by Leigh Himes
Knowing our chaperones were somewhere nearby, possibly seated outside, we stayed away from the center “street” and stuck to a small path that ran behind a row of stores and restaurants. Melanie and I giggled as the boys chased us, our bodies moving fast despite the dark. Coming almost to the end of the village, we’d turned down a small alley that would take us toward a bodega, when we saw her. Or, I should say, them.
Roberta was leaning against a wall, her blond hair and white cotton dress bright in the tropical moonlight. Pressed against her was Mr. Johnson, our high school guidance counselor, the only other single chaperone, and the only black person on the trip, who was kissing her neck, his long legs wide so their faces would meet. They were so engrossed they didn’t notice the sound of fourteen flip-flops approaching and then stopping, or the little cloud of dust lifting and wafting over.
“Mom!”
They looked over, their mouths in surprised O shapes.
“Abigail?”
Mr. Johnson quickly took a step back and smoothed his shirt. Someone behind me dropped a bottle; it fell with a thud.
Mom and I stood there staring at each other, our minds in a race to recover from the shock and move to a more actionable emotion—anger. I got there first.
“What the fuck?” I said to her. I couldn’t believe it. Here it was, just hours from when we would leave for the airport, and she couldn’t stop herself from yet another attempt at seduction, this time aiming her charms at sweet widowed Mr. Johnson, a man who lost his wife just last year.
She ignored my word choice and addressed the entire group. “What are you kids doing out here?” she asked loudly, using her chaperone voice.
“Way to go, Mr. J,” a boy behind me called. A couple of others laughed.
“You kids are not supposed to leave the camp,” he responded sharply, stepping toward us but tripping on a half-exposed root and stumbling. As he righted his lanky frame, the kids turned and ran, leaving me alone with the two adults.
“You promised,” I whispered, then turned and ran.
“Abigail, wait,” I heard her say, but I didn’t stop.
I kept running until I was back at my cabin, panting hard. I hauled myself up through the window, scraping my shins, then threw myself on my metal cot. I didn’t bother to change my sweat-drenched clothes or even to take off my shoes, just curled up on my cot and prayed for sleep.
But it did not come. I knew the story was already spreading across the camp like wildfire, whispered from cot to cot, embellished at each retelling. I knew how quickly this story would make the rounds through school on Monday. And I knew that, thanks to one minute in one night thousands of miles from Tallymore, my senior year would go from what should have been one of the best years of a girl’s life to one of giggles and teasing, my social status downgraded from unspecified to outcast.
And all because of Roberta. I couldn’t wait to go to college and be rid of her.
It was past eight o’clock before Frank pulled the car off the Vine Expressway and through the dark, tree-lined streets that would lead us back to Rittenhouse Square.
“Abbey, I have to admit, you were great today,” Frank said, over his shoulder. “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you so comfortable with voters. Keep it up, kiddo. For at least another week.”
“What happened to you?” Alex teased. “I thought you have a no-hugging rule.”
“I do?”
He laughed again, then turned back to his phone, leaving me to wonder about the other Mrs. van Holt. I guess life on the campaign trial had led me to become a real germophobe. Or a cold fish.
Still, I was happy to hear the approval from Frank. All day, I tried to be the best Mrs. van Holt I could be, greeting everyone with a big smile and a handshake, listening to my husband speak with a demure and devoted look, and admiring as many babies and dogs and knee replacements as possible. But it wasn’t easy being “on” all day, especially while remembering to keep Abbey Lahey “off.”
It also wasn’t easy listening to Alex’s “bootstraps” version of me. I heard him tell one father that he understood the difficulties of paying for college because his wife had had to rely on scholarships. That wasn’t true; the only scholarship I ever received was five hundred dollars for winning the Tallymore Local “Young Voices” essay contest. (I wrote about how dangerous our town’s bike lanes had become, and I suspected I was the only entrant.) Then at the PTA meeting, he told one woman he understood the special struggles of the single parent all too well. “My mother-in-law—also a single mom—told me there were nights when she had to choose between paying the power bill or putting food on the table,” he told the crowd, shaking his head at the thought. I shook my head too, before realizing he meant me.
