Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Hello?” At the other end of the line, there was silence. “Hello? Hello?” She was practically shouting, as if sounding serious enough would somehow convince whoever was at the other end of the line that it was in his best business to cut out the silent bit and identify himself.

  “Jess? Is that you?”

  “Oh, David.” She let out a loud sigh of relief. “It’s so good to hear your voice.’’

  “I think we must have a bad connection. How’s everything going?”

  For the next five minutes, Jessica and David engaged in the usual husband-and-wife prattle, the little details of life like how the bug man had neglected to come on his appointed day, the latest cute thing Sammy had done, how high this month’s electric bill was.

  Lorraine, meanwhile, sat there listening to every word, not even trying to pretend she was absorbed in one of the magazines piled up on the table next to her. At first, that was fine with Jessica. After all, Lorraine was doing her a favor, baby-sitting for her like this. It wasn’t until her conversation with her husband started to get a tad heated that she felt obligated to lower her voice.

  “No, David, I haven’t been playing Nancy Drew,’’ she hissed in response to his question. “I haven’t had time.’’

  She eyed Lorraine as she listened to David’s tirade. Wasn’t this kind of phone call supposed to consist mainly of soft cooings about how hard it was to live apart from each other?

  “Look, David, I don’t want to get into a whole thing right now. I would like to think you know me well enough to accept the fact that I’m not about to take any foolish chances.

  “Besides,” she finished lamely, hoping she hadn’t already said too much, “Lorraine is here. I can’t talk for very long.”

  “It sounds as if you two were having a little argument,” Lorraine said the moment she hung up. “Anything wrong?”

  “Oh. . .not really.’’ Jessica forced a smile. “You know how it is.”

  Her smiled was not returned. “What did he mean by calling you Nancy Drew?”

  “Nothing. It’s just his warped sense of humor.’’

  “He wasn’t by any chance talking about the Sea Cliff murderer, was he? You’re not involved in that, I hope?”

  Jessica took a deep breath. She hadn’t meant to tell anyone, especially Lorraine—whom she was certain would never understand. But it suddenly appeared that the cat was out of the bag.

  “Not really involved,” she said carefully. “I just sort of got interested, you know? I mean, aren’t we all anxious to have the murderer caught and put behind bars as soon as possible?’’

  “How involved are you, exactly?”

  “I’ve just been helping Lloyd Nolan’s brother poke around town a little, that’s all.” She was trying to sound casual, hoping that Lorraine would drop it. But she was cocking her head in that perky way others, her eyes fixed on Jessica’s.

  “Tell me more, Jessie. This sounds fascinating.”

  Little by little, it came out. As she spoke, filling Lorraine in on the small part she had been playing in the investigation of the three murders, Jessica kept telling herself that there was no real harm in being honest with her next-door neighbor. And much to her surprise, Lorraine seemed to understand—and even accept—her interest.

  “Gosh,” Jessica finally said, “you know I hadn’t really told anyone about this—besides David, of course, and he hardly knows any of the details. He’s been so disapproving all along. ...”

  “Oh, I know exactly what you mean.’’ Lorraine was nodding energetically. “Big Jim does that to me all the time. He makes me feel as if the things that I care about aren’t important at all.”

  “But it feels really good to have the chance to talk about it. To somebody who understands, I mean.”

  “Well, of course it does, Jessie. After all, we’re friends. I’m really glad you feel you can confide in me.”

  “Maybe you could even help,” Jessica said with a chuckle. The wine really had gotten to her, she realized. But she went on anyway. “Do you have any thoughts about what a purple ribbon could mean?’

  “Purple ribbon?” Lorraine repeated. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, it’s the signature of the murderer. It’s supposed to be a secret, but Terry—that’s Lloyd Nolan’s brother—has kind of an in with the homicide squad. You see, these murders are all a part of a serial killing, and the signature that the killer has been leaving behind is a purple ribbon. You know, like the kind you would use to wrap a present.’’

  “A purple ribbon, huh? How interesting. And you’re the only one who knows about that?”

