by Tish Cohen
He takes hold of the rails and they both go at the right side. The bassinet budges, but not much. “We just wedged it the opposite way,” Noel says, squatting lower. “Try it one more time, but less muscle.”
A loud buzz drowns out what remained of “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
“Those speakers sound fixable,” Eleanor says.
Ali McGraw smiles so wide it must hurt. “Oh, he can fix them.” She laughs almost maniacally. “I can tell you right now he’ll fix them.”
They jerk the rails up and to the left now and finally the bassinet starts to move. Noel cries out in pain as his arm lodges between crib side and door frame. “Push it back. Push back!” They bump it back and then forward again until the bassinet is on the sidewalk. Noel rolls up his sleeve to reveal a long jagged gash. “You didn’t tell me the posts were cracked.”
“I said it. Eleanor, did I not say it?” Ali McGraw takes Noel’s forearm. “Look at him. The poor man is bleeding.”
“I’m fine.” A drop of blood hits the sidewalk.
Ginny walks up with a steaming cup of what smells like mint tea. She motions for the waiting customers to head out the door now and examines the cut. “You’re going to need stitches.”
“We should take him to Emerg,” says Ali. “I’ll drive.”
“I’m married to an ER doctor,” Eleanor says. Noel looks at her quickly and she adds, “Or I was. Noel doesn’t need Emerg. Ginny please bring us the first aid kit.”
Ginny returns with a near-flattened tube of Polysporin and a frilly pink receiving blanket covered in baby polar bears. “I took it home the other night and my kids emptied it. This is all I could come up with.”
“That blanket’s from Italy!”
“It’s clean. I’m fine.”
“Here, let me.” Ali takes the Polysporin and squeezes it onto his wound. “So you sell old records? I hear they’re making a huge comeback. All the hipsters are buying them.”
“I won’t sell to hipsters.” He winces as Eleanor tugs his sleeve up higher. “Ow!”
“Stop squirming,” she says. “It’s not that bad.”
“What’s your most expensive record?” asks Ali.
Noel stops glaring at Eleanor long enough to say, “Definitely the Beatles’ butcher-cover album. They pressed a couple of thousand covers before someone decided that showing the band covered with the blood and bodies of dismembered baby dolls maybe wasn’t so great for their image. Dead babies don’t tend to sell.” He notices her belly and adds, “Sorry. Inappropriate imagery.”
Ali fans away his worries. “How much for it?”
“Got it listed at eleven thousand dollars.”
The woman pulls a credit card out of her wallet, writes something on the back of an envelope, and places it in his good hand. “Here’s my Visa number and delivery address. Will you courier it to my house?”
“Are you serious?”
Ali glances at the pile of sodden vintage Rolling Stone magazines and rust-stained T-shirts, clearly unsellable, beside his door. “I have to have it for my collection. Get it to me a.s.a.p., promise?” She waddles toward a Cadillac Escalade up the block.
Eleanor calls out, “Wait—what about the bassinet?”
“I can’t put my baby in that thing. It’s cracked.”
Chapter 39
I don’t understand why you’re so upset.” Ginny tries to sidle past Angus, bumping him with her ballooning midsection as she follows Eleanor into the living room. She maneuvers herself onto the floor and pulls disposable chopsticks, then container after container of Chinese food, from a paper bag. Eleanor counts eight containers on the table.
“Seriously, Gin? This is enough food for six people.”
Ginny sighs. “I’m counting four and that’s without the dog.” She opens a carton of spring rolls and offers one to Angus, who practically swallows it whole. “The only time I don’t feel sick is when I’m eating.”
Eleanor watches Angus gobble another spring roll and shakes her head. “I even switched hand lotions, in case I was tainting his meals with the scent of orange blossom or something. It makes no sense.”
“Makes perfect sense. It’s Canine Psychology 101. The dog’s depressed because his pack split up. Did he listen to Jonathan over you?”
Eleanor thinks about this a moment. “Actually, yes. Obeyed Jonathan the first time he asked. I have to beg, plead. Eventually I give up.”
