What Happens in Suburbia… (Red Dress Ink Novels)

by Wendy Markham

  Alas, the air has that leathery new-car smell mingling with Verna’s designer perfume; nary a hint of Fritos.

  “And we’re off,” Verna says cheerfully, pulling out of the real-estate office parking lot and onto Main Street in Glenhaven Park.

  I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Jack is paying attention.

  He’s looking out the window, as he should be. So far, so good. Unless he’s staring off into space, wondering why he’s here.

  Frankly, there might be a teensy chance of that.

  Because even though we agreed last Sunday to spend this Sunday looking at houses, I’m thinking he’s either been in weeklong denial, or had no intention of honoring his promise to me.

  The biggest indicator: when Mitch asked us last night—while the three of us were walking home from a late movie—if we wanted to hang out today and watch the basketball playoffs, and Jack said yes.

  “We can’t, we have other plans,” I said to both of them, and wound up feeling like the mean mommy who doesn’t allow Super Soakers or sweetened cereal.

  “What kind of plans?” Mitch asked nosily.

  All right, maybe not nosily. Maybe just curiously.

  Maybe I’m just pretty damn sick of Mitch and his questions and his hanging out.

  Of course Jack hedged, so I was the one who had to break it to Mitch that we’re probably moving to the suburbs.

  Mitch didn’t say much in response. Mostly he just gave Jack a reproachful look, and me the silent treatment as we covered the remaining half block to his building.

  After we left him off, I said to Jack, “I guess he’s going to miss us when we move, huh? Or you, anyway.”

  “Not just me. He loves you, Tracey.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Mitch loves me. If he loves me, he’ll set me free.

  “Anyway, it’s not like we’re moving tomorrow,” Jack says, “so…”

  That pause seemed ominous to me.

  I found myself wondering how he was going to complete that thought.

  So Mitch will have plenty of time to get used to the idea?

  Or…

  So Mitch will have plenty of time to convince our future suburban next-door neighbors to sell their place to him?

  I probably should have asked Jack to finish the sentence, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  Anyway, here we are, embarking on a new adventure as future home owners, and I don’t want anything to put a damper on this day because so far, it’s going well.

  I was pleasantly surprised by Verna, the listing agent on a bunch of houses whose ads caught my eye. Not surprised by the fact that she’s sporting a Palm Beach tan in mid-March and has a fresh-from-the-country-club preppy pink sweater, gold jewelry, blond pageboy caught back in a black headband. I was more surprised that she’s treating us so well when most of the listing pages taped in the window of Houlihan Lawrence run upward of a million dollars.

  But when I called Verna earlier in the week and answered a few questions—including the dreaded “What price range are you looking in?”—she didn’t tell me to try the outer reaches of New Jersey. She said, “Sure, come on up!”

  The thing is, anywhere else, our price range—half a million bucks, give or take a hundred grand—would buy a mansion. In my hometown on the opposite end of New York State, I don’t think houses that expensive even exist. But here in the tristate area, that’s the lower end of the housing market, and I’m thinking Jack and I will be lucky if we find something.

  Glenhaven Park is the first town we’re visiting as we launch our official house hunt here in Westchester County. We chose it—well, I chose it—because Jack and I have driven through it a few times while we were up here visiting his mother, and I think it’s charming.

  It has always struck me as one of those old-fashioned small-town movie sets. You know: leafy streets lined with sidewalks that attract strolling pedestrians and kids on bikes; flag-flying Victorian houses with blooming gardens; redbrick schools and white church steeples. In the business district, turn-of-the-century storefronts line the brick sidewalks. Running through the center of it all is a grassy commons where cobblestone paths meander among ancient shade trees, lampposts, benches and statues.

  Beyond the village proper, some of the surrounding roads are unpaved and lined with crumbling old stone walls. That’s where the horse farms and country estates are.

  Here in the heart of town, there are plenty of expensive homes, too—as in a million dollars and well on up. But I circled ads for a bunch of houses in our price range, so I’m excited to see what our money can buy.

