Motherhood Is Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  Hormonally challenged in Hoboken

  I felt better as soon as I clicked on “send.” Cyber support groups had sustained me through menopause, mothering the pregnant bride, caring for my aging mother, preparing for an adult bat mitzvah, and becoming a first time grandmother. Maybe now that I knew help would come, I would stop thinking about the small square on my large rear and get back to work. But before I had a chance to dwell further on the uninviting prospect of reliving menopause, my office phone rang.

  “Professor Bel Barrett,” I said, picking up the receiver with the hand that was not full of M&Ms.

  “Professor Barrett, it’s your student Ria Seth here. I’m so glad you’re not a machine,” she said, speaking quickly and softly. A barely audible whimper sounded in the background.

  “Hi, Ria. Sounds like you’re at work. What can I do for you?” I spoke quickly, too, because I knew Ria worked as a nanny, and I assumed that the baby, whimpering more loudly now, would soon claim her full attention.

  “Professor Barrett, I really need to talk to you. Please, can we meet tonight? In your office? I get off work around seven.” Ria spoke a bit louder, no longer fearful of waking her little charge. An under-current of urgency in her voice added drama to her rather ordinary request for a conference.

  I took a deep breath and hardened my heart, recalling my resolution to spend less time at River Edge Community College. Meeting with Ria that evening would mean missing yet another dinner with Sol. “Ria, I have a commitment tonight. How about during my office hours tomorrow night, before class?” I replied. “Just come a little early.” I checked the desk blotter that doubled as my conference calendar. “Do you want to talk about entering the paper on child raising you wrote in the English department essay contest?” I had been trying to convince Ria to enter this contest for several weeks.

  “No, no. It’s not about that,” she said, dismissing the compliment implied in my question. She hesitated for a second before adding, “It’s a private problem.” The whimpering had intensified into the wail of a hungry infant. “I have to go now. See you tomorrow night.” I put down the phone feeling pleased that Ria would get her conference and I would get to have dinner with Sol before he left for a meeting.

  I stuffed the half-melted M&Ms I was still holding into my mouth. An English prof at River Edge Community College in Jersey City, New Jersey, I was in the midst of portfolio review. After revisiting my students’ collected writings, I meet with each of them to offer advice and encouragement intended to guide their future efforts and prepare them for their final grades. Years ago I had discovered that every phase of this ritual is enormously facilitated by the ingestion of large quantities of M&Ms.

  The portfolios I had been working on that afternoon were unusually weak, and it was a challenge to devise individual strategies for improvement. When I finally finished, I stretched and gathered my books and papers in preparation for heading home, where I planned to continue working after dinner. I made sure that Ria’s portfolio was among those I crammed into my backpack so that I’d be prepared for our conference the next evening.

  “You lucked out tonight, Bel. My Citizens’ Committee to Preserve the Waterfront meeting was canceled. I get to stay home with you and rent a movie,” Sol announced as he cleared the dinner dishes from the table. The live-in love of the most recent decade of my life is a retired Rutgers economics prof who had envisioned spending his golden years defending Hoboken from predatory developers and relaxing with me. The developers were literally gaining ground every day and I was always working, so the poor man was often disappointed.

  “Sorry, Sol, but you know I have to review portfolios tonight. I told you, remember? It’s the last week of the semester,” I replied, forcing myself to load the dirty plates into our new powerful dishwasher without first rinsing off the tomato sauce and salad dressing as I’d done for decades.

  “Another exciting night of watching you work,” Sol said with an exaggerated sigh.

  “Tell me about it,” I said, dragging my backpack over to the sofa, sitting down, and pulling out portfolios. With another sigh, Sol settled into the chair across from me and picked up the Book Review section of Sunday’s New York Times.

  It was over two hours later that I came to Ria’s portfolio, the final one of the lot. I usually read her work last, viewing it as my reward for plowing through the writing of her far less literate classmates. Leafing through her essays, I giggled. “What’s so funny?” Sol asked, trying to look as if he had not been dozing over the paper.

  “I’ve got this student who’s really quite charming. She’s a nanny and she often writes about the couple she works for and their baby,” I said, aware as I spoke that my explanation was inadequate.

