usual. Things would look different, forcing everyone to take a fresh look, to see things in a way they never had before.
Everything would look simple. Pure. And, for a change, beautifully, wonderfully, amazingly clear.
* * * *
If Christmas was the best time of year, then the second best time came when Christmas was finally over. While Jessica always expected to feel disappointed once all the holiday festivities began winding down, she was, in fact, invariably relieved. Returning to real life enabled her to breathe again, to revel in the relative calm of everyday life. Even if that meant agreeing to get together with Lorraine Denholm for a “girls’ night out.’’
“I’ve been wanting us to go out together for ages,” her next-door neighbor bubbled over the telephone the day after New Year’s, “but something always manages to get in the way. Christmas was as crazy as ever. I’d love a chance to sit down and just talk, y’know?”
After nearly overdosing on family life, dinner with Lorraine sounded positively pleasant. Jessica wasn’t even going to have to do the driving, because Lorraine had volunteered.
“This was a great idea,” Jessica said as she settled into the front seat of Lorraine’s car and pulled her seat belt across her middle. As she did, she performed her usual spot check and found that, thanks to her vigilance, all of this year’s Christmas goodies had made only a minimal mark. “And I’ve been wanting to try this restaurant. I love Mexican food, and I’m always seeing Casa Blanca advertised in the Pennysaver.’’
The white Volvo was littered with the artifacts of Lorraine’s life. There was a car seat in back, along with all manner of toys, articles of discarded clothing, Burger King wrappers, and half-eaten food. In the front, at Jessica’s feet, there was a box of tissues, a half-deflated beach ball, and a white plastic supermarket bag filled with even more stuff.
“Here, let me move that for you,” Lorraine offered. She leaned forward to push the bag underneath the seat. “Sorry about all this junk. Jim is always leaving those stupid tools of his every place you could possibly imagine. I’ll just get them out of your way.”
But tonight Jessica was much more interested in what was going on outside the car. As the two women headed north on Cedar Swamp Road, she observed that the city of Glen Cove had gone all out for the holidays. Gung-ho residents had strung colored lights on windows, doors, shrubs, fences, and just about everything else that stood still. There was even piped-in music at some of the houses. More than one mechanical Santa waved at her as she and Lorraine zoomed through the residential back roads.
Inside the restaurant, however, it was business as usual. Except for a couple of piñatas, stuck up in the corners like some kind of afterthought, there were no signs of the holiday here at Casa Blanca. Linda Ronstadt was wailing away in Spanish, the decor was more pink than red and green, and the waiter’s greeting, instead of “Happy New ‘Year,” was “Buenos dias, Senoras.”
“What I wouldn’t give to be mistaken for a ‘senorita,’ just once,” Jessica muttered as she sat down.
“What?” Lorraine asked politely.
“Oh, nothing. How about splitting an appetizer? Do you like nachos?”
“Sounds good to me. So, Jessie, how were the holidays?” While the employees of Casa Blanca had forgotten that outside still raged the remains of a holiday even more powerful than Cinco de Mayo, the two senoras were interested in talking about little else.
“Actually, they were pretty nice. It was so rewarding to watch Sammy really getting into the whole thing. He bought it all, lock, stock and barrel. Christmas Eve I was lying in bed with him and—just to be funny—I said, ‘Shhh! I think I hear reindeer on the roof!’ And he looked at me, his eyes open wide and his expression really serious, and said, ‘Mommy, I think I hear them, too!’”
She sighed. “But to be perfectly honest, I’m glad it’s all over. I was starting to feel that if I had to bake another cookie or wrap another package, I’d get so crazy that I’d set the tree on fire.”
Lorraine was horrified. “Oh, no! Don’t even say that, Jessie!”
“I was just kidding. How about you? Did you weather all the holiday craziness without getting too crazy yourself?”
“I certainly did.” Lorraine looked positively smug. “I was right on top of things this year. I managed to finish all my shopping, wrapping, and baking a good week before Christmas.”
“I’m not surprised. I mean, you did start all the way back in October.”
“October?’’ Lorraine was puzzled. “What do you mean, October?”
“Don’t you remember? You were already starting to get things in order during the Sea Cliff Mini-Mart.’’
Lorraine remained expressionless. “What happened at the Sea Cliff Mini-Mart?”
“You bought Stacy something flowery and Victorian, remember? For her bedroom? At that stand that had all the picture frames and photo albums with the ribbons and lace and all that?’’
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Lorraine laughed, as if she were embarrassed at having forgotten. “Now I know what you’re talking about.”
“What did you end up buying, anyway? You never did get a chance to show me when you got back to my house, with the kids around and all.”
“Oh, I, uh, didn’t buy anything.”
