by Mary Kubica
I draw the blinds open one more time and look outside. Theo isn’t there. The blinds are closed throughout the Hart home; the house is dark. I turn back to Maisie. First I tell her that she shouldn’t use words like scumbag, and neither should Mommy or me. They’re not nice.
But then I look her in the eye and say sternly, “Secondly, Maisie, you know better than to lie. We just talked about this tonight. Remember the story of the boy who cried wolf?” I ask, and she nods her head, mouth open, ready to argue. I see the words forming in her mind: But he was there, she thinks, though I press a finger to her lips and whisper, “Shhh,” before she can say them aloud. He’s not there now. He wasn’t there before.
And even if he was, he lives there. Theo Hart outside is nothing out of the ordinary, unfortunately. Maisie just wanted to try the word scumbag on for size. She wanted to delay bedtime, to get a reaction.
And so I put my poker face on and say that it’s time for bed.
Knowing she has a tendency for dramatics when she’s four, Clara and I better be at the top of our game by the time she turns sixteen, or we’re going to be in trouble.
CLARA
In the parking lot of the police department, I pull up a search engine on my smartphone and type in the woman’s name that the detective has given me, the accuser who filed an Emergency Order of Protection against Nick. The need to know is eating away at me; I can’t wait until I get home. In the back seat Felix fusses, but this time my own urgency and desperation prevail. I search the name the detective has given me. Melinda Grey.
All the usual social media sites load, Facebook and Twitter, the woman’s Pinterest boards. Her profile photo is hardly of herself, but rather a crystal-blue coastline with a palm tree set to the side, Hawaii or Puerto Rico maybe, the Virgin Islands. A woman stands at the center in a bikini top and a sarong, though she’s at such a distance she’s near impossible to see, an afterthought to the palm tree and the sea. Her Tweets are protected; her Facebook page is set to private. Only her Pinterest boards are public, but all I find there is an obsession with chocolate and handmade crafts. The White Pages online list an address on Parkshore, which I scribble quickly onto the back of my hand, but before I can investigate further, my phone rings.
“Hello?” I ask, agitated by the untimely phone call that pulled me away from Melinda Grey, from zooming in on her profile photo to see if I could catch a smidgen of eye color, a snippet of hair. Melinda Grey filed a restraining order against Nick. This woman, with her white bikini top and her splashy sarong, filed a restraining order against my husband. I couldn’t even begin to estimate an age, and I can’t say whether or not she’s pretty, but my mind wonders why. Why did she file a restraining order against Nick? Was he sleeping with her? Were they having an affair?
I think of Nick’s late nights, when he came home from work after Maisie and I were both in bed. Was he not at work at all, but rather with Melinda Grey? Maisie’s words come to me, The bad man is after us, and I have to wonder if Maisie was certain it was a bad man, or if by chance it could have been a bad woman who was after her and Nick. The sunlight was so bright the day of the crash. How likely is it that in the heat of the moment, with the sunlight glaring into her eyes, Maisie saw the driver of the car that pushed her and Nick from the road—if some driver pushed her and Nick from the road?
“Clara,” says a kind voice, pulling me away from my thoughts of Melinda Grey. “It’s Connor,” he says, and I feel a great relief wash over me that for the moment I am not alone. That these questions, these uncertainties, are not all mine to manage. Connor is here.
And so I can’t help myself. I just come out and say it.
“Was Nick having an affair?” I ask, tears already piercing my eyes, and the lack of a response is more than enough to say for certain that he was. Nick was having an affair. Silence lingers in the space between Connor and me for a full thirty seconds or more, and even then all he can muster is an unassertive I don’t know, and I find myself apologizing. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. I shouldn’t have put you in that position,” I say, reminding myself that Connor was Nick’s best friend, not mine. Of course Connor would never betray Nick’s trust.
“Clara,” he says regretfully, but I dismiss him.
“No,” I say. “Please. Forget about it,” as I watch a train of mallard ducks waddle across the police station parking lot and toward a pond on the other side of the road. “Forget I said anything. Forget I asked. What did you call for?” I ask then, remembering it was Connor who called me and not the other way around.
