Motherhood Is Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  I spoke with the Eldridges the next morning. “Your references are excellent,” Torrence said. “We’d like to meet with you again.”

  I agreed to a second interview that very evening. Torrence answered the door when I rang, and this time the cavernous vestibule was quiet when I entered. He led me into the parlor, a high-ceilinged room furnished with museum-quality antiques. He excused himself, and when he returned, he was bearing a tray on which were the makings of a tea party. In addition to the silver teapot and china, he had arranged a plate of miniature pastries and another of fresh fruit. Just as he was about to set all this down on an ornate wicker teacart, Skylar screamed in stereo. Torrence twitched and nearly dropped the tray. Davida came in and glanced at the baby monitor. Torrence started rubbing his eyes, dislodging his glasses as he did so. Once Torrence had settled the tea things, he caught Davida’s eye and excused himself, taking the stairs two at a time. Skylar’s wails persisted even after her father picked her up, so I took the liberty of turning down the volume on the monitor. Then Davida and I could hear one another once again. By the time I had eaten three pastries and enjoyed a cup of tea, I had agreed to start work on Monday for a very healthy weekly salary.

  I spent the next day reading exams and determining what letter grade best represented each student’s progress and competence. By noon I was drained, but I still had one more class to finish. Wendy and I had decided to indulge by having the RIP deliver our tuna sandwiches and iced tea. While we waited, I leaned back in my swivel chair, stretched, and said, “So Madame President, how’s life in the limelight?”

  Wendy mimed nausea by sticking her finger down her throat. “I’m counting the minutes until my term ends.” She wrinkled her nose for emphasis.

  “Why?” I asked, eyeing the piles of exams strewn helter-skelter over her entire desk which was immediately adjacent to mine. Wendy and I had long ago reached a détente about how far her stuff could creep over the edge of her desk before I literally went over the edge, an event to be avoided. We had declared my jar of M&Ms a border, and Wendy had been pretty vigilant about making sure the detritus of her work life did not cross the line.

  “Being Faculty Senate president is a pain in the posterior, Bel. You know that. You’ve done it.” I was about to explain that things had been different then, the faculty more united, the administration more corrupt, when she added, “And don’t worry. I’m not going to pollute your precious pristine space with my mess. See?” she said sweeping the blue books threatening to stray onto my desk into a heap on the opposite side of hers. “Seriously, Bel, Harold Eggers is making me nuts.” Before I could ask for specifics, she went on. “He’s really fighting the installation of Classroom-cams and he’s got a lot of people worked up about the privacy issue.”

  After our sandwiches arrived, I listened to Wendy rant about Harold, whom she now referred to scathingly as “Professor Paranoia.” “He wants the Senate to hold a special meeting to vote against the Classroom-cams on the grounds that they represent censorship and threaten our academic freedom. Does that fool really think anybody’s interested in spying on his class? Isn’t that just the most narcissistic thing you’ve ever heard? When the Executive Committee didn’t support the idea of a special meeting, he threatened to send a petition around. I swear, Bel, the man’s really getting to me. I hope he doesn’t ever get tenure. If he does, we’ll have to listen to his ravings until we retire.”

  I wasn’t sure what I thought about the Classroom-cams, but Wendy seemed to feel better after she sounded off, and I was glad about that. I wanted to ask her how her students had done on their exams, but a rap on our office door interrupted our chat. “Come in,” we called in unison.

  The door opened to reveal a flustered-looking Aline Dedham. She noted our nearly eaten sandwiches and immediately said, “Sorry, Professor Barrett. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll come back later when you’re through with lunch.”

  “No, that’s okay. I really want to talk to you. We can relocate to an empty classroom for a few minutes so as not to disturb Professor O’Connor,” I said, standing and ushering Aline out of the cramped office before either she or Wendy had a chance to protest.

  “Now, Aline,” I began, as soon as we had seated ourselves in an unoccupied room down the corridor. “What’s all this about you leaving school?” I kept my eyes glued to her large gray ones, so I was aware of the exact second when Aline began to struggle to contain tears.