“You didn’t? But I thought—”
“I wanted to, but when I started asking about the prices of things, I found out they were all a lot more than I expected.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
So she had spent a good forty-five minutes refereeing three tired, cranky children back at her house for nothing.
Oh, well, it was so long ago, Jessica reminded herself. Besides, at least I provided some breathing space for a fellow mother.
Jessica was still ruminating over the apparent contradiction in the phrase “fellow mother” when Lorraine said, “Well, I know this is terribly late, but I wanted to wait until we had a chance to get together and catch our breath before I gave you your Christmas present.’’
“You got me a present?” Jessica was sincerely surprised. She was also touched. Sure, she had picked up something for Lorraine, but that was more to appease the ongoing flow of guilt about her relationship with her next-door neighbor. She hadn’t really expected anything in return. “I got you a present, too, but I was hoping you wouldn’t bother.’’
“Of course I got you something, Jessie. I
mean, you’ve been a real friend to me.”
“Have I?”
“Sure. Having you move to Sea Cliff is one of the best things that ever happened to me. You’ve done a lot for me since you and David got here. Oh, it may not seem like much to you. Just little things. But I remember every thoughtful thing you’ve ever done for me.” Without waiting for Jessica to request a formal listing, she went on, “You baby-sat Stacy and Jim Junior for me that day, like you were just saying.’’
Jessica nodded. “I remember.”
“You gave me some milk that morning we ran out. You came to visit me that day when Jim Junior and Stacy were both home sick and driving me up the wall.’’
“I remember that, too.” That day was not one she would soon forget.
“And, oh, I don’t know, you’re just so darned nice, you know?”
“Well, uh, I’m glad I moved next door to somebody like you, too.” A meager compliment, she knew, but it was the best she could do on such short notice. Besides, her words made Lorraine glow.
“So here it is,” she said, beaming as she thrust a package across the table at Jessica.
“Gee, thanks, Lorraine. But, really. You shouldn’t have.”
Jessica was eyeing the box suspiciously. She would have been willing to bet six months’ mortgage payments that she wasn’t going to like whatever was inside. “Here’s yours.” She brought out the box she had been carrying in the quilted tote bag she had along with her purse.
“Who should start?’’ Lorraine’s eyes were shining as brightly as Sammy’s.
“Oh, why don’t you go first?” Jessica offered. “I’m eager to see if you like it.”
“Okay. If you insist.” Without waiting for any further prompting, Lorraine dove into her gift, tearing the paper to shreds without giving a second thought to the possible wisdom of saving it for reuse on another occasion.
“Oooh, Jess! I love it!” Carefully she pulled the white tissue paper off her present. Her face was flushed with excitement. “It’s perfect. How sweet!’’
“I’m glad you like it,” Jessica said with a smile. She was thinking about the difficulty she had had at first in choosing a present for Lorraine, agonizing over how she would ever be able to pick something for someone with whom she had so little in common. In the end, she had turned the whole thing into a game.
‘‘Now which of the things in this store would I like the least?’’ she had asked herself as she stood at the threshold of Hempstead China, ready to buy her little heart out. The store was chockful of breakables; it was undoubtedly the exact location the originator of the phrase “bull in a china shop” had had in mind. It seemed the ideal place to find something for Lorraine. Sure enough; when she came across a Hummel-style figurine of a mother baking cookies with her little girl while her son sat on the floor tormenting a little brown puppy, she knew instantly she had hit upon a real winner.
“Ooh, I just love it. It’s darling, Jessie,” Lorraine cooed. “I’m going to put it right in the living room, where everybody can see it. Oh, I can hardly wait to show Big Jim.”
She glanced over at Jessica. “Come on, Jessie. Open yours now. I can’t wait to see your reaction.”
Jessica threw all caution to the wind and tore off the silver bell-bedecked paper. She braced herself as she took the lid off the box, trying to remember every piece of advice her mother had ever given her about being a gracious receiver of gifts. It turned out to be a good thing she had learned her lessons so well.
“Oh, Lorraine. How . . . how perfect!” She forced her lips into a smile as she brought out a red-and-white checked apron printed with the supposedly humorous saying, “For this I spent four years in college?” Two red-and-white checked oven mitts and a pair of matching pot holders echoed the sentiment.
“Oh, how cute,” Jessica said. “That was really nice of you, Lorraine.” She folded everything up and tucked it all back into the box as quickly as she could, afraid that somebody in the restaurant might see.
In spite of it all, however, having dinner with Lorraine like this, sitting close together and exchanging gifts and sharing nachos shrouded in so much cheese that she could hear her arteries moaning, was creating an air of real intimacy.
“Lorraine,” she said, speaking hesitantly, “that present was so ... so you. I mean, I know that your house and your family are really important to you. But I can’t help wondering . . . didn’t you ever want to, oh, I don’t know, get really involved in something? I mean, find something that was important to you and just throw yourself into it. . .”