“I wanted to see if you were okay,” he says, and I curtly answer, “I’m fine,” while wiping the tears from my eyes.
Twenty minutes later, I arrive in the doorway to Emily’s home with an iced latte in hand, one from the new coffee shop in town. In the plastic cup the ice cubes melt, turning the cup sweaty.
“For you,” I say, as I call for Maisie to come, and thank Emily for taking her off my hands for a bit. “You’re such a good friend,” I say, though no words are mentioned about Maisie’s tantrum in the grocery store parking lot, my pitiable parenting skills or the fact that Emily may have saved Maisie’s life. My mind is reeling from the information I’ve been delivered in the last few hours: the fact that a woman named Melinda Grey filed an Order of Protection against Nick, the fact that they were having an affair, the belief that she—a jilted lover seeking revenge—pushed him from the side of Harvey Road. I wish more than anything that I could talk to Emily about this, and yet there’s something so disgraceful about a cheating spouse that I can’t bring myself to say the words aloud, not to Emily at least, of whom I’ve been so judgmental of her marriage.
“It was no bother,” she says to me as she invites me inside. I step into the foyer. Her home is meticulous, an art deco–style with bold colors and geometric designs. There isn’t an item out of place, and at this I feel chagrined, knowing how my own home is a mess, in shambles, poor Harriet the dog left alone all day without a walk. She’ll have found a corner to pee in by now, no doubt, and I’ll scold her as if she should have opened the door herself and let herself out to pee. “Really. Teddy just adores her,” she says to me. “We should get them together more often to play.” And Emily asks whether or not I was able to get my shopping done, and I say yes, that I never would have were it not for her, and at this she smiles and says kindly, “Anytime.”
Emily is the type of woman that—until you get to know her—women easily despise. She’s lovely, with her hair the color of obsidian and flawless olive skin. Like other women, I despised her, too, the first time I laid eyes on her as she and Theo moved into the vacant property on our block, a grand Victorian-style home. It wasn’t until later that I discovered that her warmth and compassion belied her beauty as if one couldn’t be both, pretty and nice.
We went years without speaking, though by all accounts we should have been friends. We had so much in common, from concurrent pregnancies to children born just weeks apart, to husbands with hectic work schedules who left us to our own devices for ten hours or more each day.
But it wasn’t until Maisie and Teddy discovered one another at the age of two and a half that Emily and I became friends. It was then that I realized she was sweet and kind, not at all the haughty woman I’d assumed her to be.
“Stay for dinner?” Emily asks of me, reminding me that Theo is out of town. She’s a tall woman, as am I, but taller still, so that her eyes look down to mine.
“Of course,” I say, remembering, and, “Massachusetts. An auto show,” but I shake my head and tell her no. “I can’t stay,” I say, and for a fraction of a second these words nearly follow: Nick will be home soon. It’s habit, a force of nature. Nick should be coming home soon. But tonight Nick will not be home. Tomorrow Nick will not be home, and I’m afflicted by the sudden and painful reminder: Nick is dead. My hand goes to my mouth, but I refuse to cry. I will not cry, there in the foyer to Emily’s home with Teddy and Maisie just upstairs. I feel the warm t
ears spring to my eyes, but I force them aside.
Emily’s hand comes to rest on my arm. “I’m so sorry, Clara,” she whispers, swallowing her own tears. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” But I shake my head quickly and hold up a hand. I can’t have this conversation, not here, not now. Because then I will cry, and I don’t want the children to see me crying. I call for Maisie again, my voice louder now, unbridled and less repressed.
“I’ve left Felix in the car,” I tell Emily, imagining the heat and humidity of the day enveloping his tiny little body, making him sweat. “I need to go,” I say, my voice wavering, losing restraint, and then, nearly a scream for Maisie as the little girl appears at the top of the steps in Teddy’s magician costume—the poplin jacket with its satin lapels, the red cape, the black hat—and asks if we’re ready for the show. She and Teddy have a show for Emily and me to see, a magic act whereby they plan to turn a dollar bill into ten and make a sock randomly appear. I wonder if they can make Nick appear, too.
