by Nina Wright
Chester cocked his head. “Being tired makes you cry?”
“It does tonight, but you made me feel lots better. You’re the best next-door neighbor anybody ever had. I hope you liked your party.”
He nodded vigorously. “It was perfect, except for Anouk getting shot and Abra and Napoleon running away. And your clients’ house blowing up. Your mom taught me a new game, Pin the Tail on the Donkey.”
“That’s not a new game, Chester. It was around when my mom was a kid.”
“Well, it’s new to me. I’ve never played ‘party games’ before. Just computer games and chess.”
At that moment, he looked so divinely happy I wanted to bawl all over again.
“I’m a mess, Chester, and I need to go to bed. This baby’s coming soon, very soon. Will you promise me something?”
“Sure, Whiskey. Name it.”
I leaned toward him in a move that was nearly disastrous, physics and gravity operating as they do. For the briefest instant, I thought I would topple on top of him, then I regained my balance and leaned back against the wall.
“I need a driver. Jeb’s got recording sessions in Grand Rapids every day this week, and I don’t want him to cancel. I have places to go, and I shouldn’t drive in this condition.”
Behind his glasses, Chester’s eyes widened. “I don’t have a license, Whiskey, and I won’t for six and a half years. Can’t your mother drive you?”
“I didn’t mean you, Chester, and, no, my mother can’t drive me because I won’t let her. You’ll feel the same way about Cassina when you’re my age. What I meant was, can I borrow MacArthur?”
“No,” Chester said with surprising firmness, “but you can borrow Helen.”
“Who’s Helen?”
“My personal assistant. The one who’s babysitting Avery’s twins tonight. Helen has been my driver since MacArthur left.”
“Won’t she have different duties now that MacArthur’s back?”
“No worries. I can keep her on the payroll while she drives you.”
I shook my head. “I’ll pay her. I didn’t expect to borrow MacArthur for free.”
“Money’s never an issue,” Chester said. We both knew that was true. “Consider Helen’s services a prenatal present from me.”
When I hesitated, he added in a low voice, “Jeb wouldn’t want you to borrow MacArthur, but he’ll have no issues with Helen. She’s a grandmother.”
With my due date less than a week away, this was probably a short-term gig for Chester’s P.A. Even if my Ob-Gyn had guessed wrong on Baby’s arrival time, how far off could she be? Nobody kept a kid in her womb for more than, say, forty to forty-two weeks, right?
I said so to Chester.
“Actually,” he began, “a woman named Beulah Hunter was pregnant for almost a year and a half back in the 1940s.”
“What?” I was suddenly wide awake and horrified. “How is that possible? Nobody told me that was possible.”
Chester pushed his glasses up on his nose. “It isn’t normal or usual, but it is possible because it happened. It’s the longest normal-birth pregnancy on record.”
“I don’t want to hear that it’s possible!” The pitch of my voice was rising.
“Relax, please,” Chester said. “In Beulah Hunter’s case, the fetus was abnormally slow to develop. Your fetus isn’t. Face it, Whiskey, you’re huge.”
“Yes, I’m huge. I’ll be insane and huge if this goes on much longer.”
“What’s going on up there?” Jeb was dashing up the stairs.
“Whiskey got excited when I told her about Beulah Hunter,” Chester said.
“Who’s Beulah Hunter?” Jeb said.
“Someone who was pregnant for a freakin’ year and a half,” I screeched. “No woman of child-bearing age should ever hear that story.”
Abashed, Chester told Jeb, “I just want to lend Whiskey my driver.”
Jeb turned to me. “You want to learn to play golf?”
At that point, I took some deep breaths and we started over. Jeb and Chester insisted that I sit down. Forget about sitting. I waddled to our bedroom and flopped on my bed like a beached whale. Later I would change into my nightgown and slide under the covers, with a little help from Jeb. First, I wanted to get off my feet. Second, I wanted to end our conversation. I asked Chester to tell Jeb about his P.A.-slash-driver, and how she might make our lives easier.
