by Nancy Moser
No such luck. As Nesto rose from his chair, he saw he had an audience. “What are you looking at?” Talia moved to take his arm, but he shook her touch away. “I’ll do it!”
The ride home was silent except for Nesto’s heavy breathing and occasional moans. If only she had listened to whatever he’d wanted to talk about. If only she’d been the good wife who thought of her husband’s needs before her own. If only this wasn’t happening.
At home, Nesto refused her help, and once inside, fell into his recliner, trying awkwardly to cover himself with an afghan.
“Don’t you want to go to bed?”
“No,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’ll sleep here.”
Margery came downstairs, her finger to her lips, her face confused. “Hi,” she said. “How was your dinner?”
“Arruinado,” Nesto said, engaging the footrest with a clatter.
“What?”
Talia smiled, hoping to make light of it. “Was Tomás a good boy?”
“The best. I just got him to sleep.”
Talia wished she felt up to asking more about her son’s evening, but she wanted Margery gone so she could deal with her husband. While stepping toward the door, she took some bills from her purse and pressed them into Margery’s hand.
“This is too much,” Margery said. “I was only here a short time.”
“Take it as prepayment for next time,” Talia said. She opened the door wide, ushering her out.
After Talia had closed the door, Nesto said, “Turn out the light.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Talia said. “You know you’ll sleep better in bed.”
He opened one eye. “You’ll sleep better with me not there.”
Though she knew it was true—in theory—in reality she knew she’d sleep horribly, worrying about her husband downstairs. She pulled the afghan off him. “Come upstairs. For both our sakes.”
“Give that back!”
The violence in his voice made her drape the afghan around him.
“Go to bed. Leave me alone.” He snickered. “Alone. Get used to it.”
“Nes—”
“Shh. I’m sleeping.”
Talia stood there a moment, unsure of what to do. What could she do? She shut off the living-room light and headed upstairs. She got ready for bed and slid under the covers. It was strange not having Nesto there.
The remnants of anger played their tune. It was his choice.
And in a way, it might be wonderful. A night’s sleep with no snoring, no heavy breathing . . .
Amidst that air of rebellion she scooted over to the middle of the bed and extended her arms and legs to the four corners. Room. Such a luxury.
A tragedy.
Within seconds she returned to her space. A lifetime of having all the space in the world loomed way too close and was way too possible.
She flung off the covers and headed downstairs. Her mother had always told her, “Don’t go to bed mad.” Never one to listen to her mother, she had to admit that this time her words sounded as potent as the wisdom of Solomon himself.
When she heard Nesto snoring, she changed her tread on the stairs to a tiptoe. She didn’t want to wake him. He’d probably worn himself out.
Talia hesitated, looked at her husband, then back toward their room. Should she go back to bed and get some sleep herself?
In spite of the logic, she couldn’t do it. Instead she tiptoed the rest of the way down the stairs. She adjusted the afghan around Nesto’s arms, then curled up on the nearby couch.
The sound of his snoring was far better than the alternative.
* * *
I nearly kidnapped Tomás.
Although Margery had managed to act normal when Talia and Nesto returned home, inside she’d been in utter turmoil. Once she’d gotten into her car—the very car where she’d taken the baby on a ride . . .
After driving a block she began shaking so badly she had to pull over. She shut the car off and let the silence press in around her.
“Why did I do it? Why?”
Although she’d had tough times in the past and had taken her share of chances, in the last few years Margery had come to a place where she was averse to taking risks. All she wanted was to live a life others might consider boring—dealing with a home, a family, and a job in an endless daily cycle. That was her ideal. If she could be a good person along the way, all the better.
Good people don’t steal other people’s children.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory, wishing she could erase it. It was so unlike her. So out of character. So . . . desperate.
Desperate times required desperate action.
Gladys had called her desperate. . . .
I deserve to act a bit desperate.
She thought through the events of the past few weeks: she’d changed jobs, Mick had been arrested, she’d been forced to steal his bail money—and had gotten caught. She’d been kicked out of her house and was now homeless, sleeping in her car. Marital reconciliation seemed a long shot. And tomorrow she had to sneak into the store and somehow take a shower without anyone knowing it.
But even beyond those crises was the horrible knowledge that all these things she’d worked for—marriage, home, and the chance to have a baby—were gone or were seriously at risk. She was totally and utterly alone. Who wouldn’t want to escape? Who wouldn’t be tempted by a darling, warm baby who represented everything good in the world? everything she didn’t have . . . and might never have?
As her thoughts found resolution she took a cleansing breath, and within that one deep sigh and its release found a sense of self-forgiveness.
But not pity.
She’d get nowhere if she felt sorry for herself. She would survive. She would get through this.
And somehow she’d do it with dignity. It was a promise.
With that in mind, Margery started the car and headed home—to the motel parking lot.
* * *
It had been a long day. By the time Gennifer got home from working late, Douglas’s Mercedes was in the garage. She raced inside. “Douglas?”
“Up here. I just got home.”
She took the stairs two at a time, nearly colliding with him on the landing.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she answered.