“We can’t leave now,” says Maisie, with a frown upon her face, her ungovernable hair hanging in her eyes. She stomps her foot and demands of me, “We can’t leave before the show.”
And then I cry.
“Where are we going?” Maisie asks as I drive past our house and continue down the street. It isn’t a question so much as a complaint. If she can’t play with Teddy, then Maisie wants to go home. I stare down at the address I’ve scrawled on a hand, the same one that’s now programmed into my GPS. Maisie begins to groan, “Home, Mommy, home,” as our front porch fades from view.
I think fast.
“I could have sworn, Maisie,” I say as I inch the car through our neighborhood and toward the highway, “that I saw a lost dog walking down the street. Can you help me look for the dog, Maisie, so we can get her home?” I ask as a means of distraction only, for there was no dog, though I go on to describe it for her, a big yellow dog with a purple collar around its neck, as Maisie presses her face to the windowpane, quietly searching for the lost pup, forgetting that she’s tired and hungry, that she wants to go home. I turn on the radio to counteract the silence, watching as, in the rearview mirror, Maisie’s toes begin to tap, her eyes glued out the window, and I pray that between the music and the dog, she’ll be temporarily content.
Parkshore Drive is nearly nine miles south of our own home. At the onset of rush hour, it takes over fifteen minutes to get there, out of our neighborhood and onto the highway, bypassing gas stations and restaurants until the landscape becomes residential again and the houses return. The homes on Parkshore are retro and dated, circa 1950- or 1960-something, when sprawling ranch homes dominated suburban American life. The trees are tall and wide, the houses shrouded by leaves. As I pull onto Parkshore, there are half a dozen boys playing a game of baseball in the middle of the street. They part like the Red Sea before me, so that I can pass through.
“Do you see her, Mommy?” Maisie asks about the dog, and, “Where did she go?”
“I don’t know, Maisie,” I claim, peering over my shoulder to offer a placatory smile, reaching a hand back to pat her knee. I don’t want to lie to her, but how could I possibly explain? “Maybe somewhere up here?” I suggest as I roll along the road and toward the home that, according to the White Pages, is registered to Melinda Grey. I pull to the side of the street and stare at the low-slung home with its evergreen bushes and trees. It’s not much to look at. It’s small and plain, and now that I’m here, I haven’t the first clue what to do. Do I park the car and walk to the door and knock? What would I say to her? Would I ask her outright if she and Nick were having an affair? Or would I make up some excuse as to why I’m here: a door-to-door sales rep maybe, or a missionary from the Church of the Latter-day Saints, here to evangelize and proclaim my faith, so that I can catch a glimpse of the woman who’s taken my husband from me? I wonder what she looks like, as my imagination enlarges the wee figure in the profile photo, the white bikini top and the sarong, until she takes on supermodel stature, a bathing beauty with long, lean legs and enormous breasts.
But I also wonder about the restraining order. Do I call her out on it? Do I point my finger at her and demand to know why she sought an Order of Protection against Nick? There’s no way in the world Nick did something to harm her.
But instead I stay in the car.
I don’t go anywhere. I sit and wait for her to come to me, certain that if I wait long enough, I’ll see her black car pull into the narrow drive, or that she’ll step out from behind the front door to walk a dog or gather the mail or sit on the front stoop with a glass of wine and read.
But waiting with a four-year-old and an infant in the back seat is near impossible. A reconnaissance mission with children tagging along. It isn’t easy to do. It’s not long before Maisie begins to whine that she can’t find the dog, that she can’t find the dog anywhere, and I tell her how we must be quiet so we don’t scare the dog away. “If we stay here, Maisie, then maybe the dog will come to us,” I suggest, “but we have to be quiet.” I press a finger to my lips, and ever-intelligent Maisie suggests that maybe food would help, that maybe if we left some treats outside the car the dog would come to us. Except of course that we don’t have dog treats, no food other than some Goldfish crackers I keep stuffed in a plastic bag at the bottom of my purse, and so I open the car window and toss a handful of crackers outside and watch as Maisie waits optimistically for the dog to come.
The dog doesn’t come.
Nor does Melinda Grey appear, though as six o’clock comes, a light clicks on inside her home, illuminating a living room.