  “As far as I know. Just me and Terry and the Nassau County Police Department. And you, too, of course. They’re keeping it a secret so they can weed out any false confessions.’’ Suddenly she grew alarmed. “Hey, you won’t tell anybody any of this, will you?”

  “Jessica, you know me better than that,” Lorraine replied reassuringly. “I can promise you that every word you’ve said tonight will go no farther than this room.’’

  Jessica was grateful. “Thanks, Lorraine. You know, I feel so much better. I’m glad you came over tonight.”

  “Any time, Jessie,” she replied, looking serious. “You can be sure I’ll do anything I can to help you out. After all, we women have to stick together, don’t you think? If we don’t help each other, who will? Certainly not men!”

  “You know, Lorraine,” Jessica said with a smile, “I do believe you’re turning into a feminist.”

  “Me?” Lorraine squeaked. “Oh, no. Never. I’ll never burn my bra.”

  Jessica just chuckled.

  “Hey, I just had a great idea, Jessie. Since David is going to be away most of the week, you and I should go out some night. I know; we could go shopping at the mall. It’d be fun. What do you say?”

  Jessica swallowed hard, then smiled. “Sure, Lorraine. That sounds like fun.”

  So there was no such thing as a free lunch, after all.

  * * * *

  It will do me good to get out tonight, thought Jessica.

  As she forced a gaudy papier-mâché parrot earring through her pierced lobe, pleased that she had come up with the perfect accessory to wear to dinner at a Mexican restaurant, she was remembering just how desperate sitting around the house had made her the night before. It was worth resisting the urge to hibernate. Besides, she could hardly wait to see Nikki. She hadn’t seen her best friend since Christmas.

  As she struggled to push her head through the narrow opening of a bulky turtleneck sweater, the same shade of purple as the parrot’s wings, she couldn’t help wondering if her baby-sitter would approve of tonight’s fashion statement. Amy, clearly a product of another generation, one that grew up with MTV, CDs, VCRs, PCs, and a host of other scientific advancements so high-tech they were identified with letters rather than actual names, always made her feel like Grandpappy Amos.

  As she was wondering if she would manage to elicit a favorable reaction with this evening’s shocking combination of a purple sweater and a chartreuse belt, accented with hair that had been gelled into place and earrings silly enough to be deemed cool, Sammy’s voice broke into her reverie, announcing his baby-sitter’s arrival.

  “Yea! Yea!” he was yelling, running across the first floor toward the back door. “Amy’s here!’’

  Her arrival was such a cause for celebration that he had even torn himself away from a Donna Reed rerun, a brand-new favorite. It was just one of the many sitcoms that had been revived so that another generation of thirsty little minds could be manipulated into developing the same twisted set of values that had been denounced just a couple of decades earlier.

  “I’m coming,” she called back. She checked the mirror one more time. Not bad, she concluded, tossing her head to see how the parrots would react. Not bad at all.

  Whereas once Jessica had had misgivings about leaving her only child in the care of someone who had not read the classics, dabbled in Italian, and studied
the art of film—in short, someone other than herself—she had watched Amy and Sammy bond together so closely that their friendship rivaled that of Damon and Pythias. What a revelation it had been, seeing that blood ties were not required a full twenty-four hours a day in order to create a comfortable environment for a child. It was fun, as well as educational, watching the two of them playing together, tumbling around on the floor, climbing on furniture, getting their hands dirty both literally and figuratively, doing many things that a birth mother did not necessarily have either the inclination or the coordination to do.

  As usual, Jessica, found herself feeling like the fifth wheel as Amy and Sammy gleefully greeted each other.

  “Hi, Amy,” she interrupted, feeling obliged to remind Amy of her presence. “David’s not here tonight. He’s out of town. But I’m going out with a friend for a couple of hours.”

  Amy glanced up from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles figure that Sammy was showing her just long enough to nod in Jessica’s direction. “Okay. Sure.”