  She brushed a strand of shoulder length dark hair away from her face and sat in silence for a moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was a high-pitched falsetto that was out of keeping with her almost flip response. “I just want to drop out for a while, take a little break, that’s all. I have a family problem.” Now it was my turn to sit in silence, watching as Aline gnawed on her full lower lip, twirled her pinky ring and moved one slender crossed leg up and down with the mindless precision of a metronome. After a moment or two she spoke. “Please, Professor Barrett, please just sign the drop slip.” The effort of stemming her tears made her voice sound strained. “I know it’s late to drop, but see?” Aline whipped a piece of paper out of her shirt pocket and waved it at me. I have a note from my counselor authorizing me to drop my classes. If I drop, I don’t fail these courses and wreck my GPA. I just take them over when I transfer to State.”

  “But you could just turn in your work, take your exams a little late, and have the semester behind you. I know you’ve done all your assignments. You’re an excellent student. Then you could take the summer off and reevaluate your family situation in the fall,” I said. “I’m sure all your professors will cooperate.”

  It was as if I’d pushed a button. Suddenly the lovely young woman shuddered and the pooled tears slid down her cheeks. I handed her a packet of Kleenex. After a few minutes, she blew her nose and began to talk. “One of my professors is pressuring me to…to go out with him. I know he’ll fail me if I don’t.” Aline tried to shrug off this prospect, but the gesture melted into a slump. When she resumed talking, her chin trembled. “I told my counselor, but when I wouldn’t name the professor, she suggested I say I have a family problem, and handle it this way. Oh, Professor Barrett, please sign it. I don’t want nothing to do with that dude,” she said with another shudder. Now that her guard was down, her grammar was becoming less standard. “I don’t want my family to know. My mom’s in rehab again. And my stepfather,” she shuddered a third time, “he’ll just say it’s my own fault.”

  “Aline, I’m sorry this has happened to you. A professor who preys on a student is abusing power. If you bring charges, he could face serious consequences.” At my mention of exposing her tormentor, Aline’s eyes widened, and she looked as if she were about to bolt. I took her hand and held onto it. “Listen to me. I know you don’t want to go public with this, but I don’t want you to forfeit a semester’s work and drop out of school. Give me a little time to think, okay?” I stood, suddenly weary. “And don’t worry. We’ll work something out,” I said, as we parted at the door to my office. Sitting down and pushing my unread blue books aside, I spent the next half-hour at the computer and, after Wendy left, on the phone.

  After two more days of hard work, I turned in my grades just minutes before the registrar’s deadline. Then I addressed my responsibilities as a domestic goddess, responsibilities I ignored while classes were in session. Over the weekend Sol and I cleaned closets and planted annuals. I hoped that these rewarding end-of-spring-semester rites would distract me from thoughts of Ria, Aline, and an utterly chilling response to my query about estrogen therapy for post-menopausal women.

  To: Bbarrett@circle.com

  From: Mgruman@hotmail.com

  Re: Cut it out!

  Date: 05/25/02 12:06:38

  Hi Bel,

  There’s good news for post-menopausal women at high risk of breast and ovarian cancer! We just have our ovaries and fallopian tubes removed! That’s all there is to it. Two studies reveal that this surgery will substantially reduc
e our risk of contracting either type of cancer, and it’s less invasive and disfiguring than having a double mastectomy. Go for it!

  Good luck,

  Madge, who went under the knife in Nevada

  Visions of myself in a hospital gown receiving M&Ms intravenously were competing for space in my head with anger about Aline’s plight and sadness over Ria’s death when I reported to the Eldridges on Monday. I was so preoccupied I nearly tripped over their neighbor, a woman of about forty wearing glasses and a baseball cap. She was on her knees planting impatiens around one of the stately old shade trees that lined Hudson Street between the sidewalk and the curb.

  I tried to concentrate while Davida showed me where all of Skylar’s equipment, clothes, and bottles were. “I’ll be home from time to time to see how everything’s going,” she said as if to reassure herself. Then, after providing me with copies of Torrence’s and her phone numbers, as well as that of Skylar’s pediatrician, she left. Skylar slept for a couple of hours. Aware of the fact that my every move could be monitored whenever Davida tuned in, I refrained from searching the Eldridges’ drawers. Instead, I made a pretense of thumbing through their well-thumbed parenting books in the dining room and tried to connect the dots that were forming in my mind.