  We could definitely afford a two- or even three-bedroom condo in the complex perched on a hill above the town, but I’m tired of sharing walls, a ceiling or a floor with strangers. I want a regular house, with a basement and an attic. I want a garage and a driveway and a car to park there. I want a dome-topped mailbox on a pole, the kind where you put the red flag up for outgoing mail, and I want a yard with trees and a swing set (eventually) and yes, a septic tank. I want to step out my back door on a hot August afternoon to pick fresh tomatoes and basil for a salad, and cut an armload of bright-colored zinnias to put in a vase on the dinner table, just the way my mother always did on hot August afternoons back in Brookside.

  I want my future children to grow up the way I did, and the way Jack did.

  Although, my parents’ cozy, well-worn house in Brookside is a far cry from the stately six-thousand-square-foot Bedford colonial where Jack was raised. His parents sold it after the divorce.

  And while Brookside is a bona fide small town, it’s seen better days, unlike this one. Here, you get the feeling that better and better days just keep on coming.

  At least, I get that feeling judging by the lineup of cars parked in the diagonal spots along Main Street: BMWs, Lexuses—even a Ferrari. Every other car is an SUV, with a few Hummers thrown in for good measure.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you both that Glenhaven Park is very commutable. You took the train up from Manhattan this morning, right?” Verna points at the Metro-North rail station as we pass.

  “Actually, we took the train up to my mother-in-law’s—she lives nearby—and borrowed her car to drive over here,” I tell Verna.

  “Oh! So you’re familiar with Westchester already, then.” She brakes at an intersection, glances into the rearview mirror, maybe at Jack. “Where does your mom live?”

  I can’t tell whether she’s talking to me, or to Jack. Wilma isn’t my mom, she’s my mother-in-law, as I just mentioned. But maybe Verna misunderstood. Or maybe she’s trying to engage Jack in the conversation.

  Good luck, Verna.

  Jack’s been pretty quiet from the moment we woke up this morning, back home in Manhattan.

  True, I had set the alarm for an ungodly early hour for a Sunday, and Jack is never exactly chatty before he has his coffee. But he wasn’t chatty afterward, either, or during the hour-long ride up the Harlem line on Metro-North, or at his mother’s condo during our short visit with Wilma.

  It could be that he’s changed his mind about ever moving to the suburbs after all. Or maybe he’s just upset that he has to miss watching the March Madness game today.

  Knowing Jack, that’s probably it. He grumbled about it the whole time he was setting the TiVo this morning to record it.

  “My mother-in-law lives in Bedford,” I tell Verna when Jack neglects to answer the question, probably too busy wondering how on earth he’ll carry on if there’s a massive blackout in Manhattan and TiVo fails him.

  “Really? So you grew up there? Then for you, this is coming home again.” This time, Verna is definitely looking into the backseat via the rearview mirror, talking to Jack.

  And this time, Jack replies. “Well, I didn’t grow up here in Glenhaven Park, so…not exactly.”

  “She means Westchester in general,” I tell him, wishing he could be more agreeable. “And since Bedford’s practically next door to Glenhaven Park—ooh, how cute!” I int
errupt myself to say, gazing at a children’s boutique called Bug in a Rug.

  It’s housed in a Victorian building painted in shades of pink and cranberry, with striped awnings. Totally charming. If you have kids.

  Or charming even if you don’t, because I, for one, am totally charmed.

  “Jack, look at that amazing rag doll in the window! Wouldn’t Hayley love that for her birthday?”

  “It’s bigger than she is,” he observes.

  True. Still…

  “I think she’ll love it.” Hayley is my niece—my brother Danny and his wife Michaela’s daughter, back in Brookside. She’s turning three in June and is obsessed with dolls.

  I turn my head to keep an eye on the shop as we drive past, noting its location. Very cute. Very charming.

  Speaking of charming—which is not a word I use often, but I’ve found myself speaking it, or thinking it, pretty constantly since we arrived in Glenhaven Park: “Ooh! Look at that—is that a bakery?”

  “Yes, isn’t it charming?” Verna asks, equally well versed in the local vernacular.