  Tonight’s gum selection, Jessica noted, was dark green. Was it possible they were making spinach-flavored gum these days? At any rate, it was clear that her purple and chartreuse ensemble had failed to make the impression she had been hoping for on this representative of the younger generation.

  “Amy, you wanna see a picture of me when I was a baby?” Sammy was offering. “I was so cute!”

  “Yeah, let’s see.”

  As Jessica slipped on her winter coat, she couldn’t resist eavesdropping on Amy and Sammy.

  “That’s me, when I was a baby,” Sammy announced proudly, pointing to one of the photographs in the McAllister family album. “See? I had teensy-weensy feet and teensy-weensy hands—”

  “Wow! Who’s this?” Amy, meanwhile, was checking out the front of the photo album, showing an unprecedented interest in a time other than the immediate present. “Gosh, Jessica, is this you?”

  Jessica strolled over to the couch and glanced over the girl’s shoulder.

  “Uh, I’m afraid so. That’s me during my senior year of high school. And that picture over there is David, back before I knew him. I think he was a sophomore in college when that was taken.”

  Indeed, there they were, dressed in the uniform of another era. David had a ponytail and was wearing a washed-out, blue work shirt with a black peace symbol crudely embroidered on the pocket. And there was Jessica, her hair pulled back with a leather barrette speared with a piece of wood. She was dressed in an Indian embroidered blouse that was festooned with tiny round mirrors. Painted on her cheek was a flower.

  “Far out! You mean you really dressed like that?’’

  “Well, yes,” Jessica replied indignantly. “Not every day, maybe, at least not as far as that flower on my face is concerned. . . .”

  She could feel her cheeks turning pink. She had been caught with her politics showing.

  But instead of ridiculing her, Amy was looking up at her with awe.

  “Gee, you guys were really there, weren’t you? You were really right in the middle of things!’’

  Jessica blinked. “Uh, yes, I guess we were.”

  “I live in such a boring time!” Amy wailed. “But you . . . Wow. This is just like ‘Thirtysomething.’ You were really part of the whole sixties thing, weren’t you?” Her eyes were wide. “Did you, like, go hear different rock groups and stuff?”

  “Oh, sure,” Jessica said offhandedly. All of a sudden she was acting as if she had been the grooviest thing around back in ‘68. “We went to concerts all the time.”

  “Really? Like who did you hear?”

  “Oh, let’s see. Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, of course, Simon and Garfunkel—”

  “Wow! You really saw all those people?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  As a matter of fact, she had. Of course, Jimi Hendrix had been the warm-up group for the Monkees’ concert at Forest Hills Stadium, an embarrassing fact that was rarely brought up by musical historians these days. And the members of Jefferson Airplane had been so disgusted with the teeny-bopper crowd at the Saturday matinee that they walked off the stage after twenty minutes. But she wasn’t about to admit to any of that.

  “Yes, Amy,” she said with a knowing smile, “those were the days.”

  * * * *

  Tonight was going to be a double treat. Seeing Nikki was only the first part. In addition, the two of them had agreed to meet in Port Washington at the restaurant that was Jessica’s current favorite, Los Amigos. The last time Jessica had tasted jalapenos and cilantro she was with Lorraine, doing her neighborly duty. This time, she was determined to have some fun.

  Nikki was already there, sitting at a table in the corner. It was decorated with chipped ceramic tiles and a cardboard advertisement for Cuervo Gold. There were two frosty margaritas, as well; apparently she had taken the liberty of ordering for her, which suited Jessica just fine. She was beaming as she headed in her direction, but her smile quickly faded. Much to her chagrin, she saw that her pal looked droopy. So much for her hope that the sullen mood that had enshrouded Nikki over Christmas would have lifted by now.

  “Sorry I’m late.” She chirped her greeting, hoping it would turn out that it was only her twelve-minute delay that was responsible for her dinner companion’s gloom.

  No such luck. Jessica knew her well enough to sense that it was more than the fact that she had consumed an entire bowl of tortilla chips, and was already making impressive inroads in a second, that was the cause of her apparent crankiness.

