by Joseph Souza
How I miss my old life in Seattle. Taking the kids to their playgroups and conversing with all the other mothers. It was my primary means of socializing. I never had many close friends growing up, so I eagerly looked forward to our thrice weekly playgroups. We all shared the same political beliefs, and every so often we would meet for coffee or go out somewhere and converse over glasses of wine.
I even miss the rain. In Seattle it’s more like a constant mist. I also miss the never ending cover of clouds that blankets the region nine months of the year. We lived in a tiny bungalow in Ballard and within walking distance to shops, parks, restaurants, and great pubs. A long time ago, Swedish immigrants settled in Ballard and made it their home. I miss the Swedish market and the annual lutefisk-eating contest held every summer. I miss taking the kids to Golden Gardens Park and listening to the seals’ incessant barking. I miss walking around Green Lake and swimming with the kids in the warm water, and then cooling off with ice creams at Häagen-Dazs.
We had the perfect life in Seattle and I never wanted to leave.
I can’t wait to see my two little monsters and hug them to death. My love at this moment feels singular and pure. Loving one’s kids is the greatest gift a woman can be blessed with in this life.
My own childhood was not as idyllic as my children’s. I never felt truly loved by my parents in the way I love my own children. But my sister and I made up for their apathy by developing a tight bond. We truly loved each other and were inseparable whenever I was home. Being twins, we could communicate without talking. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of Annie. I miss her terribly and wish she could see how wonderful my life has turned out. It would be so cool if she could have lived long enough to meet Clay and the kids.
The sun moves lower in the sky. Soon we will turn the clocks back and lose a precious hour of our lives. A distinct chill is beginning to fill the air. Then the snow will fall and blanket the countryside. I’ve heard all about Maine winters and can hardly wait to experience one. The snowier, the better. Maybe winter will change my mind-set and make me appreciate this part of the country. I see myself snowshoeing and sledding. I’ve studied the L. L. Bean catalogs for so long now that I know every model’s face and dress size. I’ve often pictured myself as one of those All-American Bean girls: rosy cheeks and woolly white sweaters, sitting by the stone fireplace with my handsome hubby after a day of skiing, a cup of hot cocoa warming in my cold hands.
I pour myself another glass of wine as I check on the turkey tetrazzini bubbling away in the oven. The pleasant smell wafts up to my nose and makes me happy. It smells delicious as it permeates the air. When it’s done, I transfer the tetrazzini to some glass cookware to make it appear home cooked, grab the cardboard boxes and aluminum trays it came in, and stash them deep inside the recycling bin so no one sees them.
Cooking, admittedly, was never my strong suit. At least in Seattle all the supermarkets sold wonderfully prepared meals at a decent price. Meat loaf and mashed potatoes and chicken dinners with two sides of vegetables. Clay never noticed when I purchased prepared food for dinner, and if he did he never said anything about it.
I mix a salad, wondering what kind of family Mycah Jones came from. Chadwick’s campus is less than a mile away, and if a kidnapping and assault can happen in this small college town, then it can happen anywhere. I sip my wine and read more about the case in the newspaper. When I’m done, I put the paper down and concentrate on setting the table. The wine has made me slightly dizzy and so I tell myself to take it easy.
It’s nearly three o’clock when I hear a car pull up outside. I peek out the window and see Clarissa parking her Mercedes in the driveway. She’s home early today. She gets out and unfastens the two children from their car seats. Almost immediately, they start running and screaming at the top of their lungs, their energy knowing no bounds. Clarissa looks particularly stressed as she walks behind the car and begins to pull plastic bags out of the trunk.
Plastic?
Doesn’t she know about climate change? Or plastic’s onerous role in depleting the ozone? She tries to grab too many bags at once and one of them splits apart. Groceries spill over the blacktop, cans rolling down to the street, eggs cracked, and bright yellow yokes streaking across the driveway.
This is my opportunity to help.
I run out with my reusable bag and help pick up the groceries, making a mental note of the items she purchased: canned vegetables, mac and cheese, Hamburger Helper, beer, wine, crappy chicken nuggets, and two packages of overstuffed Oreos. Her food choices surprise me; I never would have suspected her as the type to buy Oreos. She strikes me as a stern and disciplined mother when it comes to her family’s nutritional habits. I pictured her carrying bags of organic apples, kale, free-range chicken, and grass-fed beef. I can’t help but be slightly disappointed by all this.
Clarissa looks flustered as I run over and pick up the groceries. I help her carry them inside, where she instructs me to place the items on the granite island. I go back out and help her bring in the rest of the bags while her two little ones run around the house and scream like banshees.
“You’ll have to excuse my children. They’re all wound up this afternoon,” Clarissa says as she takes the groceries out of the plastic bag and places them on the counter.
“I have children too, remember?” I stare at all the plastic bags on the counter, trying not to appear judgmental.
“Something on your mind?”
“Not really,” I say. “It’s just that . . .”