“But I am doing that.” Lorraine smiled. “You just said so yourself. My kids, my house. Big Jim, of course ...”
“Yes, I know that. But what about you?”
“Me?” She blinked hard a few times, then stared at Jessica as if she had just lapsed into Serbo-Croatian.
“Well, what I mean is, haven’t you ever wanted to try something new or develop something in yourself that you never knew was really there or—”
“Oh. You mean get a job.” Frowning, Lorraine pushed a renegade strand of hair out of her eyes. “A career, is that what you’re saying?” She said it as if it could well be nicknamed “the C-word.” “What, have you been talking to Jim or something?”
“No, no, not at all, Lorraine. I don’t even mean a job, necessarily. I’m talking about something beyond the family, something that’s just for you.”
“I don’t have time to take adult-education courses, if that’s what you mean.” Lorraine sighed impatiently. “And I tried joining a health club, but every time I planned to go, Jim had to work late or one of the kids got a cold. It just didn’t work out.’’
Jessica just nodded. She could see that this was going nowhere.
“You know, Jessie, I’m not like you,” Lorraine went on. “When I was a teenager and everybody started talking about women’s rights and being independent and competing in the world the same way that men do, I knew they weren’t talking about me. It wasn’t fair to expect somebody like me—somebody who was perfectly happy taking home economics courses and finding somebody else to do my math homework for me—and suddenly expecting me to want to become, I don’t know, a nuclear engineer or something. I wasn’t raised to be one of those strong women who are always trying to prove something.”
“But that’s not a fair evaluation of the women’s movement,” Jessica protested. “The idea is to give everyone, both men and women, the same options. To raise women out of their second-class status. And that involves personal relationships as well as things like career opportunities. The whole idea is not to make things harder, but to make them better.”
“Better? What is ‘better’ supposed to mean?” There was an unexpected intensity in Lorraine’s voice. “Does that mean I’m supposed to give up the chance to be protected? That I’m supposed to go out there and fight when I wasn’t brought up to be a fighter? That I’m supposed to start rocking the boat, even in my own home? That’s not what I want, Jessie. I want to stay home and take care of my family . . . and have them take care of me.”
“How do they take care of you, Lorraine?” Jessica was genuinely interested.
“By making me who I am, that’s how. I’m a mother, and I’m a wife. Big Jim and Stacy and Jim Junior—they tell the world who I am. They make me who I am.’’
“But can’t you see that in defining yourself only in terms of other people, you’re getting lost?” Jessica was trying hard to keep her emotions from escalating, trying to keep what was supposed to be a friendly dinner conversation from turning into something else.
“I know myself, Jessie,” she said calmly. “I’m not one of those self-confident women who can beat the odds. I wasn’t brought up to go out there and fight. That may be fine for some people, but not for me. I’m happy just the way I am.’’
“Well, if you sincerely feel that what you’ve got is enough—”
“Yes, it is enough,” Lorraine insisted, her expression turning hard.
&
nbsp; Jessica’s first impulse was to suggest that it might be time to turn off the TV and go upstairs to read some favorite Max the Bunny books in bed. But then she remembered that she wasn’t dealing with the usual pouter in her life.
“Then you’re very lucky,” she said brightly. “Now, how about ordering some more food? I know I’m supposed to be back on my diet—my usual New Year’s resolution—but tonight I really feel like splurging.”
Probably, she was thinking, reaching for the menu, because I feel as if I deserve a reward for being such a Good Samaritan. Something far beyond a matching pair of oven mitts.
Chapter Sixteen
If anyone were to ask Jessica to comment on the probable I.Q. of someone who voluntarily brought a small child into the giant toy emporium with the irritating name “Toys R Us”—a mere three weeks after Christmas, no less, when the allure of the toys Santa Claus had brought had already faded, yet the joys of consumerism were still sharp in the memory—she would have responded with a cynical chuckle. Yet here she was, doing precisely that.
She needed to buy a birthday present. The day she had longed for had finally come: the following Saturday, little Noona Applebaum was having a birthday party at her Old Brookville home, and Sammy had made the A list. For the child who had been invited, a birthday party meant only good things. A Baskin Robbins cake shaped like a three-dimensional Big Bird, for example, and a loot bag stuffed with so many toys that it was rivaled only by Santa’s sack itself. For the mother of the invitee, however, receiving one of those tiny white envelopes in the mail addressed to “Master Samuel McAllister’’ meant only one thing. Her mission was to choose a birthday present that would be tasteful enough to please the parents, yet fun enough to delight the child. While this may have sounded simple enough to the uninitiated, assigning someone this task was in the same league as suggesting to one of Henry VIII’s wives that she find a way to keep the spark in a marriage.
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