  Despite her downcast expression, Nikki looked lovely. Instead of the usual maternal outfit of soft, washable knits that wouldn’t be missed too much in the event of their sudden and total destruction, she was wearing a chic outfit, complete with pantyhose, accessories, and heels too high for successfully chasing after a child.

  “You’re certainly looking good,” Jessica offered, hoping to ease some of the tension. She took a sip of her margarita and felt her entire body sigh.

  Nikki smiled wryly. “Do you really think so? And here I’ve been feeling like I’m about a hundred years old.” With a tired shrug, she added, “At least that’s how the world has been treating me. Every time I show up for a job interview—”

  “A job interview?’’ Jessica’s ears pricked up. “Nikki, I didn’t know you were looking for a job. What, some part-time work? Or maybe free-lance?”

  “Nope. This time it’s the real thing.”

  “Really? I had no idea you were interested in working again.” Jessica’s first thought was one rooted in pure selfishness: If Nikki is working all day, who am I going to tool around with? “What precipitated all this?”

  While Nikki forced a smile, her dark eyes immediately filled with tears. Her voice broke as she said, “Jared is leaving me.”

  “What?”

  “Well, to be perfectly fair, I suppose I should say that he and I have come to a mutual agreement that we’d be better off separating from each other.”

  “Nikki, I had no idea.” Jessica felt as if she had just been run over by a car. The room seemed hot, the air so stifling that she couldn’t quite catch her breath. “When did all this happen?”

  “Oh, Jess, it’s been a long time coming. We started talking about it a few months ago.”

  Of course. Back in November, when the Sloans and the McAllisters had gotten together for dinner. She remembered well the tension she had sensed between Jared and Nikki. She remembered equally well her determination to ignore it.

  “Nikki, I’m. . . I’m flabbergasted. You must be devastated.”

  “I suppose it’s for the best.” With a cold smile, she added, “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say when you find yourself in this situation?’

  “Forget about what you’re supposed to say. How do you really feel?”

  “How do I feel? I feel mad as hell, that’s how I feel.” Nikki stirred her margarita with the little plastic straw. “A long time ago Jared and I made a bargain. O
r at least I thought we had. Way back then, we decided to buy the whole bit: the house in the suburbs, the two kids, the husband at work, and the wife at home.

  “Well, guess what? In the end that last part turned out to be the clincher. I was going along, doing what I thought I was supposed to be doing—what I thought Jared wanted me to be doing. I tried really hard to be the woman of the eighties, which translates to doormat. An enlightened, college-educated doormat, maybe, but a doormat all the same. I became Mrs. Jared Sloan. Oh, and of course Allison’s mother and Kimberly’s mother.

  “And the punch line is that Jared decided that I’m boring.”

  “Boring? Is that what he said?”

  “That happens to be a direct quote. You see, he thought what he wanted was a little woman at home. But it didn’t take long for him to find out that it’s not easy for that little woman at home to remain the scintillating companion she was back when she still had a life of her own.’’

  “Nikki, I don’t get it,” Jessica interjected. “You’ve always seemed like such a strong person.”

  “Maybe I was. Maybe I still am. But it hardly matters. I’ve been neglecting to take care of myself, because God forbid I should be seen as selfish. Well, maybe I’m not selfish. But instead—as the man said—I’m boring.

  “And do you know what? When I think about this whole thing in intellectual terms—all the anger aside, I mean—I can’t even blame Jared. Not really. It’s true that I thought we were in this together, but ultimately it was all my own doing. I knew, deep down, that there was a price tag on trading my independence for what I saw as the easy way out. But I did it anyway.’’

  Jessica looked down and saw that her entire margarita was gone. Her friend’s words were hitting a raw nerve. She understood exactly what had happened between Nikki and Jared. A woman couldn’t be there for everybody else and still manage to be there for herself.

  “Nikki, can’t you and Jared fix things?” Jessica pleaded. “Can’t you go back to being two separate people with separate lives instead of trying to pretend that you’re Ozzie and Harriet?’’

  Nikki shook her head. “No, Jess. I’m afraid it’s really over.’’