  “So charming. Look, Jack, it’s called Pie in the Sky.” Perched up on the second floor of a skinny building, the exterior is painted sky blue and the sign is hand-lettered on a fat, white cloud in the plate-glass window. “I love it. Isn’t that a great name? It’s so fitting!”

  “It’s almost as fitting—and charming—as Bug in a Rug,” he fake rhapsodizes. “Although, unless they’re selling bugs or rugs, I really don’t see why that—”

  “So I take it they make good pie at that bakery?” I ask Verna, cutting off Jack. Usually, I find it amusing when he mock gushes. Not today. I don’t want Verna to pick up on it and decide not to sell us a house here.

  Okay, okay, maybe I’m being paranoid, but I really want things to go well. I really feel like Glenhaven Park can be my new hometown.

  “Oh, absolutely! They make great pie.”

  “I love pie!”

  Not that I ever allow myself to eat much of it these days. But back when I was fat, and depressed, I could have eaten a whole pie by myself in one sitting. It’s one of my favorite things in the world.

  “If you have time while you’re here in town, you really should stop in and pick one up to take back to the city with you,” Verna advises. “The prices are so reasonable and the key lime, especially, is scrumptious. They make it only once a year, for Saint Patrick’s Day, so they have it this weekend.”

  Scrumptious, charming and reasonable prices?

  What’s not to love about Pie in the Sky?

  Or Glenhaven Park, for that matter.

  Yes, I can so see us living here—Jack and me. Without Dupree. Er, I mean Mitch.

  I feel like celebrating. I might even allow myself a piece of pie.

  “The first house we’re going to look at is right back this way,” Verna informs us, turning right around a corner, and then right again.

  I’m half expecting the scrumptious and charming streetscape to give way to a pocket of seediness, but so far, so good. The houses are set a little closer to the street and to each other here, but that’s no biggie. Not a derelict or a rat in sight.

  “Here we are.” Verna glides the Mercedes along the curb.

  For a second, I think she’s referring to the two-story stucco Tudor with the white wooden trellis arching over the front walk.

  Whoa—I love it! I absolutely love it! I can just see—

  Oh. Oops. We’re still gliding.

  When we do come to a stop, it’s in front of the house next door to the Tudor.

  A house that…isn’t half-bad. Seriously. I don’t absolutely love it on sight, but…

  “It’s nice,” I tell Verna, mustering some enthusiasm.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Sure it is. Especially if you like small, low ranch houses circa 1971, with vinyl siding in a deep yellowy gold precisely the shade of First Morning Pee.

  So this is our price range. It could be worse.

  It could also be a whole lot better.

  I don’t dare look at Jack as Verna leads the way up the walk, maneuvering her shiny black patent-leather loafers carefully around the puddles left over from last night’s rain.

  “That azalea will be scrumptious in a couple of weeks.” She points at the overgrown shrub that obscures most of the living-room picture window.

  I nod and murmur something appropriately passionate about the soon-to-be-scrumptious azalea, while scanning the listing sheet she just handed me.

  Built in 1972—what’d I tell you?

  It’s billed as the Perfect Starter Home, which right off the bat tells you—at least it tells me—that you’re probably not going to want to stay long. The nine-hundred-square-foot house has a front entryway, plus an LR, Updated EIK, 2 Brs, 1B, At Gar, FP.

  This I have learned by doing my homework this past week, translates to Living Room, Updated Eat-In Kitchen, Two Bedrooms, One Bathroom, an Attached Garage and a Fireplace.

  There is also a Level Lot with Mature Plantings, catchphrases I noticed in quite a few ads as I was perusing the papers. I’ll admit, I’ve never given much thought to Level Lots and Mature Plantings, but some people must be into them. And you have to admit, there’s not much appeal to a Steep, Rock-strewn Lot or Immature Plantings, which would be…what? Saplings?

  I don’t know.

  I just hope the inside of this place is more promising than the outside, because I’m already not loving it, Perfect Starter Home or not.