Ginny pops a whole chicken ball into her mouth and says, “You should be reading my dog book. Angus is like a kid. He needs an alpha. A pack leader. Doesn’t know what’s what with nothing but a wishy-washy littermate in charge.”
“So why won’t he eat for me?”
“I told you, he wants a pack. With me here, he feels more complete. Plus I’m not wimpy.”
“Neither am I!”
Ginny stares at her. “Whatever gets you through the night. So spill. Why are we upset about a DVD of Sylvie?”
Eleanor flops down onto the couch and pulls her bare feet up onto the cushion. “You know how they sent me a ‘Mama’ DVD the other week? The ‘Dada’ version just arrived.”
“Shit.”
“Yes. I’m dying to see it—it’s Sylvie, of course—but I can’t watch it alone.”
“Ah. Okay, hang on.” Ginny opens up a few more containers and scrapes a mountain of food onto her plate. “You got anything good to drink?”
Eleanor gets up and heads to the kitchen, returning with a glass of mango juice for Ginny and red wine for herself. Ginny waves over the wine.
“Forget it. You don’t get to have any.”
Ginny takes the glass and holds it under her nose. Inhales deeply. “I’m allowed a daily whiff. No rules against that.” She settles a pillow behind her back and nods toward the TV. “I’m ready. Bring on the agony.”
Eleanor taps the remote at the TV and Sylvie’s face appears. This video was likely made before the first she received. Sylvie’s hair is loose this time. Wild and natural and gorgeous, but shorter. And Sylvie’s front teeth haven’t come in. Again, Cathy holds her. Sylvie keeps reaching up with splayed fingers to touch her foster mother’s daisy earrings. Eleanor looks closer. Sylvie is wearing the red jumper from the store. She had mailed it as soon as she and Jonathan were approved.
Seeing Sylvie in something from home makes this all less surreal.
Cathy, holding Sylvie under the arms as she stands on her lap, says, “Say Dada. Dada.” It’s not as noisy in this video. Easier to hear what’s being said.
Sylvie says nothing, just stares wide-eyed at the camera.
Now Cathy bounces her up and down and shows her how to wave, which Sylvie doesn’t imitate. A tiny finger goes in her mouth and a string of drool hits her collar.
“Say Dada, Sylvie. Dada …”
Sylvie grunts, points a wet finger at the camera.
“Dada,” Cathy repeats.
More determined now, Sylvie stands up taller and holds out both arms.
“Dada.” Cathy looks worried.
“Just freaking say it already, kid! You’re killing me!” Ginny blurts out.
Eleanor shoots her a look. “We don’t want her to say Dada! She didn’t say Mama!”
“But we know she’s going to say it and you’re going to cry!”
On cue, Sylvie tilts her chin up and whispers, “Da-da.”
“Yes, wonderful!” her foster mother squeals, bouncing her in delight. She says something to the cameraman and the video clip abruptly ends.
Ginny turns to look at Eleanor, who pinches her hand to force herself not to cry. Once she has control over her emotions, she reaches for a carton of steamed veggies and swallows a mouthful. “There. Done. I lived.”
“It doesn’t mean anything that she didn’t say Mama. You do know that.”
“Of course I know that. It’s developmental, etcetera, etcetera.”
“But still, it’s killing you.”
“Of course it’s killing me. I am human.”
“Oh no
. Don’t even think about doing what you’re thinking about doing.”
Eleanor puts down the carton and ejects the DVD. Snaps it back into its case and sets it high up on a bookshelf. “I am absolutely not taking this to him.”
“Good girl. Jonathan walked away. To get him back via emotional manipulation would not serve you well.”
“Exactly. Now pass me the chicken fried rice.”
Chapter 40
It’s almost 11 p.m. by the time Ginny leaves. Eleanor, in an attempt to avoid watching the video again, pulls on boots, jeans, two big sweaters, and her Annie Hall hat, and coaxes the reluctant Angus out for a walk in the cold night air.
