Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “I’ll be right back.” He got up and Christina waited in uneasy suspense. What could Stephen and Misha know about Andy that she did not? Their worlds were totally separate. When he returned, he handed her a folded newspaper. “Read it and weep.”

  Puzzled, Christina opened it up. She found herself holding a cheap tabloid with the headline Xiomara’s Baby Doc Gets Up Close and Personal. Underneath was a large photograph of Andy kissing the very pregnant singer. Her body was pressed close to his; even in the photograph, Christina could see how her ample breasts grazed his chest. Quickly, she scanned the article—if you could call it that. It was really just a bit of salacious reportage, hinting at a rift between Xiomara and her basketball player husband amid rumors of infidelity on his part, and the speculation that she might now be linked romantically to her ob-gyn, the handsome, eligible widower Andrew Stern. The piece concluded with a mention of Xiomara’s recent redecoration of the VIP suite at the hospital where she planned to give birth; the estimated cost of the work was more than ten thousand dollars.

  Christina put the paper down on the love seat. So it was true. There had been something between them. And it looked like there still was. “This thing is a rag; I wouldn’t believe anything I read in here. But the picture . . .” The picture was like an ice pick to her heart.

  “I still think you should tell him,” Stephen was saying. “But I just wanted you to have all the information first.”

  She reached for the folded paper and then stopped. She didn’t want to see it again.

  “Whatever you decide, you know I’m there for you,” said Stephen.

  “I know that,” she replied. “And I’m grateful.” She stood. Stephen stood too, and kissed her lightly on the forehead before he left. When he had gone, she opened the newspaper again and looked at the picture for a long time.

  She felt like she was thawing, coming to life after being frozen by grief. She was lucky he’d broken up with her—she really was. She didn’t want him, and she didn’t want the life she would have led with him—turbulent, erratic, governed by his moods and his outbursts. Whether she would keep this baby was a different matter. But if she did, she would raise it without him.

  The next day, Christina was able to schedule an appointment with her gynecologist, Amy Wenders. Amy said she was about eight or nine weeks pregnant—still time for a first-trimester abortion. “And I can perform it for you,” Amy said.

  “I want to schedule it now, and give myself a week to live with the idea.”

  Amy nodded. “We can do that.” She reached for an appointment book. “I don’t want to pry, but I’m assuming that the male part of this equation has not been informed.”

  “Not yet,” Christina said. “I’m going to tell him, though.” But when?

  She spent the next few days veering between bouts of nausea and surges of appetite. The eating she tried to do in secret, not wanting to arouse any curiosity—or suspicion—in Jordan. It wasn’t that hard; Jordan was home even less than usual. And all the while she thought of Andy: how to tell him, what words to use. Nothing she came up with ever seemed right. She told Stephen about the abortion she’d scheduled; he arranged to take the day off to accompany her. But two days before, she called Amy again. “I can’t do it yet,” she said. “I’m not ready.”

  “How about if I give you another four days?” Amy said. “I don’t want to pressure you, but I don’t want you to wait too long either. Once you go past twelve weeks, the procedure is . . . quite different.”

  “I understand,” Christina said. “And Amy—thank you.”

  After she’d said good-bye, Christina knew she could not wait another day to tell Andy. And she would do it now, before she lost her nerve. But before she could make the call, her phone buzzed. For a second, she thought it might be him, and even though she had told herself she was done with him, hope lifted inside her. Then she saw the unfamiliar number—it was not Andy after all. When she answered, the low, snarling voice had such menace that she thought it might be an obscene call and was about to hang up when the word painting caught her attention. “—and I don’t know what kind of scheme you’ve cooked up with that so-called restorer, but I’m on to you, do you understand?”

  “Who is this?” she said. But then she knew: Ian Haverstick.

  “You think I believe that story about his conveniently disappearing? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  No, I think you’re a crude, insensitive bully, she wanted to say. Instead, she said, “I expect you to believe the truth. And the truth is that I’m as shocked by Derrick’s disappearance as you are.”

  “Save it for the judge,” he spit. “Because you’re going to need to tell it to him.”

  “What are you talking about? You know I was not a party to the contract you signed.”

  “I’m bringing charges against you for theft. Because I think you’re hiding him and I aim to prove it.”

  “You’re bluffing,” she said, though she was not at all sure this was true. “You haven’t got a shred of evidence against me because there isn’t any evidence to have.”

  “Wait and see. When I’m done with you, you won’t have a client left. And I hope you’ll like the correctional facility upstate I’ve got picked out for you—maybe if you’re a model prisoner, they’ll let you redecorate the cells!”

  “How dare you call me up and browbeat me like this?” The words came tumbling out. “You’re a brute, a philistine, and you’re . . . delusional! I pity your wife. I really do!” And then she ended the call.