“Go on. Say your piece.”
“The sight of plastic bags makes me anxious.”
“For real?”
“Our planet is in dire straits,” I say, trying not to lecture. “I have some extra reusable bags at home if you ever need one.”
Clarissa laughs. “Thanks, but I have plenty. I simply forgot to bring mine today.”
“I find it helpful to keep extras in the trunk just in case.”
“I’ll certainly remember that,” she says as she puts away groceries.
“I know it sounds crazy, but I’m really concerned about the future of our environment.”
“Think you’re the only one?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t.”
“Just because I forgot my bags one time doesn’t make me a climate denier.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” What the hell am I saying? I remind myself to take it easy on the wine. “The plastics they use today are incredibly toxic. Did you know that sea turtles confuse plastic bags for food, which ends up blocking their digestive tracts?”
Clarissa stares at me before breaking out into a fit of laughter. Her response hurts my feelings. I fail to see what’s so funny about destroying the planet and killing sea turtles.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t find that funny, considering our planet will die soon if we don’t take immediate action.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’ll make sure to use my reusable bags from now on. And I’ll certainly remember the plight of those poor sea turtles next time I shop.”
“I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m lecturing you, Clarissa. I get so worked up about this issue at times.”
“No, you’re right. I should be more mindful of these important matters.” Clarissa scrunches her plastic bags into a ball before stuffing them into a drawer. “Anyway, thank you for helping me.”
“That’s what neighbors are for.”
“How did you even know my bags broke?”
“The oven’s by the window. I was checking on my turkey tetrazzini when I looked out and saw your groceries spill over the driveway.”
“Must be nice to stay home and make home-cooked meals for your family.”
I can’t tell whether she’s poking fun at me or truly envious of my situation. Then again, I’m always one to see the good in people, so I let her comment pass.
I glance around her home. It’s more elegant and refined than what I saw through he
r window earlier in the day. I wonder if she’ll notice that one of her wood carvings is missing. Why did I take it? The thought of what I’d done fills me with guilt, and I promise myself to return it to its rightful place the next time I’m in here.
Her kids run into the room and chase each other around the kitchen island. I stand awkwardly as Clarissa herds them toward a side door, where I presume a spacious playroom awaits them downstairs. How lucky they are to have a finished basement. For some reason, I suddenly feel like an imposition. The children’s voices fade away as they scramble downstairs. I wonder whether I should go home or stay a few minutes longer to say good-bye.
Clarissa appears at the top of the steps, looking tired and frazzled. The expression on her face is one of surprise—that I’m still here? Maybe she expected me to see myself out.
“Thanks so much . . .” She pauses awkwardly, pointing a finger at me.
“It’s Leah.” I try not to sound offended.
“I’m so sorry, Leah. I’m absolutely horrible with names.” She uncorks a bottle of Riesling and pours herself a glass. It takes her a few seconds before she realizes that she hasn’t offered me one. “Would you like wine?”
“Maybe just a little.” I gesture with forefinger and thumb, although I’d be happy with a full glass.
“Cheers,” she says.
“Cheers.” I clink her glass, noticing the macadamia-nut-sized diamond on her finger.
“Don’t mind me, I’m a little off today.”
“Any reason why?” I ask.
“It’s been three years since we moved here from Atlanta and I still miss it.”
“I know how you feel. We moved from Seattle this summer and I miss it every day.”
“I’ve never been to Seattle. Hear it’s a wonderful place.”
“It really is a beautiful city.” I raise my glass again. “To two homesick moms.”
“To homesick mommas,” she says, toasting. Then she shakes her head and looks away.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I have so much to do this afternoon and I don’t even know where to begin.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s a vigil tonight on campus for the missing girl.”
“Yes, I heard about that on the radio.”
“This crime has everyone on edge. We’ve got grief counselors at Chadwick working around the clock. People are just so upset.”
“The police also reported that they found a lacrosse stick near the crime scene with blood on it.”
“I heard that as well. There’s a rumor spreading around campus that someone on the lacrosse team may have been involved with Mycah.” She sips her wine. “If you ask me, that team is made up of a bunch of spoiled, rich, white kids.”
“Do you believe the rumor?”
“Anything’s possible. There’s been so much racism in this school’s past that nothing would surprise me.” She takes another sip of wine. “Have you been following the case?”
“Like everyone else in town.”
She finishes her wine and stares at me.
“So are you going?” I ask.
“If I can find a babysitter.” She glances down at her cell phone.
“Our usual girl can’t make it tonight and neither can her backup.”
“Why not?”
“They’re attending the vigil with some friends. Seems like everyone in town is going to that event.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Of course it is, but not so much for me. I’m supposed to give a speech tonight.”
“Really?” This impresses me but I try not to show it.
“Not if I can’t find a babysitter on short notice.”
“What about your husband?”
“Russell’s a tenured professor at the college. He has to attend.”