  Verna unlocks the front door—which is made of yellow-orange wood and has an arched window in the top—and we step inside. There, we find ourselves standing on a rectangular patch of tile patterned to look like flagstone.

  This, I assume, would be the front entryway, separated from the carpeted LR by a flat gold metal strip of flooring. It’s like we’re standing on this ugly little fake stone pier jutting into a turquoise shag sea that smells strongly of cat.

  On the upside, there probably aren’t any rats in this house.

  On the downside: in addition to a strong cat aroma, there are warping sheets of wood paneling, fake brick veneer on the fireplace and those small slatted windows you have to crank open.

  The Updated EIK is no better. Avocado-green appliances, green—a different shade of green, like emerald—indoor-outdoor carpeting, sagging dark brown cupboards with black metal pulls. Okay, so…updated when? 1973? And the tiny eat-in alcove, which lacks a table and chairs, is mostly occupied by a plastic step-pedal garbage can and a litter box. I’m not sure which smells worse.

  Onward we trudge, encountering a highly pissed-off-looking black cat who doesn’t look the least bit pleased to see us.

  Bathroom: blue tub, blue sink, blue tile and an even smaller, narrower, crank-open window, which is located just at boobs level in the wall above the tub. No curtains, shade or blinds. The lovely Tudor next door has a prime peepshow view. Nice.

  Bedrooms: small rectangles, pretty much the same size, though the master is distinguished by a shallow double closet with pressboard slider doors that aren’t quite operating on the track. In fact, one is swinging free from the top track and nearly knocks me unconscious when I go to open it.

  Garage: oil stains on the only patch of floor visible amid heaps of things like broken-down lawn furniture and rusted yard tools. It smells of spilled gasoline. Heavy scampering overhead alerts us that something—maybe another cat, maybe God-only-knows-what, a raccoon? A bear cub?—is living in the rafters.

  As we go back through the house, Verna keeps pointing out all the potential. I honestly do keep trying to see the place without the home-owner clutter, the god-awful furniture, the cheap, shiny drapes, the litter box, and oh, yes, not one but two pissed-off black cats who watch us warily and stealthily follow us from room to room.

  Finally, as we return to the living room, I look over my shoulder at Jack and raise my eyebrows, as if to ask, Well? What do you think?

  Jack shakes his head slightly at me, as if to say, I’
d rather endure all eternity amid the rats and roaches, beneath the circus-freak family, with the Mad Crapper creeping ever nearer to our doorstep.

  I nod in complete agreement as Verna leads us out the front door, pointing out the additional potential in the concrete slab, which she generously refers to as a “porch.”

  The whole experience is somewhat depressing, and the fact that it’s starting to drizzle outside doesn’t help. I give the house one last glance as we drive away. I mean, I’m sure there could be potential here somewhere.

  Maybe some savvy buyer could knock the place down and start fresh amid the Mature Plantings. But that savvy buyer is not going to be us.

  “It’s not quite what we’re looking for,” is how I phrase it to Verna, who wants to know what we thought.

  “Mmm, hmm. Well, it was on the small side,” she says.

  I nod vigorously, as if small is the deal breaker.

  What I want to say is, “Got anything that doesn’t reek of cat pee?”

  But who knows? Maybe cat pee is all we can afford in Glenhaven Park.

  Nope.

  We learned on our next stop that we can also afford a partially gutted wreck whose owner started a massive renovation and then either ran out of money, or was run out of town on a rail—something like that. Verna kind of mumbled the details, which involved running. Maybe from the cops, or a gun-toting ex-wife.

  Anyway…the gutted wreck is out of the question, affordable or not.

  We then find out that we can also afford a flooded basement. The two-story Victorian on a nice block is actually promising until we start to descend the subterranean stairs. There must be at least two feet of standing water there.

  Verna, ever the optimist, begins, “You can always pump it out…” Then she catches sight of our expressions. “You’re right. You don’t want this place. Let’s move on.”

  House number four, another seventies ranch, is empty, so we don’t have to try to envision it without furniture or home-owner clutter. But there’s a definite pall hanging over it from the moment we cross the threshold.