Once outside in the crisp night air, the dog perks up and actually strains against his leash in an effort to get going. She tugs him back as she locks the door to the building. “Hang on, Angus.” As they pass Death by Vinyl, she glances inside. It’s dark. The Sasquatch is barely recognizable as such over by the counter. He could be an oafish man in a hairy coat, albeit alarmingly large. She sees light streaming in from the back of the store and leans closer to the window. The alley door is propped open by a crateful of records. Either Noel is being robbed or he’s out back putting out the trash.
Marion used to give Eleanor this advice: when considering whether or not you should do something, ask yourself “would an idiot do it?” If the answer is yes, reconsider. Aware that only the very biggest of idiots would do this, she makes for the dark passageway that leads from the buildings to the back alley.
Angus is so excited he practically drags her. The alley is a cornucopia of smells usually off limits. It’s where the garbage lives. There is glorious rotted meat, cheese that has liquefied in the sun, cast-off clothing, fouled kitty litter and—forget the banality of canine urine—there is the single most interesting bodily fluid of all. Human urine. Add to the mix the possibility of chasing from the Dumpster a raccoon or an urban coyote, and you have a veritable Disneyland for an apartment-dwelling dog.
He pulls so hard against his leash, his breath comes in broken, croupy coughs. “Angus!” Eleanor tugs him back. A series of crashes and bangs from the back only make Angus pull harder. “Settle down.”
They emerge from between the buildings to find Noel outside rearranging trash cans. He’s arranged his, hers, and the closest neighbors’ cans from biggest to smallest right beside the Dumpster. Dressed in a Dead Kennedys T-shirt and pajama bottoms, he looks up to see them and runs his hand through his hair as if he’s been working all evening to solve the world’s renewable energy crisis.
“Hey.”
Angus rushes him and inspects his pajamas for leftover dinner, evidence of him having petted another dog, whatever, and Eleanor is pulled along behind. She stares at the bins. “How am I going to know which is mine?”
“That’s the beauty part. It doesn’t matter.”
“Plus, it’s all the way over here. It’s not by my back door.”
“No. This way we’ve opened the space behind our stores and the stench of garbage is farther away from our doors—which some of us like to prop open.”
“And in the weather—an umbrella in one hand, the trash in the other. And then there’s the snow. I see your point, but really, I don’t think this is going to work so well …”
“I’m actually thinking of installing a screen door. It gets so hot inside now that the rads come on. And, really, why do we care which bin belongs to whom? Trash is trash. Next I’m going to figure out how we can get the Dumpster moved across the alley to sit between those two garages over there. What do you think?”
If she didn’t know him, she’d swear he was high, the speed at which the words tumbled out of his mouth, his overly amped arm movements.
He positions himself where the Dumpster could be and explains why it would be easier for the trucks to empty it. As he moves from one graffitied garage door to the next, going on and on about efficiency and odors and rats, as Angus sits at the end of his leash, wagging his tail as if in full agreement, Eleanor stares at Noel’s boots. They were clean this afternoon. Now they’re covered in mud.
There is no mud in the alley.
Suddenly the significance of the day hits her. His wife died November sixteenth. One year ago today. He’s been to the cemetery.
She lowers herself onto the asphalt and pulls the panting Angus close, rubbing his shoulder. “Noel?”
He stops talking. “You know what I’ve discovered, since I started living alone?”
“What.”
“That the best time of day is the evening. Just after work, when you get home and turn on a lamp or two, maybe light a candle. You grab something like celery and peanut butter from the fridge because no one’s watching. You pour yourself a glass of wine and turn on a movie. I mean, it was fun to be together and do that. But when you’re together it’s the ‘us’ you’re aware of. When you’re alone, you get to know the evening itself. Its quirks. Its glow.”
He sets his hands on his hips, blinking. “Yeah. You’re kind of sorry when it ends.”
“Yes!”
“I mean, you’re going to see it again, same time the next day, but still. You’re sad to leave it behind and go to sleep.”
Eleanor’s face slides into a smile. “Exactly.”
They stare at each other, silent but knowing. He shifts his weight to one side and opens his mouth as if to say something. Then a neighbor’s car door slams and Angus barks, and the moment has passed. Noel turns back to the Dumpster and sets his hands on it, tries to shake it as if he might be able to drag it across the alley by himself. Eleanor unclips Angus and lets him race around with his nose to the ground.