Roberta was much too proud and organized to pay a bill late. The only time we had ever lost electricity was when a drunk driver ran into our street’s transformer, knocking out lines for a three-block radius. It actually was Roberta who saved the day, Erin Brockovich–ing the power company with her cleavage and not-so-idle threats.
I had spent the ride debating whether to say anything to Alex about his exaggerations, but now, as Frank doubled-parked in front of our building and Alex ran around to open my door, I wondered if it was such a big deal. With my hand in his hand as we walked to the door, I decided to forget about it.
Inside the apartment, Alex changed for an evening run while I washed off my makeup. I moved into the closet to take off my clothes and jewelry but stopped as I slid out the worn velvet jewelry case. In the center, alone, sat one diamond chandelier earring.
Feeling guilty, I spent the next twenty minutes on my hands and knees in the closet, the bathroom, and the bedroom. I then retraced my steps from the night before, walking slowly down the hall and into the elevator. Down in the lobby, I scanned the floors, peeked into corners, and rifled through two silver trash cans. I left a note on the day manager’s desk, asking him to call me as soon as possible. Then, remembering the diner, I found it on Google Maps and called. They remembered us, but no, there was no earring. I asked them to check again and waited, but eventually I had to just leave my name and the promise of an exorbitant reward.
Though futile, my last chance was outside, so I searched around the front door and the large concrete planters. I was holding my phone’s light over a large abaca plant, digging through the dirt and hoping for a miracle, when my phone rang.
“Mrs. van Holt?” said a voice that was vaguely familiar.
“Yes?”
“You promised to call me.”
“Oh! Father Fergie! How are you?” Hearing his voice, gravelly with age, reminded me of my father-in-law, Miles. I swallowed hard.
“Is something the matter?” he asked. “Should I try you again later?”
“No, it’s just, I lost something important.”
“Oh, dear. Perhaps it will turn up,” he said. “Things always do.”
“Yes, but it’s not the kind of thing someone is likely to return. And it doesn’t belong to me.”
“Well, I promise to say a novena to Saint Anthony. He rarely lets me down. Now, when am I going to see your sweet face over here at Holy Rosary? Perhaps tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ll have to check with Alex.”
“Why don’t you leave Alex out of it? I’m sure he won’t mind sparing you for a few minutes. Come after lunch. We’re at three twenty-two South Fifty-Eighth Street, a brick building with a sign out front. Just ask for me when you get here.”
The tone of his voice was so calming, so soothing, that I found myself agreeing.
“And, Abigail?”
“Yes?”
“I really do hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Back upstairs in the apartment, admitting defeat, I went to check on the kids. I stared at each of them for a full five minutes, listening to the peaceful rhythm of their breathing. I tucked Sam’s pink foot back under his blanket and, in Gloria’s room, pushed her sweaty curls away from h
er brow, her face so serious in a little-kid dream. I felt a pang of guilt for not being home to put them to bed, for missing the thousand and one moments that make up a day spent with small children.
Exhausted, I moved back to my closet and looked for something comfortable to wear to bed. In the back of a drawer, I found something I recognized: a faded, wash-softened Villanova T-shirt. I put it on and then pushed aside the satin thongs and sheer bikinis to grab the biggest panties and the tallest socks I could find. I tied my hair in a sloppy knot. Cinderella was dead tired. Cinderella wanted some fuzzy slippers, a cup of herbal tea, and an Us Weekly.
Alex was still not back, so I padded into the kitchen, starving. I grabbed a glass from a cabinet, then opened the fridge. There was no leftover mac ’n’ cheese, no peanut butter, no cheese sticks, not even a baby yogurt. Just some uncooked steaks, salad greens, grapes, and rows of organic juices: kale, carrot, and beet. I moved to the cabinets but was equally disappointed. Finally, I scored a box of organic dark chocolate truffles from the walk-in pantry. I bargained that just a few bites wouldn’t ruin my new figure, especially since I had barely eaten since Chipotle.