“Her name is Helen Kaminski,” Chester said. “She used to be a crossing guard at Magnet Springs Elementary School. Before that, she was a cashier at Food Duck and a server at The Tin Pan Diner. Out of uniform Helen looks like a cross between Betty White and Doris Roberts.”
Grinning, Jeb said just one word. “Perfect.”
I said, “When can she start?”
“Did somebody say ‘Helen Kaminski’?” Mom stood in the bedroom doorway, a kitchen towel in her hand. “I went to high school with her, only back then she was Helen Plonka. What’s she up to now?”
“Well, come right in, Mom. You can keep Chester’s party going ’til I start snoring.”
“I think that’s a bad idea on a school night, Whitney, and you didn’t answer my question about Helen.”
“It’s the same person,” Chester informed her. “She used to be my driver, but now she’ll be Whiskey’s driver until Whiskey can drive again.”
“Isn’t she the one babysitting Avery’s twins?” Mom asked.
Chester nodded.
“Who’s going to take care of them while Helen takes care of Whitney?”
“Uh, that would be Avery’s job,” I said, giving her the fish eye. “Avery will take care of Avery’s kids. It’s what mothers learn to do.”
“Not that mother,” my mom said.
“It won’t be a problem,” Chester said. “I have two other full-time P.A.’s, and I don’t keep them busy. Leah and Leo will have round-the-clock care.”
Which reminded me that we still needed to find a nanny for our own baby. Now that Deely Smarr was unavailable, I’d have to launch a search. Or maybe I could hire Helen Kaminski, assuming Chester really didn’t need her anymore and we got along. Crossing guard, grocery clerk, food server, and driver. Plus, according to Chester, she looked like a geriatric TV star. What more could you want in a nanny?
“Can you send Helen over here first thing tomorrow morning?” I asked my neighbor. He promised to have her here by eight.
“Make it ten,” I said as I slid into sleep.
When I opened my eyes, the room was dark, and Jeb was undressing me.
“Is Mom gone?” I whispered.
“Uh-huh,” Jeb said. “So is Chester.”
I sniffed the air. “What’s that God-awful stink?”
“Sorry, babe. Sandra got into the garlic-artichoke dip.”
“Don’t tell me she’s in our bedroom.”
Another doggie fart was proof positive.
“She’s on our bed!” I said. “I can hear her nightgown rustling. No dogs sleep with us, remember? Those are the rules.”
“Aw, with Abra away, Sandra’s lonely tonight.”
“Nice try,” I said, reaching for the bedside lamp. When I pulled the chain, Sandra appeared in a circle of light on the pillow next to my head. She wore a stiff white nightie made of crinoline.
“I hope you’ll put that much energy into dressing our kid,” I told Jeb.
He said, “Right now I want to undress you.”
As he leaned in for a kiss, I blocked him with my hand.
“First, remove the dog.”
9
My philosophy about breakfast in bed is that life doesn’t get any better. Also, it’s fleeting. As the poet might say, “Slather ye toast with marmalade while ye may.” Tomorrow you’ll probably be gulping cold coffee between diaper changes.
I knew that was going to happen to me, although I might have a week until it did. So I was reveling in the “right now.” Jeb had brought me a tray containing my own little slice of nirvana—dark roast coffee, fr
esh-squeezed orange juice, hot oatmeal with maple sugar and bananas, and sourdough toast with, you guessed it, marmalade. Yum. Moreover, he had planned the meal so that I would have plenty of time to feast before Helen Kaminski came by for our chat about her becoming my temporary driver. I had already decided not to mention the possible future nanny gig until I made sure I felt comfortable with her.
Mom appeared in my bedroom doorway with a pot of steaming decaf. “Refill?”
When I nodded, she poured. She also started talking.
“Whitney, you didn’t seem at all curious last night when I mentioned knowing Helen Plonka from high school. You might want to ask what I remember about her.”
“Helen Plonka?”