“I see.” I sip my wine, careful not to drink too much lest I make another stupid comment. “Good sitters are hard to come by these days.”
“Tell me about it.” She stares at me over the rim of her glass. “Would you be willing to . . . ? No, I can’t impose on you like that.”
“Willing to what?” I know what she’s going to ask.
“I just couldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“Is there any way you could watch my kids tonight?” She pours herself another glass. “This vigil shouldn’t last too long.”
Does she really think that I’m so heartless as to not want to attend? Is it because I’m white? Or that I’m not in any way affiliated with Chadwick College? Certainly, this hate crime transcends campus life. Do I look like someone who is so cold and callous as to not care about racial injustice and hate crimes in my own community?
“I’d really love to help you, Clarissa, but my husband and I are also planning to be there.”
She looks surprised. “Of course. I should have assumed as much.”
“I suppose I could ask my sitter if she’d be willing to look after two more children.”
“Goodness, that would be so helpful if you could. Of course, we’ll help pay any additional costs.”
“I can’t guarantee that she’ll do it.”
“I totally understand. But it would be so helpful if you could somehow convince her how urgent this is. My kids are usually well behaved.”
Well behaved? “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to ask.” I know our babysitter will happily watch two more children if I ask.
“You don’t know how much this means to me, Leah. Thank you so much.”
“That’s what friends are for, right?” I sip my wine, a feeling of goodwill coming over me. The wine is cold, dry, and delicious, and I could easily drink a few more glasses, but she doesn’t offer me another. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How well did you know the missing girl?”
The question seems to catch her off guard. “Not that well.”
“What is it you do at the college, anyway?” The alcohol has loosened my tongue and made me bolder than usual.
She pulls out her phone and checks her messages as if already bored with my company. “I was hired as the college’s chief diversity officer. I’m the first in the school’s history.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“It’s only a half-time position for now, but I also teach some courses as well. This semester I’m teaching Race and Gender in America.”
“Such an important and timely subject,” I add. “What exactly does a diversity officer do?”
“Make sure the various minority populations are represented on campus. I ensure that all students’ voices are heard by the administration.” She seems slightly agitated, which makes me uncomfortable.
“Has it been a problem in the past?”
She looks up at me as if I’ve asked a stupid question. “Chadwick has historically been a bastion of white male privilege. They only began accepting women sixty years ago. My job is to change the perception of race, gender, and privilege on campus, and to help recruit bright young minorities to the school.”
“A truly worthy goal.”
“Did you know that the author Robert Cornish graduated from Chadwick?”
“From what I read, he represents everything wrong with twentieth-century literature,” I respond.
“Force of Will is such a racist novel. They should ban it from every library in this country.”
I remember how much I loved reading Force of Will in college, and it suddenly fills me with guilt.
“So you can see why I have to attend this vigil tonight, especially considering that I’m one of the keynote speakers.”
“Have you prepared a speech yet?”
She laughs. “What do you think? I’m still not sure what I’m going to say. But I’m pretty good on my feet, if I do say so myself.”
“Wonderful.” I clap happily. “I’m sure you’ll be magnificent.”
“Considering the tragic circumstances, I’d say it’s not that wonderful.”
&n
bsp; I curse myself for making such a stupid comment. “I was merely speaking to your ability to bring people together through the use of words.”
“What I’d really like to do is get my hands on the bastards who committed this crime. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if it was one of those privileged frat boys on the lacrosse team.”
“I heard over the radio that members of the team were in town that night.”
“There’s a dive bar they like to patronize called the Monkey Pub. The college has pampered them for too long now. Their parents donate lots of money to Chadwick and because of that they’re considered hands-off by the administration. Their coach is a pompous ass too.”
“Why don’t they fire him?”
“Because he produces winning teams. His players all graduate, get jobs on Wall Street, and end up donating millions back to the school. In his seventeen years at Chadwick, he’s won five national championships. The administration is too chickenshit to fire him.”
“But winning isn’t everything, right?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying since I arrived here, but apparently the administration doesn’t agree with me.”
“They should put their priorities in order. Place more emphasis on equality and social change rather than merely wins and losses.”
“He’s a sneaky one, Coach Williams. He always manages to recruit a few token minorities so he can appease the administration and make it look like he’s more diverse than he really is.”
Clarissa’s phone rings. She answers it and turns to me. After a few seconds, she tells me that she really needs to take the call and would it be all right if she brings the kids over later, assuming our babysitter can watch them. It seems a rather abrupt end to our discussion, but I nod in agreement. My wineglass is half full. It would look boorish if I guzzled the remainder down while she’s staring at me. As soon as she turns her back, I drain my glass and head out.
I feel slightly giddy as I stagger back to the house. It’s been a grand day thus far and I experience a sense of joy that I haven’t felt in a long while. Mr. Shady starts to bark as soon as I approach the front door. I stumble inside and collapse on the couch, praying that my chance encounter with Clarissa will be the start of a long and meaningful friendship.