  Christina was shocked at herself. She had never once yelled back at a client, even one who had abused and fired her. It would be bad for business. Word always got out in the neighborhood. She pressed her open palms to her cheeks; they were so hot they felt feverish. Would he involve the police? Let him! She had nothing to hide. But her plan to tell Andy about the pregnancy evaporated. She couldn’t face another confrontation right now; she just couldn’t.

  The next day, Christina had a visit from a detective, a lanky man with a large beaky nose and a bald spot he tried, ineffectually, to cover with the thinning wisps of his remaining hair. He showed her his badge and said he was with the local precinct; so Ian Haverstick had not been bluffing. She invited him in and answered all his questions—there were many—as best she could.

  “You had no warning or clue that he would disappear?” he asked.

  “None at all.” They were seated in her office and she could see him looking around.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “He invited me to dinner shortly after the Haversticks hired him.” Christina did not want to answer that question. But Sister Bernadette’s lessons were too deeply etched inside her to lie.

  “Dinner? When?” He perked up.

  She reached for her date book and found the entry, showing the page to the detective.

  “Okay, so he takes you to dinner; was it a date?”

  “I didn’t think so,” she said. “But he did.”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  Christina told him the whole story then—the wine, the visit to the loft, the kiss followed by the weeping. “I don’t really think that had anything to do with his disappearance,” she said. “Do you?”

  “It’s my job to explore all the possibilities,” said the detective. “This is just one more to add to the mix.”

  “Apart from that night, we’ve always gotten along well. He sent business my way and I did the same for him.”

  “Like the Haversticks.”

  “Exactly. I thought he would be able to appraise the painting for them and do any light cleaning that it needed.” Was she in some obscure way responsible for what had happened? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “Ian Haverstick claims that you were trying to influence his wife against selling.”

  “If that’s true, is
it a crime?”

  “No, it isn’t. But let me rephrase that. Mr. Haverstick believes that you tried to influence his wife for your own gain—you would steer the painting to Blascoe, who would then disappear with it.”

  “Mrs. Haverstick didn’t want to sell it,” Christina said. “I had nothing to do with that. The argument was between those two—not with me. I was just doing what I was asked.”

  “Which was?”

  “Getting the painting authenticated and appraised. That was the first step no matter what they decided. They needed to know if it was authentic, and if so, what it was worth.”

  “You thought it was authentic, didn’t you?”

  “I did.” She was surprised by the question.

  “Why?”

  “I can’t really say,” she said. “Just a hunch. But I’m not a pro, the way Derrick is. He’s got a good track record.”

  “Or he did,” said the detective drily.

  Christina had to concede that point. Then she let him look around. He found nothing incriminating—naturally. There was nothing to find. “I’m going to want phone records, e-mails, things like that,” he said as he was leaving.

  “Fine,” she told him. “You can have anything you need.”

  When he left, she realized she had been shaking. But he was not the one who had made her feel so afraid. It was Ian Haverstick; the memory of their last conversation was still lacerating. She thought of her father then, lurching around the house, his voice thunderous, his breath heavy with whiskey, his hands careless and potentially hurtful.

  When the letter came two days later, Christina assumed it was from the detective. She opened it and at first, the words did not make any sense:

  It has come to our attention that you have been operating a prohibited business out of your residence, which is in direct violation of code . . .

  The letter was not from the detective; it was from the local zoning board. She felt the alarm bleeding outward, like a stain, as she continued reading:

  You are required to attend a zoning board hearing on . . . and if found in violation of this code, you will be required to shut down above-referenced business immediately or face a maximum penalty of . . .

  Christina clutched the letter tightly. She knew that operating a decorating business out of her home was illegal. But she had always been discreet, never putting a sign up on her door or window. Why, after all this time, were they coming after her? The answer was obvious: Ian Haverstick. It must have been him. And a call to Mimi Farnsworth confirmed it. “Oh yes, he’s been tight with all those zoning people in the Slope for years,” Mimi said. “But I had no idea he’d do anything like this. I feel terrible—I recommended you for the job to do you a good turn and now look.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Christina said. No. It was Ian’s.

  “Do you want me to talk to him?” asked Mimi. “I would be glad to do it if you think it will help.”

  Christina thought of Ian’s dark eyes, two hot coals in the pale expanse of his fleshy face, and of the insinuating snarl of his voice on the phone. “No,” she said. “It wouldn’t. But thank you for offering.”

  She said good-bye to Mimi and reread the letter. The hearing was not for another three weeks. Depending on the findings, she’d have to either move her business or close it up entirely. But she knew what they would find—she had been operating out of her home and even if she’d wanted to, there was no way to pretend otherwise. And then there were the fines—she had no idea how much they would be.