“Stay here, Maisie,” I say, which is a completely needless thing to say, seeing as Maisie is strapped beneath her seat belt and can’t go anywhere.
“Why, Mommy?” she asks, and it’s an impulse when I lie to Maisie and tell her I thought I saw a flash of fur around the corner of the house and hightail it into the backyard of the home.
“I’m going to go see,” I say as I set my hand on the door handle and pull, and Maisie squirms in her seat, saying she wants to go, too. I look to the skies, grateful for rain clouds, and say, “Rain is coming, Maisie. It’ll be here any second. I don’t want you to get wet.” Then I slip quickly from the car and close the door before she can object. I leave the car running, the keys in the ignition so that the air conditioner cools Maisie and Felix in the back seat, and like the flash of fur I supposedly spied, I dart across the street and hightail it toward the backyard, too.
There’s a window on the side of the house, one that joins to the same room where the light turned on. She’s there, I tell myself. Melinda Grey is there. The bad woman is there.
I press myself in between the laurel hedging and toward the double-hung window on the west side of the home. The evergreen clings to my clothing, scratches my skin. A cobweb binds to my hair, and I try hard not to imagine its owner spinning webs in my hair or on my back. My feet sink into dirt. My shoes get dirty.
At the window, I rise up on tiptoes to see inside, careful not to be seen. I rise only so far that my eyes can see, the rest of me hidden beneath the window ledge. It’s a living room, complete with a TV and sofa, a piano and a reclining chair. Like the house itself, it’s a dated room. The carpeting is thick and plush, streaked with stains. A tile entryway buttresses the front door. Framed photographs line a taupe wall, but they’re far away, the images impossible to see from this distance. I can barely make out colors or shapes, though I try. Oh, how I try. I squint my eyes and press closely to the window and try to make out Melinda Grey in the photographs. I rise up higher on my toes so that now my entire face is at window height, but the closer I press, the more the aluminum screen distorts my view so that everything is marred by silver lines.
I rise higher. I press closer so that the screen abrades my face, likely leaving dust on my nose and cheeks. I cling to the outer edges of the window and pull myself in. I forget altogether to breathe.
And that’s when I see the eyes.
>
Blue eyes that are ever-so-slightly cross-eyed, an aqua blue that press against the screen from the other side, staring at me so that I clutch at my chest and nearly scream, falling quickly to the earth like a soldier at war, diving for the trenches. My heart beats fast, the blood circling my body so quickly that I feel woozy and sick.
And then I hear a name, my name, “Mommy,” hissed at me through the hedges, and as I part the bushes and peer to the other side, I see her, Maisie, standing before me.
“Is the doggy there, Mommy? Did you find the doggy?” she asks, her ginger hair falling into her sleepy eyes. I’m so taken aback at seeing Maisie here, out of her seat and on the other side of the street, that I forget the pair of aqua-blue eyes watching the two of us from the living room window, reaching for a phone to call the police, or a weapon, maybe, to prevent us from telling the truth about Melinda Grey and her black car chasing Nick down Harvey Road.
“How did you—” I begin to ask—How did you get out of your car seat?—but I see her in my mind’s eye, her nimble fingers toiling away at the chest clip, a small thumb pressing hard on the release button as I stared through the window and into the home of Ms. Grey. An escape artist. My very own Houdini. I reach for her instinctively and tug her inside the bushes with me, and as she asks again for the dog, I whisper that the dog found its owner, that the dog lives here, that we don’t have to look for the dog anymore, and Maisie, ever-resourceful and quick, asks, “Then why are we hiding?”
It’s then that my indiscretions slap me in the face, the fact that I am hiding in the bushes, lying to my child, stalking a woman I don’t even know. The fact that even my four-year-old can see the stupidity in this is disgracing. What am I doing? I ask myself, staring at the dirt that clings to the soles of my shoes, the laurel leaves attaching themselves to my clothes.
What am I doing?
I force a smile. I try to think fast, to mollify Maisie, knowing we need to make a break for it and run away before we find ourselves in a world of trouble. “I don’t want the dog to follow us,” I say. “If the dog sees us, she might want to come live with us. And I don’t think Harriet would like that,” I claim.