He kissed her on the cheek. “I was just going down to see if we had any steaks in the freezer. Do we?”
She glanced toward the bedroom. “I don’t know.”
Douglas headed downstairs. “Want one if we do?”
“Sure.”
He paused four steps down. “Where’s Sarah?”
“She’s not here?” Gennifer asked.
“Her car’s gone.”
Gennifer hadn’t noticed. “I don’t know where she is.”
His forehead furrowed. “Don’t you keep track of her when I’m gone?”
“She’s not a child, Douglas.”
“Right. She’s a teenager. Which means she needs more watching rather than less.”
“You’re the one who’s gone all the time. Don’t you dare get after me. I do more than my share around here and—”
He held up a hand, stopping her words. “Not tonight, okay?”
She took an odd pleasure in the suggestion that his trip had been a chore. “Did you have a bad trip?”
He continued down the stairs. “Actually, it was pretty good. I’m just tired.”
Of me? Tired of me?
“I’ll make those steaks.”
She headed to the bedroom and immediately saw his suitcase by the window. But instead of feeling relief that she had just been given ample opportunity to do her last bit of sleuthing, she experienced a wave of trepidation. What if she found the necklace gone? The implications would change her life. Change everything. She’d be forced into the unenviable decision of deciding what to do next.
She walked into the closet, removing her navy blazer. She didn’t have to know. She could let things be as they
were. Maybe there was a logical explanation. Maybe Douglas had purchased the necklace as a favor to his boss in Chicago. The boss was going to give the necklace to his wife, and Douglas was simply the courier.
She missed the closet bar and the hanger fell to the floor.
As did the absurd scenario. There was no reason for Douglas to travel with a $5000 necklace in his carry-on unless he’d purchased it himself. To give to someone of his own choosing.
Her lawyer’s deductive reasoning kicked in.
The defendant purchased the necklace in Iowa. Exhibit A: the call from Visa.
The defendant took said necklace with him on a trip to Chicago. Witness: his wife.
The defendant returned from Chicago. . . .
With or without the necklace?
She had to know.
Gennifer hesitated only long enough to confirm from the noises in the kitchen that Douglas was occupied. She approached the suitcase like a member of the bomb squad approaching a suspicious package. She unzipped it. She slipped her hand between the folds of the clothes. She dug deeper. She reached the bottom. She checked all the pockets.
It wasn’t there.
Her heart raced. Even she couldn’t twist the evidence. Even she couldn’t find a loophole.
The defendant was guilty. Guilty as sin.
She stormed from the room and down the stairs, entering the kitchen, intent on confronting Douglas. Demanding the truth.
But then he looked up from the broiler and smiled at her. When he said, “I seasoned it just the way you like it” her fire fizzled. He couldn’t be guilty. He was too nice. He was too polite. He was a good man.
She spotted her keys and purse on the counter where she’d tossed them. She grabbed them and headed out the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I have something to do.”
“But your steak—”
Food was the last thing on her mind.
* * *
Gennifer drove without knowing where she was going. How appropriate. She didn’t know where she was going in her life either.
The whole thing seemed surreal. A pearl necklace? There, then not there? It didn’t make sense. If only she’d never seen it in the first place.
Ignorance was bliss.
And the truth will set you free.
Both couldn’t be right. A person couldn’t embrace both at the same time.
Could they?
Her mind flashed with the image of Douglas giving the burgundy jewelry box to a pretty, curvy blonde who’d opened it and squealed, then wrapped her arms around his neck, smothering him with kisses.
Which he’d passionately returned.
“Stop it!” she yelled. The driver of the car next to her at the intersection glanced her way. Mind your own business. The light turned green and she was in motion again. As were her thoughts.
Douglas had a girlfriend? The idea was preposterous. Douglas wasn’t a lady’s man. He wasn’t suave, debonair, or even that handsome. As far as romance went . . . it used to be better. After all, the man had given her a techno-gadget for her birthday.
She paused in the right lane as someone attempted to parallel park in front of her. For once, she wasn’t impatient and played the polite card.
Polite. That was Douglas. Adding her favorite spices to their steaks . . . he’d always done his share of the chores. He was also conscientious, always calling to tell her when he arrived safely at his destination. Goodness, the man still opened the door for her when they went out. He was the perfect man for the perfect woman. What more could she ask for?
The image of the blonde returned, of Douglas opening the door for her. And maybe he hadn’t been to Chicago at all. Maybe that had all been a ruse.
The car in front of her completed the parking maneuver, giving her free rein to move on.
Move on. Is that what she should do? Leave him? Let him have his mistress and good riddance? She could handle being alone. She enjoyed being alone. And now that Sarah was old enough to be caught up with her own activities, Gennifer had plenty of time. She didn’t need to be bothered by other people’s lives. She had enough to worry about.
Like her health. Last year, at her doctor’s insistence, she’d let her name be put on a list for a kidney transplant. Yet she’d drawn the line when he’d wanted Sarah and Douglas tested to see if they could be a living donor; people could live with just one kidney. She wouldn’t do that to them—play that guilt card, sympathy card, pity card. Put their health at risk. Besides, the scenario was impossible. They couldn’t be tested because they didn’t know she was sick. One of these days she would have to tell them.