  I was on the verge of an insight when Skylar awakened. I changed her, fed her, and put her in her bouncy seat. Her still-new smile and gurgles of pleasure charmed me. This wasn’t such a bad job. After a while when she began to fuss, I carried her around the house, chatting with her the way I had with Mark and Rebecca when they were infants. I knew it didn’t matter what I nattered on about, so I spent a long time describing the exquisitely detailed paintings of insects on the stairwell. “See the pretty locust? What filmy wings it has.” “Look, Skylar! It’s a cockroach. Check out those beady eyes.” And, “Skylar, look! This one’s a spider. Its web is like lace, don’t you think? When you get a little older you’ll read a book about a spider named Charlotte.” The drone of my voice and the comfort of her pacifier soothed Skylar. Eventually she fell asleep, still cradled in my arms.

  When it was time for Skylar’s next bottle, I took her out to sit on the stoop in the warm noonday sun. The neighbor had finished planting the beds around the trees and moved into the gated area, where she was digging up the plot of earth adjacent to the sidewalk leading to the house. “Hi, I’m Marcia Mason, the Eldridges’ new nanny,” I said. I sat down and gave Skylar her bottle. Too little to hold it herself yet, she sucked hungrily. The woman nodded, intent on her own labor. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” I said, determined to engage her in conversation. She grunted in response. I persisted. “It’s so quiet here. Not much traffic up this way.” I knew that most Hobokeners over thirty were dismayed by the increase in traffic all over town.

  “Are you kiddin’?” she said, turning to face me and rising to the bait as I had hoped she would. “I been doin’ gardens on this block since the Eighties and the last few years, like, there’s no let-up.” She stood up, leaning on her shovel. Now I could read the two rows of black letters on her gold T-shirt. The top row said “Hoboken Blooms” and the line beneath it read “Sue.” Sue wasn’t the Eldridges’ neighbor, but their neighbor’s gardener. And she was still talking. “Ever since they built those waterfront condos…” She pointed a sinewy tanned arm in the direction of the Hudson River. “They got nothin’ but trucks and cars roarin’ through here. I useta be able ta double-park my truck. Now I gotta get here before eight to find a parkin’ space. And on street-sweepin’ days…”

  “Lots of crime around here, too, now,” I said. “Before the yuppies came, there was nothing in Hoboken to rob. Now they got all these kids with money and jewelry…” I paused.

  “Yeah. That house, that house, and that house…” Again she pointed, this time at three other brownstones on the block. “They all been robbed in the last few years. And the Eldridges….” Sue hesitated, perhaps reluctant to discuss the murder of my predecessor. Then, having decided she could speak freely, she said, “The nanny they had before you came, she caught him in the act and he choked her to death.” Her eyes widened behind her glasses. “They think it was the same guy that done those other robberies. But don’t worry. They got him. They’re holdin’ him.” Sue began breaking up the chunks of newly turned earth with her shovel.

  “Yes. I know.” I shifted Skylar to my shoulder and began to burp her. Then, taking a deep breath, I said, “I heard he used to drive by to learn when people were likely to be at work. You’re so sensitive to changes in the neighborhood, you probably noticed one car going by here more than others.” Decades of teaching had taught me that when complimented, many people behave in a way that justifies it. Sue squared her shoulders a little, preening unconsciously at my unexpected praise. Then she leaned on her shovel for a moment, as if digging in her memory preempted her other digging. But when she replied, her words rewarded my assumption. “Yeah. There was a white Toyota Corolla, one of them little station wagons they don’t make no more. That dude drove up and down a lot and parked, too, when he could. When I had to move my car on sweepin’ day once, I took a space he pulled outta. I sure never figured he was a burglar and a killer.” Sue shivered a little and hugged herself. Skylar burped and I nuzzled her neck.

  “Oops! I think Skylar needs a new diaper,” I said, twitching my nose. “Nice to talk with you. The impatiens are lovely.” Thanks to years of yoga, I was able to heave myself to my feet with Skylar in my arms. Sue smiled, waved, and squatted to remove what looked like a yellow pansy seedling from a flat and root it in the earth.

