“Hi, Mom.” Mitch glances briefly away from the television screen.
“Did you eat dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you have?”
He shrugs, glued to the TV.
Paula frowns and walks into the kitchen. There’s a sprinkling of crumbs on the ancient gas stove and cheap Formica countertops. An open package of American cheese and an almost-empty tub of margarine sit on the counter next to the fridge. A greasy frying pan soaks in the stained porcelain sink, and a plate—chipped, of course; they all are—sits on the already-cluttered table. On the plate are the crusts of a grilled cheese sandwich.
Paula closes her eyes briefly and yawns, exhausted.
She hasn’t slept in . . . God, how long? How long since she had a good night’s sleep? Has she ever?
She wearily picks up the plate and deposits it in the sink, then turns on the water to rinse it, careful not to splash on her suit. She has to wear it to the press conference, which is starting in—she glances at the clock on the stove, then automatically adds five minutes because it loses time—forty-five minutes.
She has to make arrangements for Mitch to stay with Blake, has to pack his things and get him over there. Still, forty-five minutes is plenty of time.
She lights a cigarette, then goes to the phone and dials Blake’s number again. She’s been trying it for the past two hours, every time she can manage to get to a phone. Nobody’s ever home.
“Who are you calling?” Mitch asks from the doorway. There’s a commercial on the television in the living room now; she can hear Old Navy’s latest theme song.
“I’m trying to reach Blake’s house.” She reaches for an ashtray. “You don’t know if they had plans to do something tonight, do you?”
Mitch shrugs. “How come?”
“I need you to stay there again,” Paula says, as the phone rings for the second time in her ear.
Come on, answer, she urges silently as she walks back to the sink, holding her cigarette in her left hand while she dumps the dirty water out of the frying pan with her right. “Mitch, you know, if you’re old enough to make your own supper, you’re old enough to clean up the mess.”
He doesn’t reply, just stands in the doorway glowering. He starts toward the table, and there’s something furtive about the way he’s walking that makes her look up sharply.
She spots an envelope and a sheet of paper amidst the clutter on the table, right before Mitch snatches them up and glances at her to see if she noticed.
“What is that?” she asks, as the phone rings again in her ear.
Where is Blake’s family at this hour on a week night? They’re always home . . .
“It’s nothing. Just homework.”
“Your fractions worksheet,” Paula tells him. “I know all about it. I had a talk with Miss Bright today.”
“Yeah, she told me.”
“What’s in the envelope?”
“Just some dumb note she wrote to you.”
Great, Paula thinks. You mean we didn’t cover everything in this morning’s conference?
“Did you read it?” she asks Mitch, resting her cigarette in the ashtray and holding out her hand expectantly.
“Nope.” He hesitates before placing the envelope in her palm.
“Then how do you know it’s dumb?”
“Because everything about Miss Bright is dumb. I hate her.”
Paula couldn’t agree more.
Frustrated by the still-ringing telephone at her ear, she abruptly hangs up the receiver and turns her attention to the note.
It’s written in teacher-perfect penmanship on lined, parchment-thin, old-lady-style lavender stationery.
Dear Ms. Bailey,
In light of Mitchell’s recent problems in school and the rushed quality of our meeting today, I would like to arrange another, more lengthy conference in the near future, preferably with the vice principal and school psychologist also in attendance. I sincerely hope that Mitchell’s father will be able to join us as well, as I feel it is important for both parents to be involved in this matter. Please call the school to schedule the appointment through the secretary at your earliest convenience.
Yours truly,
Florence Bright
Paula’s hands shake with anger.
She snatches the cigarette from the ashtray and takes a deep drag.
She rereads the note.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“Nothing,” she says, tossing it aside—for now. “I have to work tonight, Mitch. There’s a press conference I can’t miss.”
“Is it about that lady who jumped off the cliff?”
Startled, she glances at him. He wears a matter-of-fact expression. “How do you know about that?”
“Some kids at school were talking about it.”
“They said she jumped off the cliff?”
“Yeah, either that or some crazy killer got her and dumped her body.”
“Mitch! Don’t talk like that!” Paula clenches her jaw so hard it hurts. “You’re a nine-year-old boy. You shouldn’t even be thinking about things like that.”
He shrugs. “So I have to stay at Blake’s house again?”
“If I can reach them. I don’t know where they can possibly be.”
“Maybe they’re not answering the phone.”
“Why wouldn’t they answer the phone?”
“Maybe they know it’s you. They’ve got that caller ID thing now, you know. They can tell who’s calling when the phone rings. Last night Blake’s mom didn’t pick up for his dad’s mother when she called. She said she wasn’t in the mood to talk to her.”
“Well, I’m not Blake’s grandmother,” Paula says, irritated.
“Maybe they don’t want to talk to you, either. Maybe they know you’re going to ask if I can spend the night there again, and they’re sick of me doing that.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Paula picks up the phone and dials again, rapidly punching out the numbers as she glances at the clock.
There’s no answer.
Mitch mutters something as she hangs up the phone again.