She shades her eyes from the light. “Noel?”
He turns.
“Are you doing anything November twentieth?”
Chapter 41
His wife and children aren’t difficult to find. Ethan’s death was so recent, he’s still in the current phone book—address and all.
She debated what to do. Even doing nothing at all. But Isabelle, who has helped so many, who helped Eleanor herself, doesn’t deserve to live the rest of her life alone in that gigantic Beacon Hill town house. A house that big needs to be filled with people. Family.
Eleanor doesn’t want to call and leave a message. She doesn’t even know Ethan’s widow’s name. She tells Ginny she’ll be out for the morning, fills up her Volkswagen Beetle with gas, and drives out to Sandwich. Parks across the street from 341 Cherry Blossom Court, beside the communal mailboxes, between two rhododendron hedges, and waits.
Most of the homes in this subdivision have a salty Cape Cod feel to them. All are different shades of gray clapboard with white trim and a peaked roof. The neighborhood is fairly new, judging from the landscaping. All the shrubs are undersized and spaced quite far apart. It’ll be a few years yet before they grow up and out and start to spill into each other.
It’s a rare driveway that doesn’t have a basketball net, and a bike path at the end of the courtyard leads to an open green space. An ideal place to raise children.
When Eleanor set out, she had no idea what she’d do. Scurry up to the front door when no one is home and leave a note or wait until Mrs. Runion is home and speak to her in person. She sips her now-cold coffee and debates. On the one hand, it would be more dignified, more personal to introduce herself and give the woman the message in person. On the other, she has no way of knowing how Ethan felt about being adopted or if he even knew at all. If he did, he may have had no interest in meeting his birth mother, and who is Eleanor to put his grieving widow under that kind of pressure?
It’s two forty in the afternoon; the kids are likely in school. A navy minivan sits in the driveway. Eleanor leans back in her seat and waits. Just as she hoped, at about 3:05, the front door opens and a woman with short brown hair steps out, locks the door behind her. She’s thin, broad-shouldered. Looks like she could be quite athletic. She’s not dressed for the weather either, in her T-shirt and sweatpants. With nothing in her hand
s but wallet and keys, she’s not planning to be gone long. Probably back up Acacia to the public school just over the hill.
Eleanor will have to act fast.
She watches the woman climb into the van. As the vehicle speeds past, Eleanor ducks. It isn’t until she hears the vehicle stop at the corner and pull into traffic that she sits up and reaches for a pen. On a blank card, she writes:
Mrs. Runion,
I am deeply sorry for your loss. I have some information about
your late husband’s family that may help you. Please call me at 518–555–1726.
Warmest wishes,
Eleanor Sweet
She runs across the street and places the sealed envelope in the mailbox and gets back in the car. With any luck, she’ll hear from Ethan’s wife soon.
As she pulls away from the curb, she decides it was the right thing to do, leaving the note rather than shocking Mrs. Runion in person.
Of course, she’s learned from the best.
Chapter 42
Isabelle’s closet is dark. In such a house, one bare bulb hanging from a wire—it’s incongruous. Wrong. It should be a grand chandelier illuminating her wardrobe.
“When you’re going to a wedding like this,” Isabelle says, pulling out a long navy shift, making a face and putting it back. “Formal, in Cambridge, and you’re meeting people for the first time, you don’t want to wear anything that people will remember. You want them to say, ‘It was lovely meeting Eleanor.’ Not ‘I didn’t quite understand the pattern of Eleanor’s skirt.’ Besides that, I insist you wear at least three fewer layers of armor than you would otherwise. Left to your own will, you’re likely to pile a caftan atop a dress atop several pairs of trousers.”
“Layers aren’t armor. They’re fashion.”
“That’s not your reason and you know it. Somehow you’ve gotten it into your head that you can prevent people from hurting you by wearing as many skins as an onion. Well, I’m here to tell you that none of us gets through it unscathed. And all the scarves in the world won’t stop it from happening to you. How about this?” She holds up a full-length peach gown with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline.