But the one half turned into three more halves, then four complete truffles, so that by the time Alex returned from his run, I had eaten the whole box.
“Wow,” he said, eyeing my T-shirt and topknotted hair. “I thought our kids actually had to play soccer to be married to a soccer mom.”
“Ha-ha,” I replied, though I’m not sure he meant it as a joke. I pulled my hair out of its messy knot and sank lower on the barstool.
He grabbed a bottled water, twisted the top, and paused, watching me as I licked chocolate off my thumb.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Sure. Why?”
“You never eat after eight. And never chocolate.”
“Oh,” I said, pushing the empty truffle box away, embarrassed. “I was just hungry. And tired.”
“Just tired? Because you’ve been acting a little strange. Is it your head? Maybe you should make an appointment with Dr. Cohen.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“You sure? Because at times you seemed like you had no idea what was going on. Like this was all new to you.”
Shit. It showed. I bit my lip and looked around.
He raised his eyebrows at me, expecting a response. When I remained silent, he sighed and continued. “I don’t think you have any idea how hard this is, how many people are counting on me right now.”
Was he kidding? Like I wasn’t with him on forty-seven stops today, playing the dutiful Mrs. van Holt all day long. I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I was supposed be in Grange Hill, folding laundry and packing lunches. Now I was getting angry.
“I know how important this is,” I said, matching his ire with my own. “And I am trying my best. Trying so hard to be the person you want me to be!”
“The person I want you to be?” he said sarcastically. “Please.”
He slammed his bottle into the trash and walked out, leaving me shaking and confused. All this because of a T-shirt and granny panties?
After a few minutes sitting in the blindingly bright kitchen wondering what had just happened, I stood up and followed him. I heard the shower running, so I slipped into bed with my iPhone. I checked e-mail, hoping there might be a ship-to-shore response from my mother. But there was nothing but a bunch of “urgent” messages from Betsy about a charity fashion show next week. Another fund-raiser? It was a wonder the van Holts had any money left, they were so busy giving it away.
I waited for Alex, but the shower just ran and ran. I pulled the heavy white duvet up to my chest. I rubbed my tired eyes. I chewed my lip, then my nails. Finally, I looked around for something to read.
The sleek, modern bedside table offered nothing but a lamp and a crystal alarm clock, and the long dresser by the window was equally bare. I was about to give up when I noticed a small brass lever, like a windup knob on a snow globe, at the back of the bedside table. I turned it slightly and the back opened toward the wall, revealing two interior shelves.
Inside were tissues, face cream, hand cream, foot cream, a relaxation candle, and a few books and magazines. I pulled out two catalogues (DwellStudio and Neiman Marcus), a copy of Born to Run, and a book about art collecting. I dropped them beside me and dug farther back in the table. From deep inside, I found a copy of The Custom of the Country by Edith Wharton. Go figure! It was the same book I was reading at home. Only Abbey van Holt was just a few pages in. She had yet to find out that Undine Spragg marries Ralph Marvell, and the French count, and finally good old Elmer Moffatt, but still isn’t satisfied. That like in most Wharton novels, there would be no happy ending.
I started to page through to the end when a little voice from the other side of the bed called my name. It was Alex’s bedside table, beckoning me to find out what was inside. I leaned over and very quietly clicked open his table’s latch. Inside was an iPod and earphones; also a box of Benadryl, loose change, nail clippers, and two biographies: John Adams and Jay Z. I opened the Jay Z biography, curious to see if Alex was actually reading it, and a bookmark fluttered out: a photo of me holding Sam. How sweet.
The shower stopped. A door popped open and shut. Footsteps. I scrambled to return everything inside the two tables, just barely making it. I was panting and flushed and feigning interest in my nails when Alex padded in wearing thin-striped pajama bottoms. I watched him walk over to his side of the bed and sit down, ignoring me. His smooth, muscular back was still damp from the shower.