  “That’s fascinating,” said Sol, sarcasm making his bass voice even deeper. He cocked his head, waiting for the rest of my explanation.

  “The baby’s name is Skylar, and she’s the first child of this earnest two-career Hoboken couple. The wife owns a thriving temp agency with branches in Hoboken, Jersey City, and Fort Lee and the husband is an entomologist, a bug buff. He works at the Museum of Natural History. Ria calls the parents Torrence Eldridge and David a Guzman-Eldridge, but I don’t know if those are their real names,” I said. I’d have to ask Ria about that. If she had used actual names, she’d want to change them if she entered the essay in the department contest. “Anyway, unbeknownst to these people, they feature frequently in Ria’s writing and give it a Gosford Park–meets–The Nanny Diaries quality,” I said. Clearly unconvinced, Sol picked up his paper.

  “She’s really amusing. Just listen to this,” I insisted, pulling out Ria’s most recent effort. “She’s writing about how devices like the Nanny-cam, the baby-monitor, the Wiper Warmer, and the Diaper Genie have taken over the nursery.” Of course, as grandparents, both Sol and I were familiar with these contraptions, but this did not detract from my appreciation of Ria’s refreshing take on them. Sol stifled a yawn. “She’s titled it ‘Babies ’R’ Wired.’ That’s pretty clever, don’t you think?” When Sol didn’t answer, I tried one more time, reading aloud a passage from Ria’s paper. “Listen. ‘The Wiper Warmer is a machine designed to prevent Skylar from experiencing the coldness of the real world. A baby monitor is an in-house television camera for viewing the sleeping infant so Davida does not have to get off her StairMaster and climb the real stairs to Skylar’s room to see what she’s doing.’ Get it?” I paused. Sol was listening, but had thus far managed to control his hilarity. “Ria reserves her greatest scorn for the Diaper Genie,” I went on, knowing that Sol, a diehard environmentalist, also hated this glorified and overpriced trash can. “‘The Diaper Genie is a plastic pail that seals plastic diapers in plastic bags and preserves them there until the parent chooses to discard them. If it is true that disposable diapers are bad for our environment, then this plastic monster truly insults our earth.’”

  “So what does this young woman have to say about the Nanny-cam?” Sol asked, attentive now if not amused.

  “You know, that’s so interesting. Ria has only good things to say about the Nanny-cam. Listen.” I scanned the paper to find the passage I wanted and read, “‘Torrence and Davida informed me at our second interview that they would use a Nanny-cam, a device to protect babies from abusive or neglectful caregivers. If I had to leave my baby with a stranger, I would use a Nanny-cam too. But Davida does not rely only on the Nanny-cam. When her work brings her to Hoboken, she stops in during the day to see how we are. She is truly a caring mother.’”

  I paused and then, still eager to convince Sol of Ria’s wit, I said, “But listen. Here’s another funny part. She says, ’It’s a good thing I aspire to be an engineer because the first thing I had to do when I began working for this family was to help Torrence assemble and install the car seat so he could bring Skylar and Davida home from the hospital. It is illegal to put a baby in a car without one. Next we spent hours putting the crib together. And just the other day we worked a long time to
make the bouncy seat operational. I appreciate the challenge in solving these puzzles, but the eminent scientist Torrence Eldridge does not.’” When I finished reading, I looked at Sol and said, “I find her writing amusing, don’t you?”

  “I’m not rolling on the floor with laughter, but I do think the kid has her head on straight about the damn diaper dumper,” Sol answered.

  “That’s for sure,” I said rather absently, leafing through the rest of Ria’s portfolio. “You know, she called me today and said she had a personal problem she wanted to discuss with me. She’s coming in for a conference tomorrow night. But she’s so together that I can’t imagine what kind of problem she could have.”

  “Oh please, Bel,” said Sol, exasperation giving his words an edge. “Your students come to you for advice on everything. They treat you as if you’re Miss Lonelyhearts, Miss Manners, a career counselor, Dr. Spock, Dr. Ruth, and an immigration attorney all rolled into one. Is this kid pretty?”