“What did you say?” she asks him.
“Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. She thought she heard the word dad. He said something about Frank.
“What did you say, Mitch?” she repeats icily.
“I said, I should’ve gone to Long Island with my dad if you weren’t gonna be home tonight.”
“That’s ridiculous. You know you don’t go to Long Island on weeknights.” Paula tries to think of somebody else she can leave him with.
“I’m going to call Lianne,” she tells Mitch.
“I thought you can’t afford to pay her.”
“I can’t. But I’m desperate.” She opens a drawer and pulls out the local phone book, looking up the number of the high school girl down the street. Lianne has sat for Mitch once or twice, but only in a pinch. The first time Paula went to pay her, she nearly gasped when Lianne said she charged ten dollars an hour. Paula had figured the rate at half of that.
Lianne answers the phone on the first ring, sounding breathless.
“Hi, this is Paula Bailey down the street. How are you, Lianne?”
“Oh, hi. I was actually just running out the door. I have play practice.”
“Play practice?” Damn, damn, damn.
“For the junior class play. We’re doing Our Town. I’m playing—”
“Can you skip it, Lianne? I’m desperate for a sitter for Mitch.”
“Tonight? I can’t. We only have practice every other night because we have to share the auditorium with the debate club and—”
“Okay,” Paula cuts her off. “Never mind. But listen, if you don’t have play practice tomorrow night, can you sit for M
itch then?”
“Sure. I really need the money.”
So do I, Paula thinks. But if Lianne is free tomorrow night, she’ll use her. Which doesn’t solve the problem of what to do with Mitch tonight.
She hangs up. That’s it. She can’t come up with anyone else who can possibly watch Mitch, especially on such short notice. For a moment, she’s wistful about her father. Living with him wasn’t easy, especially toward the end, but at least he was a built-in babysitter.
Well, the press conference won’t last all night. What if . . .
Well, maybe she can leave Mitch home alone—
No.
Not at night. She can just imagine what would happen if anyone ever got wind of that. Especially Frank.
“Did you do your homework?” she asks Mitch abruptly.
“Not yet.”
“Is that the fraction worksheet?” she gestures at the sheet of paper he’s still holding.
He nods.
“Okay, pack that into your bookbag, along with the rest of your homework, and maybe a book to keep you occupied.”
“A book?”
He doesn’t read. She knows that.
“Okay, then a magazine. Or something. Just get some stuff ready to bring with you.”
“Where am I going?”
“You’re coming with me.”
“Where to?”
“To a police press conference. You can sit down someplace and wait for me.”
He groans. “I don’t want to go out, Mom. I’m tired.”
“You don’t have a choice, Mitch. It isn’t up to you. This is my job. Do you understand that? It’s what I have to do. Go get your things together.”
“But—”
“Go.”
He shuffles out of the kitchen.
Paula stubs out the cigarette, realizing she’s hungry. She can’t wait till later. Her stomach is growling.
She opens the refrigerator and looks for something to grab on the run. There’s nothing. Not even an apple. She really needs to get some groceries into the house . . . but when? And with what money?
She takes out a can of Diet Coke. Some dinner, she thinks as she opens it and takes a gulp.
“Hurry up, Mitch,” she calls in a warning voice, sensing that he’s parked himself in front of the TV once again.
“I should’ve gone to Long Island with my dad if you weren’t gonna be home tonight.”
His words echo in her mind, and she frowns. Why had that popped out? There’s something about the way he said it—almost as if . . .
No. He couldn’t have seen Frank today . . . could he?
Of course not.
But it almost sounded like he had.
You’re just being paranoid, Paula tells herself. Frank knows he’d better keep his distance unless he has a scheduled visit.
He saw Mitch on Sunday. Mitch isn’t supposed to go to his father’s again until Friday evening.
Although, with this Kendall thing happening, it would be convenient if Paula could ship Mitch out of here a day or two early. . . .
No way. The last thing she intends to do is send her son to his father’s just because she has to work overtime. That would give Frank ammunition for his custody case when the time comes.
She drains the can of soda in one long gulp and crumples it in her fist with a satisfying crunch. There’s only one way he’s going to take my son away, she tells herself vehemently, and that’s over my dead body.
“Excuse me . . . I have to go now,” Minerva announces in her thick Hispanic accent.
Margaret, seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, looks up to see the housekeeper standing in the doorway, Schuyler balanced on her hip.
The baby is wearing a fuzzy pink blanket sleeper and her hair looks damp, as though she’s just been bathed.
“I need to go,” Minerva says again, an expectant note in her voice.
Margaret nods, uncertain what the woman wants of her. Does she get paid by the day? Or does she need a ride home?
“You take her,” Minerva says then. She crosses to the table and holds out the baby.
“Oh! All right . . . Come to Auntie Margaret, Schuyler,” Margaret says awkwardly, reaching up.
The baby squirms and tries to pull away, clinging to Minerva’s neck.
“It’s all right,” Margaret tells her, in a high-pitched voice that sounds fake even to her own ears.