“That was her maiden name. She’s a widow like I am. Like you used to be. We graduated together, class of ’62.”
“What happened? Did she steal your boyfriend?” I sensed something ominous.
“Heavens, no. But she tried. Helen had a crush on your father, a genuine case of unrequited love. She threw herself at him senior year, but he chose me. He gave me his letterman jacket and his class ring. Helen never got over it.”
“Never? That’s a long time, Mom. If she’s a widow, she married someone.”
“Arthur Kaminski, a real loser. He cheated on Helen for years. Then he died.”
I sighed. “I need to know this because…?”
“Information is power, Whitney. A standard background check isn’t going to give you that kind of detail. Only your mother can.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t hire—I mean, borrow—Helen to be my temporary driver?”
“Not at all. I’m saying that our families have history.”
Now I was really confused. “And that matters because…?”
Mom produced a folded dishcloth from her apron pocket to use as a coaster for the coffee thermos on my nightstand. She perched on the side of my bed.
“Helen is a people-pleaser, Whitney. A very needy girl. I don’t want you taking advantage of her.”
I didn’t know which shocked me more—Mom’s wanting to protect Helen or her calling the sixty-nine-year-old a “girl.”
“Do you feel guilty about Helen?” I said, baffled.
“Guilty? Why on earth would I feel guilty?”
“Why else would you worry about her after all these years?”
“It’s not about worry, it’s about awareness.” Mom looked exasperated. “One of these days you’re going to realize that some people require a lot more help than others. Helen is one of those people.”
I nodded. “So’s Avery.”
“Yes. Well, then, maybe you do understand. Good for you.”
Mom had trained me to thank people for compliments, but I ate my toast instead. As I chewed, I pretended to be alone in my bedroom. Privacy is what I most wanted in the world while I could still get it. Well, what I most wanted was to have my old body back and Jeb in bed with me, using our bedroom the way nature intended, more for recreational purposes than for sleep. Come to think of it, though, having all those things was what had gotten me where I was today. Now I needed a driver and a nanny and my mother. Horrors.
“Anything else I should know about Helen?” I asked finally.
“She never had any children, but she’s good with them,” Mom said, “especially babies and toddlers.”
“How would you know?”
Mom blinked at me. “She used to babysit for you, Whitney. You loved her.”
I felt my jaw drop, and I hadn’t finished chewing my toast. Mom glanced away in distaste.
“I don’t remember a sitter named Helen,” I said.
“You were a baby.”
“How old?”
Mom sighed. “She sat for you until you were eighteen months old. You called her Ella.”
Shaking my head, I failed to jar loose a single memory, but a clear question sprang to mind.
“Why would she babysit for you if she resented you for stealing the boy she loved?”
“First of all, I didn’t ‘steal’ your father. He chose me. Back in high school he barely knew Helen existed. Second of all, Helen came to me in desperation the year you were born. Arthur kept leaving her for other women. She never knew when or if he would return, and she needed money. I helped her get some babysitting jobs and hired her myself.”
“I thought she worked as a waitress and a check-out clerk and a crossing guard.”
Mom waved her hand dismissively. “Those jobs came later. Helen wasn’t good at school, so she didn’t have skills to sell in the workplace. She helped Arthur in the office at his car repair business, but he ran that into the ground. Everybody in town knew they had money problems. Everybody also knew Arthur treated Helen like a doormat. We all felt sorry for her.”
I considered this information and drew the obvious conclusion.
“So Helen stopped babysitting for me when she got a better job?”
“No. She stopped babysitting for you when I fired her.”
I nearly flipped my breakfast tray. “You fired the poor woman?”
“I had to.”
Mom’s voice lacked any trace of defensiveness. She could have been a first-class criminal lawyer, or a pool shark.
“Why?”
My imagination was running wild and not in savory directions. Did Mom catch Helen in bed with Dad? I braced myself for a deeply disturbing answer.
“It had nothing to do with your father,” she said flatly. “Helen was trying to steal from us.”