  Sol’s seeming non sequitur caught me off guard. “What the hell does her appearance have to do with anything?” I asked, exasperated now myself. “Besides, she’s not exactly a kid. She’s twenty-one. And yes, she’s pretty. Actually, she’s gorgeous. She’s got long black hair, big black eyes, and golden skin. She’s about my height, but lithe and graceful. And she wears glowing gem colored saris. Really, she looks just like a model for Air India. Why?”

  “Well, if she’s pretty, it’s not a romantic problem. It must be her grades.” This was not the first time that Sol’s logic had escaped me. I decided not to explore the assumptions underlying his conclusion that attractive women don’t have romantic problems.

  “Ria’s an excellent student. Besides, she said it was a private problem. But I just can’t imagine what.” I began listing advantages I knew Ria enjoyed. “She has a good job that she actually likes. She has a caring family and at least one good friend. And she’s got a guy. Ria’s looking forward to marrying a man her parents have selected for her according to Indian tradition,” I said, plucking the paper Ria had written in defense of arranged marriages out of her folder and brandishing it in front of me like a banner.

  “You mean to say this smart, good-looking future engineer is actually willing to be married off to someone her parents picked out according to an outdated and misogynistic tradition?” Sol shook his head.

  “Yes. She says here that her parents have found her exactly the kind of man she’d choose for herself and she’s glad she doesn’t have to go through the ‘dating and divorcing,’ as she puts it, that are so common in the United States.” Although I shared Sol’s very American aversion to arranged marriages, I also appreciated Ria’s perspective. “She says her parents have been happily married for 25 years and their marriage was also arranged.”

  “Well,” Sol said with a chuckle as he stood and came over to the sofa, where I was putting my students’ work back into my backpack, “I prefer our little ‘arrangement,’ even if you are an incurable workaholic.” The pressure of his fingers gently kneading my shoulders took some of the sting out of his words. Then, as if to mollify me, he added, “But I hope the kid lives happily ever after.”

  Unfortunately, she didn’t. The next evening I waited in vain for Ria to attend the conference we’d scheduled. By class time I had become slightly miffed when she hadn’t come or called, so I left, expecting to see her in College Composition I. Instead, Chandra Roy, a friend and classmate of Ria’s, greeted me at the door, her face tear streaked. She pressed a copy of the Jersey City Herald into my hand. I scanned the headline Chandra had circled.

  RECC CO-ED KILLED

  Serial Burglar Suspected

  I had to force myself to skim the article beneath this tabloid banner. Ria Seth was dead. “Oh my God! No wonder Ria didn’t show,” I babbled to Chandra. “Was that why she wanted to see me last night? Was she afraid?” I asked myself. Guilt over having put off meeting with Ria washed through me. Reeling with shock and remorse, I reached over to pat Chandra’s shoulder, bony and slight beneath her lavender sari. “I’m so sorry, Chandra,” I said as I swallowed my own tears in an effort to comfort the grief-stricken young woman.

  The rest of the students had settled into their seats when I reached the door and now sat staring at Chandra and me. I still clutched the newspaper. Aware of their curiosity, I took my place in front of the desk. Chandra followed me and took her customary seat near the window. Before I spoke, I willed away more tears and held the Jersey City Herald in front of me like a shield. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news. Chandra has just shown me today’s newspaper. Something really terrible has happened to Ria Seth.” When I saw quizzical looks on several faces, I realized that although I knew everyone in the large class by name, not all of my students knew one another’s names. “She’s the student who used to sit right there.” All eyes followed my pointing finger to the empty desk that had been Ria’s and the quizzical looks became nods of recognition. In the stunned silence that followed my announcement, I read them the article.

  The lifeless body of Ria Seth, 21, of North Bergen, New Jersey, was discovered by Davida Guzman-Eldridge, CEO of Guzman Help, Inc., in the nursery of her Hoboken home when she returned to see why her Nanny-cam was not working. Ms. Seth was an electrical engineering major at River Edge Community College employed as a nanny by Guzman-Eldridge and her husband, internationally known entomologist Torrence Eldridge. The Eldridges’ infant daughter was in her crib unharmed. Ms. Seth was the daughter of Megha and Hetal Seth. A spokesperson for the Seths says they have no idea who might have killed their daughter. County homicide is investigating. One source close to the investigation says that detectives expect to link this crime with a string of recent burglaries in the Eldridges’ upscale neighborhood. They are speculating that the intruder was surprised by the appearance of Ms. Seth and strangled her before making his escape.