  Inside, I changed Skylar and sat down with her in front of the TV in the family room adjacent to the kitchen. With my free hand, I picked up a DVD lying on the ottoman and popped it into the VCR. It started in the middle, so I was quite startled by a postcoital close up of a female praying mantis snacking on her partner. Mesmerized by the kinky image and the beauty of the photography, I gaped as a ladybug lunched on an aphid. I barely heard the front door open and then footsteps on the stairs. I felt the hairs on my arms stiffen.

  The footsteps couldn’t be Davida’s because she’d know from the Nanny-cam that Skylar and I were downstairs. And Torrence was in Manhattan at the museum. So who was on the stairs? How did he get in? Had Sue seen him enter? More importantly, how did he know I was on his trail? I’d drawn the line between only two dots and there were more to join before my hunch could be confirmed. I wanted a look at our visitor. With Skylar still asleep in my arms, I tiptoed up the steps, climbing slowly so as not to warn the intruder. My heartbeat accelerated, and it occurred to me that I should have left Skylar in her bassinet below. The killer had spared her the first time, but might not do so again. Holding the sleeping babe tightly to my chest, I climbed another flight and prayed she would not betray our presence by crying. By the time I reached the top flight it was a real effort not to let my own heavy breathing herald our arrival.

  A quick peek into the bedroom revealed a male figure rummaging through the top drawer with one hand and holding a cell phone with the other. His back was to me. Praying now that my pounding heart would not awaken Skylar, I darted into the hall bathroom and pulled the door shut behind me. In a few minutes someone was banging on it and I heard Davida’s voice. “Marcia! I know you’re in there, Marcia! Come out!” Then I heard sirens.

  “The whole scene was like something out of a French farce,” I said the next night just after graduation, when I was telling Illuminada and Betty what had happened. This story was a good antidote for RECC’s commencement ceremony. The first strains of Pomp and Circumstance, coupled with the sight of familiar students, jubilant in their caps and gowns, never failed to move me to tears. But my mood lightened as the bemused queries of my two friends punctuated my story.

  “Let me get this straight, girl. You mean to say that Torrence came home from Manhattan to see if you were treating his little girl right without telling his wife?” I nodded. “And even though you figured he was an intruder, possibly a murde
rer, you followed him up four flights of stairs?” Betty held up four fingers.

  “Yes, chiquita, share with us exactly what you planned to do when you got up there if he had been an intruder—a killer, say?” asked Illuminada, shaking her head. We had gathered in the parking lot and were shedding our caps and gowns as we talked.

  “I just wanted to get a look at him so I could ID him,” I said, only too aware that my sleuthing technique so far had been decidedly lackluster. “But I didn’t recognize Torrence from the back. And how was I supposed to know he was calling the police?” Now it was my turn to shake my head. “When he didn’t see Skylar in her crib, that idiot actually thought I’d kidnapped his daughter. He was checking the drawers to see what else I’d made off with. Meanwhile, Davida had had us under surveillance all morning, so I don’t know what her problem was, except that she couldn’t figure out why Torrence had come home or why I was hiding in the bathroom with the baby. Just as she showed up, the cops came in with their guns drawn.”

  “So, Sherlock, what did you do?” asked Illuminada, folding her gown neatly over her arm.

  “I threatened to quit,” I said with a laugh. “I told them they had to stop creeping around spying on us and on each other. I told them I’d give them one more chance. Besides, I’ve got a hunch.”

  “So, chiquita, can we help, or are you operating like the Lone Ranger?” asked Illuminada, a grin softening her gibe.

  “I’m not helping unless you tell me which one of them you suspect,” said Betty, clearly on the verge of having a hissy fit right there in the parking lot.

  “Okay, Betty. If you would please get me everything in Harold Eggers’s personnel file, I think we can prove that he killed Ria Seth,” I said very quietly.

  “You mean Harold Eggers, the new computer science and engineering prof? The guy who’s fighting the installation of Classroom-cams? That Harold Eggers?” Betty’s voice was shrill with disbelief.