And maybe that would get Douglas to leave his chippie.
Gennifer’s attention was drawn to a playground and picnic area on her left. Was that Sarah’s car parked on the street?
She slowed and looked past the row of cars to a brightly lit picnic shelter that was hung with the banner MENTOR MANIA! She spotted Sarah talking to a fiftysomething woman with nondescript, shoulder-length hair. Sarah smiled and hugged the woman. The woman patted her on the back. They separated, but the woman kept her arm around Sarah’s waist.
And Sarah didn’t sidle away.
Who was this woman with her arm around her daughter?
Gennifer’s husband was finding comfort elsewhere. Her daughter was finding comfort elsewhere. Traitors, both of them.
She stepped on the gas to get away.
To go home?
To an unfaithful husband?
She headed back to work. Life made sense at work.
* * *
Angie turned her head to see what Sarah was looking at. A silver blue car was driving past. An expensive silver blue car. A Jaguar? The brunette who was driving had a boyish haircut. Sassy. Classy.
“Who’s that?” Angie asked.
Sarah quickly looked away. “Uh . . . no one. I just like the car.”
Yeah right. Angie watched as the girl took another look. “Is that your mother?”
“I want another piece of pie,” Sarah said. “You want one?”
“No, I’m fine.”
But as Sarah walked away, Angie noticed the girl glancing in the direction the car had gone. If the driver was her mother, why hadn’t she stopped when she’d seen her daughter? And why had Sarah denied knowing her?
Gilmore Girls indeed.
* * *
When Gennifer got home she saw one place setting at the kitchen table. On it was a bone-cold steak, some asparagus spears, and a foil-wrapped baked potato. She’d completely forgotten she’d left Douglas making dinner—she looked at the clock on the microwave—two hours ago.
“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered.
She looked upward when she heard movement in Sarah’s room overhead. Why hadn’t Sarah eaten the meal?
Because she was at a picnic. Getting cozy with . . . with . . .
With whom?
Gennifer set her guilt aside and zeroed in on her daughter’s surreptitious behavior—which was not acceptable. She left the plate where it was and headed upstairs to confront her. As she passed the master bedroom, she noticed its door was ajar and the light was out. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with Douglas tonight.
She hesitated outside Sarah’s bedroom and put an ear to the door. Silence. It wasn’t that late. Surely Sarah hadn’t gone to bed.
Yet it wasn’t that odd to have silence emanate from her daughter’s room. Gennifer had always appreciated that Sarah wasn’t into loud stereos. Not that Gennifer would have allowed it. Silence was platinum.
And regarding the picnic . . . usually Gennifer didn’t care what Sarah did in her spare time—as long as it wasn’t illegal or dangerous—so the fact that her curiosity had lingered was odd. Didn’t she have enough to worry about?
But that didn’t stop her from rapping her knuckle on the door. “Sarah?”
A rustle. Then, “Yeah?”
“Can I come in?”
Another rustle. “Sure
.”
She opened the door and found Sarah at her desk. In the past few months Gennifer’s visits to her daughter’s room had become less frequent. So much so, that now she wasn’t even sure what to say. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Gennifer despised that answer—and Sarah knew it. Gennifer adjusted the shade of a lamp on the dresser. How to broach the subject? It was like talking to a stranger. “I saw you today.”
“I saw you too.”
“You did?”
“Your car’s hard to miss.”
Gennifer wasn’t sure if it was a cut or a compliment. She moved on. “What were you doing at the park?” Hugging a strange woman?
“I was at a picnic.”
She remembered the Mentor Mania banner. “For what?”
“Just something at school.”
“Was I supposed to be there?”
“No.” Sarah turned toward her desk and opened a spiral notebook. “Would you have come? You used to come . . .”
“I’d have to know about it in order to—”
“It’s okay. You weren’t invited.”
Gennifer tried to ignore the slap. “The banner said Mentor Mania.”
Sarah shrugged.
“Who was that woman with you?”
“What woman?”
Gennifer considered throwing something. Talk about a hostile witness. “The next-door-neighbor type. The blonde with the pageboy haircut. Fiftysomething, wearing the plaid jacket and the corduroys?” The one who hugged you.
“Oh. That’s Angie. She’s a friend.”
A friend or a mentor? It was a logical conclusion, but Gennifer couldn’t ask and risk setting the hurtful answer between them. Besides, it made no sense. Sarah didn’t need a mentor. She had two parents who gave her everything. “It looked like you’ve known each other a long time.”
“Not long.”
And you hug her? “So . . . she’s a teacher?”
Sarah turned around to look at her. “No.” Her eyes were set for a challenge, as if she were asking for a fight.
Ask and you shall receive . . . “Don’t make this difficult.”
“Make what difficult?”
Gennifer threw up her hands. “Talking. Here I am, being polite, trying to engage you in some conversation and—”