  This deluge of shocking information provoked a variety of muted responses ranging from sighs to prayers whispered in Spanish, Hindi, Arabic, Russian, and English. At a loss for how else to comfort my students, I said, “Let’s share a moment of silence in Ria’s memory.” I didn’t think it was possible or desirable to carry on from there as if nothing had happened, but I didn’t want to dismiss the group either. So while their heads were down and their eyes shut, I concentrated on devising an appropriate activity that would boost literacy while not diminishing the meaning of Ria’s life.

  When our moment of reflection had passed, I said, “I was waiting for Ria, who had scheduled a conference with me before class, and of course, she never made it. But we’re here and I’d like to meet with each of you during class time to review your portfolios. I’ll hand them back to you so you can look them over and revise your most recent essay as you wait your turn. The people I don’t get to see tonight, I’ll meet with during my office hours. If you’re not quite ready to work, feel free to talk quietly among yourselves.” I was gratified to see Nikki Hayes and Aleasha Williams approach Chandra with offers of Kleenex and hard candy.

  Between sobs that night I told Sol what had happened. “You’re not responsible for that poor young woman’s death, Bel. If you had met with her, in all likelihood she still would have been killed the next day. You know that.”

  In spite of Sol’s reassurance I slept poorly and had trouble focusing on the speakers at a Faculty Senate meeting the following afternoon. The man at the mike when I dragged myself in and sat down was Professor Jonas Nunez, a member of the committee charged with beefing up RECC’s notoriously weak security in the wake of 9/11. Located in the heart of multi-ethnic Jersey City just across the Hudson from Ground Zero, RECC had always had an open campus. Although students had ID cards, they were never required to show them to enter any of the college’s buildings, a policy that gave new meaning to the term “open access.”

  Jonas Nunez, a notorious Luddite in the history department who eschewed word processing in favor of yellow pads and a vintage IBM Selectric type-writer, was an odd choice to re
present us on this committee. When I got there he was reading from notes on a legal pad, “…and so the committee plans to monitor RECC’s foreign students to see that they are in compliance with the academic goals stated on their student visas and green cards.” Before he had completed this sentence, three hands shot up. Jonas flinched.

  Wendy O’Connor, my longtime office mate, who currently served as Senate president, called from her seat at the desk behind Jonas, “Please save your questions until Jonas has finished the whole report.”

  Jonas’s small black moustache was still quivering above his twitching mouth when he squared his narrow shoulders and said, “Thank you, Wendy. But to explain the rest of the committee’s plan, which is called Operation Classroom-cam, I’d like to introduce Lew Jarkassi, the sales rep for Orwell Unlimited, the company that manufactures the Classroom-cam.” Jonas stepped aside, his relief at relinquishing the spotlight reflected in the sudden stillness of his mouth.

  Lew turned out to be a rangy blond geek who towered over the diminutive Jonas. In just seconds, Lew opened the laptop he carried, pushed a few buttons, grinned, and said, “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. See for yourselves.” My colleagues and I gathered around the screen, where, in fact, we found ourselves staring at ourselves as we stood there gaping at the laptop. Feeling more than a little foolish, not to mention self-conscious, at this latest example of reality TV, we all began looking around the room for the camera.

  Soon we seated ourselves and Jonas began to read from his notes again. I hoped he didn’t notice that my eyes glazed over during his lengthy discourse on the committee’s rationale for equipping RECC with Classroom-cams. It seemed like ages before I heard him winding down. “…So once again, on behalf of the whole committee, I’d like to thank you for inviting me to address your concerns and curiosity about Operation Classroom-cam. If you have questions, Lew or I will be happy to answer them.” Jonas straightened his collar and glanced around the room. His mustache began to move again.