  Christina sank down into her zebra-striped chair. She didn’t have the money to pay rent on another space and continue to live here. If she had to assume the cost of an office, she’d have to move out and rent the garden apartment. Just the thought of someone else sitting amid the rosebushes or inhaling the lilac that was so lush in May made her heart constrict; she didn’t think she could stand it. The only thing worse was the thought of actually selling the place. But right now, it looked like she didn’t have a choice.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The first thing Jordan did when she got home from ballet class was to peer into the kitchen garbage pail. Way down, underneath the crumpled paper towels and some other yucky stuff, she found two empty cookie boxes, the wrapper from a chocolate bar, and an empty container of Ben & Jerry’s Heath Bar Crunch. Her mom was really powering through the sweets. And she was trying to hide it too—Jordan had never actually caught her in the act. Still, Jordan was an expert in eating espionage. She knew all about hiding what you’d eaten—and what you hadn’t.

  But it wasn’t just the secret gorging that was bothering Jordan; it was her mom’s other secret—her pregnancy. Even though she’d overheard her talking about it, she was having a hard time believing it. How could her mom be pregnant? The more evidence of her mother’s bingeing she found, though, the more real it became.

  She so did not want to deal with this and she went around and around in her mind, trying to figure out what to do. Today, while she was at the barre in ballet class, the answer came to her. Oliver. She waited until she got home and then texted him; she was in the kitchen now, waiting for his reply. And when her phone made its anticipatory noise letting her know a text had come in, she raced up the stairs to her room and closed the door so she could read it in private.

  R u kidding? Good 1. LOL. Jordan stared at the screen and started typing furiously. NOT kidding. This is 4 real. Do u think he knows? She waited and there was the reply. NO! While she was figuring out what to say next, her phone buzzed.

  “I don’t believe it,” Oliver said.

  “Believe it.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “She was talking to a doctor.”

  “A baby!” Oliver said after a pause. “Cool!”

  “It’s not a baby yet.” She resisted adding, you jerk. “She never said she’s actually going to have it.”

  “You mean, you, like, talked to her about it?”

  “No, but they were talking about an abortion.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Well, not disappointed exactly, even though a baby might be, like, fun.”

  “It’s a baby, Oliver. Not a puppy. Anyway, if she’s not telling your dad, someone has to.”

  “He’s away.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “On a vacation. It’s this male bonding sort of thing he does with his best buds from college. He asked if I wanted to come along. Yeah, right. He’s going to be gone for another two days. Maybe three. I forget.”

  “Can you call him and tell him?”

  “Me? Are you crazy? I would never talk to my dad about something like this.” He was quiet for a moment, but Jordan could hear him breathing. “But I know who would.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “Oliver, you have to tell her.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?” Why was this so important to her anyway?

  “Promise.”

  “Okay, then. I’m depending on you.”

  They got off the phone. What if her mom went ahead and had this baby? What if? Jordan couldn’t even begin to imagine it.

  • • •

  Oliver had not been anywhere near Morningside Grammar and Prep since his expulsion last fall. So when he rounded the corner and saw the familiar structure looming in front of him, he felt the dread rising like noxious little bubbles that seemed to swirl and burst above his head. A few days ago, for no reason that he could pinpoint, he’d decided to “borrow” his dad’s Ray-Bans. And now he was so anxious about running into someone he knew—which was, like, practically the entire junior and senior class—that he’d worn them in an admittedly pathetic attempt at a disguise. But fortunately he didn’
t see anyone in front of the school. Ms. Konkel had said she would meet him at the side entrance, and look, there she was, waiting for him just like she’d promised. She was okay, she really was. The dread subsided just slightly.

  “Oliver, it’s good to see you,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk privately.”

  “Fine by me,” he said, falling into step beside her. They walked to a café on Columbus Avenue, sat down, and ordered an extra-large iced latte—for her—and a vanilla chai for him.

  “So these pieces that you’ve been sending me, Oliver,” she said, tearing open a package of sugar and pouring it into her froth-topped glass. “How many have there been?”

  “Maybe, like, ten? Twelve? I haven’t been keeping track.”

  “Seventeen. You sent me seventeen essays about what you’ve been doing since you left school. The volunteer work at the church. Preparing food, cleaning the church kitchen, working in the garden. The ‘crazy dude’ who shows up and how the community deals with him. Your new friendship with Liam. Summer.” She stirred in the sugar, took a sip of her coffee, and tore open another packet. “I have to tell you I was impressed by what I read. Very impressed. Not just with the writing—which is excellent by the way—but with the thinking behind the writing. Some of your observations—about people, and about yourself—are so sophisticated. I kept forgetting you were just a kid.”

  “Thanks. I, like, figured you’d understand.” He looked down into his chai, not wanting her to see just how much her praise mattered.

  “And I always did like you,” she said, sucking the latte in through a straw. “I was so sorry when you were expelled. I even felt a little guilty.”

  “Guilty?” He looked up at her. “Why?”

  “I just wished I had been more . . . attentive. Maybe if I had, I’d have seen that you were heading down a bad path. And I would have tried to do something to stop you.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t your fault,” he said. He sipped his chai, which was so hot it scalded his tongue. “I can’t blame you—or anyone—for the stupid shit I did. And I can see now it was stupid.”