“Cash? Credit cards? Costume jewelry?”
“Food.”
I gasped. “You fired a woman who was so poor she needed to steal food?”
“Not that kind of food.”
Mom rose from my bed and walked stiffly to the north-facing picture window. With her back to me, she said, “You never knew this, dear, but in 1977 your father and I invented a gourmet dog food. We were ahead of our time.”
“What? Wait. Helen stole dog food? She must have been desperate.”
Mom turned to me, the soft morning sun backlighting her dyed red-gold hair.
“Not desperate. Helen was a corporate spy.”
I stared. “Are you off your meds?”
“I don’t take any meds.”
“Well, maybe you should. I’m sorry, but none of this makes any sense. A corporate spy? Gourmet dog food? We never even had a dog.”
“In 1977? You better believe your dad and I had a dog. We had a wonderful dog. Rosie was the best dog who ever lived.”
Rarely in my whole life had Mom sounded so passionate, except on the subject of what she would do to me if I got pregnant in high school. I moved my breakfast tray to a safe, level part of my bed and tried to think out loud.
“When I was a kid, we didn’t have a dog because you said it would be too much work.”
“No. When you were a kid, we didn’t have a dog because Rosie died in 1978, and there was no way I could ever love another dog the way I loved that one.”
“Uh, I was born in 1978.”
“Indeed, you were, Whitney. Two months after Rosie died.”
Mom used her apron to dab at her eyes. I snatched a couple tissues from my nightstand and held them out to her. She accepted them and blew her nose.
“How come you never told me about Rosie?”
My mother sat down on the bed again and gazed out the window. I knew better than to rush her.
“I never mentioned Rosie because losing that dog broke my heart. If I hadn’t had you on the way, the baby I’d always wanted, I don’t know what I would have done. Before you came along, Rosie was my baby.”
That sounded sweet if you ignored the fact that Mom was equating me with a dog.
“Rosie was a Golden retriever mix,” she added, sniffing. “She looked a lot like Prince Harry. In fact, the first time I laid eyes on him, I had to leave the room. I was overcome.”
I passed her the box of tissues.
“I was so happy when you were born, Whitney. You were m
y whole world.”
I decided not to wonder whether I might have meant less to her had Rosie survived. By now we were both crying. It was a sweet moment although neither of us looked good when we wept. Fortunately, though, neither of us looked as grotesque while crying as Avery always did. But now I just sound petty.
“What happened to Rosie?” I said cautiously. “Was it something bad?”
Recalling the dead dog found in the wreckage of yesterday’s fire, I steeled myself.
“Rosie got old and died in her sleep,” Mom said. “Dogs’ lives are so brief compared to most of ours. We get to love them for such a short time.”
She was right, of course, even though Abra had outlived her original human, my late husband Leo. Abra and I had both been devoted to him. His memory was the bond we still shared.
“Back to Helen,” I said. “What do you mean she was a corporate spy?”
“I caught her in our basement, trying to crack the code on the dog food safe.”
“You and Dad kept your gourmet dog food in a safe?”
“We were still tinkering with the recipe. Your father was a perfectionist, as you well know.”
“How could she even know there was dog food in the safe? I’m sure she was hoping for something valuable.”
Mom said, “Everybody in town knew we kept dog food in our safe, including the latest recipe with the latest batch. Your father made the mistake of telling a few friends about his future business, and you know how that goes. In a small town, everybody talks. Helen claimed she just wanted to give a sample to her dog.”
“Maybe she did.”
“No. She wanted to give a sample to the biggest dog food company in the world.”
My mother leaned in close and whispered the name of a very famous pet food company.
“Helen’s brother worked for them as Product Development Manager,” Mom said. “Helen was flat broke. You do the math.”
“This is a logic problem. You have a problem with logic.”
Then the doorbell rang, and we both braced for a gunshot that didn’t come.
“Let’s hope Anouk’s bullet was a fluke,” Mom whispered. “Helen’s had enough trouble. I’d hate for her to get shot.”