I waited for him to speak, to continue our conversation. But instead of saying anything, he turned to me, winked, then laid back in bed. He then picked up a remote and hit a button, and the room went dark.
That was it? A wink? Surely he would say something else. Surely we would talk this out.
But after a few minutes of silence, his breathing slowed. He was about to fall asleep.
“Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t really sure what I was apologizing for, but I figured it was a good place to start.
“Forget it.”
I waited for more, but nothing. I sat up and turned on the lamp beside my bed.
“I know you’re stressed, and I know it must be tough, but—”
“I said ‘forget it.’”
“Can’t we talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“But you seem so upset. Was it something I did?”
“No. It’s fine.” He clicked the light back off.
But I knew he wasn’t okay. He had picked the fight for a reason.
After a few moments of silence, I reached out and rubbed his arm to let him know that if he wanted to talk, I would listen. But he must have misconstrued my meaning, because he rolled over and started nuzzling my neck and put his hand on my left boob.
It was startling, this change in demeanor, and I wasn’t ready to kiss and make up. And yet as the scent of him hovered around me, and I felt the weight of his chest and hips against mine, I found myself struggling to stay focused on our “fight,” struggling to keep my thoughts G-rated.
Maybe Alex was right. Just forget it. I started kissing him back.
But, still, when he started to pull up my T-shirt, I swatted away his hand playfully.
“Can you handle it?” I asked. “We soccer moms can be pretty hot.”
“I can handle it,” he said.
And that he did.
CHAPTER SIX
It was a room I didn’t expect I would ever find Mirabelle van Holt in. Or myself, for that matter.
I felt like I was on the set of a mafia movie—standing under a single bulb, surrounded by goods in boxes and stacked on shelves, examining contraband. The “really good stuff… imported.”
But this fabric shop behind a shop on South Street was where Mirabelle wanted to come, so this was where we were. Assisting us was a small man in an impeccable navy suit that remai
ned surprisingly clean in the messy shop. He owned the shop but he moved like a worker bee, unfolding bolts, unpacking boxes, and laying out sample after sample, some of them so old, a wave of dust and acrid air floated up as they were unfurled.
I watched Mirabelle’s eyes cut to one fabric, then another. Occasionally, she shook her head or flicked her wrist, spelling doom for whatever piece lay before her. The little man, his balding head shiny with sweat, would then snatch the offending sample away as if it were an unthinkable insult. I imagined each rejected selvage would be destroyed, execution-style, its guts ripped apart in punishment for a too-thin pinstripe or a ghastly polka dot, then left for dead in the Dumpster out back. Right beside a rotting polyester blend.
“I just can’t decide, dear. What do you think?” Mirabelle sighed and turned to me. “Abigail?”
“Sorry,” I replied. “I don’t know. They all look nice to me.”
“But this one’s too cadet. And this one is too… royal.”
“They’re not the same?”
Mirabelle frowned and the shopkeeper threw up his hands. “No! Not the same. Very different!” His wild gesticulations roiled another cloud of dust and fibers. I sneezed and he offered me a linen handkerchief.
“Oh, right. I see the difference now,” I lied as I leaned in for a closer examination. If only Jules were here, I thought. At home, she picked our paint colors, rugs, and throw pillows, and I always loved them.
Mirabelle instructed the shopkeeper to bring a bolt of brocade over to the one small window, preferring to examine it in “natural light.” I sighed and bit my lip in boredom. And frustration. When she’d showed up unannounced at the apartment this morning and insisted I accompany her on a “little expedition,” I didn’t think it would take so long. And I thought we might talk about something other than pima cotton versus blends, the benefits of blind stitching, and why certain Armenian importers—not this one—were crooks. I wanted to talk about Alex. If anyone could illuminate me on life as a Mrs. van Holt, it was one who had been doing it for forty years.