“I can’t find Mr. Owen.” Minerva tries to wrestle herself from the little girl’s grasp.
“He’s gone downtown. There’s going to be a press conference. His parents went with him.”
When Owen stuck his head into the kitchen a short time ago to tell Margaret he was leaving, she almost offered to go with him. Not that she wanted to be a part of something like that, facing the glare of the cameras and the swarming reporters and the probing, painful questions.
She briefly considered going anyway, just . . . to give Owen support. To be there for him.
But then his mother popped up behind him and led him away quickly, telling Margaret, “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
And when they do come back, her mother will be here. Margaret is expecting the car service to show up from the airport at any moment now.
She considered drinking something stronger than coffee, perhaps a stiff single-malt scotch, to help brace herself for the impending arrival of Bess Wright-Douglas. But she’s never been a drinker, and now isn’t a good time to start. Besides, she doesn’t believe that any amount of alcohol can numb her sufficiently.
She takes Schuyler from Minerva. The baby is wailing pitifully, trying to escape Margaret’s lap.
“She doesn’t know me very well,” she tells the housekeeper above Schuyler’s anguished cries.
“She misses her mama.” Minerva crosses herself and adds, her voice choked, “God bring her home safely.”
Margaret averts her gaze, uncomfortable with the profound display of emotion—and religion. She doesn’t know what to say.
But the housekeeper is leaving, pulling her coat from a closet by the back entrance and putting it on. “She already had her bath,” she says in her accented English, gesturing toward the miserably sobbing Schuyler, whose arms are outstretched toward her.
“All right,” Margaret says over the baby’s wails.
“I can’t stay,” the woman says, although she seems to hesitate in front of the door, torn. “I have to catch my train back to the Bronx.”
“It’s all right,” Margaret tells her. “Go. She’ll be fine with me.”
Minerva lingers another moment, looking worried, as though she wants to say something but is afraid to. Margaret tries her best to manage Schuyler, who is desperately trying to free herself from Margaret’s grasp.
Finally, Minerva goes, promising to be back in the morning.
As the door closes behind her, Schuyler erupts in a shriek, attempting to hurl herself from Margaret’s arms.
“Shhhh.” Margaret pats Schuyler’s silky blond hair strongly scented with baby shampoo. “Don’t worry, little girl. You’re going to be okay. No matter what.”
Left alone in the huge house with the crying, squirming baby, Margaret rises from her chair, feeling anxious. She walks across the kitchen to a window that overlooks the large fenced back yard and peers out.
“Look, Schuyler, see? See outside?” she asks, though she can see nothing but blackness because of the glare on the glass. She wonders whether the crowd of media people is still congregated out front. Surely it must have thinned by now. Wouldn’t most of the reporters have gone to the press conference?
Schuyler continues to weep, holding herself stiffly in Margaret’s arms now as though in an effort to avoid contact.
Margaret fumbles, trying to cuddle her yet uncertain exactly how to do it.
“Don’t cry, Schuyler,” she murmurs. “Be happy, sweetie. Be happy. You’re going to be just fine.”
Isn’t that the truth. She thinks about the life ahead for her niece, certain of her destiny. She’ll grow up in the privileged Westchester world her mother had before her—and her aunt, too. But Schuyler, unlike Margaret, will fit in. She’ll be beautiful and confident, like Jane. She’ll grow up to marry a handsome, wealthy man who will adore her and take care of her, and she’ll have sweet, beautiful children. She’ll have it all.
Just like Jane.
Just like so many of the women Margaret sees every single day—perfect, all of them, with perfect lives, taking it all for granted . . .
Schuyler, oblivious to her gilded future, won’t stop screaming.
She pats her niece’s head again and looks around the kitchen for a way to distract her. Her gaze falls on the carriage still parked in the corner, and the pile of things she removed from it earlier and set on the counter.
She walks over and picks up the wooden puzzle. “Schuyler, this is Humpty Dumpty. See Humpty Dumpty? Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall; Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.”
The baby doesn’t seem the least bit comforted by the nursery rhyme. But she does reach out a chubby little hand toward the puzzle, seizing one of the pieces in her fist.
“You want to play with that? Okay. You can hold it if you—”
The ringing of the doorbell reverberates through the silent house.
“Oh. That’s Mother.” Margaret’s voice is flat. She sighs and, balancing Schuyler on one hip the way she had seen Minerva do, heads toward the front hall.
She opens the door.
“Mother.”
“Oh, Margaret. Is there any word?” Bess Wright-Douglas asks, launching herself over the threshold.
She’s wearing a smart black suit and perfume, both Chanel, and a string of perfect pearls. But her face, usually impeccably made up, is unexpectedly haggard, her eyes swollen. She’s a blue-eyed blonde like Jane, although Margaret has suspected her of dying her hair in recent years, something Bess vehemently denied on the one occasion when Margaret dared bring up the subject. It was probably in response to some subtle dig her mother had directed at her, of course. After all, Margaret never goes on the offensive unless forced to.
The Last to Know Page 11