by Lisa Tognola
“Wim!”
A spray of live projectiles went flying over the railing like siege weapons. One landed on the frayed edge of Judy’s faded red umbrella above a cigarette-littered table, where it dangled precariously over a plastic lounge chair.
Wim stood there clutching the jar, now empty of its contents. His expression was a cross between anger and bemusement. Before I could even open my mouth he answered, “Because I felt like it.”
“What the hell, Wim?” I said. Hostility was an emotion I’d observed more and more from him lately. His mood had always been erratic; in the past, that was linked to his appeal. I found his moodiness mysterious, intriguing, even sexy. But he was starting to scare me.
“I have every right to be angry,” he snapped. “I’ve bent over backward for you. You haven’t had to sacrifice anything in this relationship.” I could see the exasperation in his face, hear the pain and resentment in his voice.
“So it’s my fault that you’re unhappy?”
“That’s not what I said.” He paused for a moment. “Look …” His voice dropped down a couple of decibels. “I’ve tried to make this work. It’s just not getting any better.” He stared vacantly at the empty jar.
Living in LA or our marriage? I wondered. I suddenly felt panicky. “What are you saying?” I asked, so frightened that I could hardly stand to meet his eyes.
His face was tense as he stared at me. “I don’t know what I’m saying.” He turned away.
My fight-or-flight instinct activated instantly; I reacted like a grazing zebra that sees a lion closing in for the kill. I fled inside our apartment, barreled into our bedroom, and flung myself down on the bed, squeezing my eyes shut. A lump formed in my throat that burned when I swallowed, and sadness settled into my heart. Blinking back the tears, I sat up and picked up the phone.
I dialed the Northern California number I had memorized since Shayna and I met at a Jewish summer retreat for young adults six years earlier. Though we only spoke a few times a month, she and I shared a tightly woven bond, like sisters. She’d been with me when I’d broken my arm. She’d been with me when I’d first fallen in love with Wim. She’d been a bridesmaid at our wedding.
“Shayna …” My voice cracked.
“Janie? What’s wrong?”
“Wim and I …” I gasped through my tears. I tried to continue, but a cry shook through me.
“Wim and you what?” she pressed.
I could picture Shayna’s face, her dark features and bronzed complexion. I imagined her thick-lashed walnut brown eyes encouraging me to continue.
“We got into an argument and he said he doesn’t like living here but I never really took him seriously, and now what if he leaves—”
“Janie, he’s not going to leave you. Just slow down and take a deep breath.”
I inhaled deeply and slowly let out my breath. “When I think about it, our lives have been built around my school, my friends, and my family, and … I don’t think I’ve realized how hard it’s been for him.”
“I can understand it being hard for him. He moved to California not knowing a soul besides you. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life—just that he wanted to spend it with you. He knew that when he first met you. I mean, when he first met us.” She laughed.
I was staring off into the distance, watching a palm tree sway in the breeze outside my window, remembering, when Shayna’s voice startled me back into the present.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Janie. Do you remember the note you gave Wim when you said goodbye to him at the train station?”
“He still carries it in his wallet.” I smiled. “My lipstick kiss has faded, but you can still read the words: ‘Until we meet again …’”
“You’re destined to be together,” she told me. “You just have to figure out where you’re supposed to be together.”
After we hung up, my eyes fell upon a framed wedding photo on the dresser—Wim and me, newly married, walking hand in hand down the aisle, our wide grins conveying hope and trust.
I heard a quiet knock.
Wim entered our bedroom. I wondered whether he had come to give me an apology, or to collect one.
CHAPTER 17: GRANDMA’S DILL PICKLES
Lexington Ave, Rye – May 2007
It was late Saturday afternoon—weeks before the teardown. Wim and I stood in the driveway watching four volunteers from Habitat for Humanity haul off plumbing supplies, light fixtures, and operable appliances until they had completely stripped the house of every last valuable.
One of the men carried out a stainless steel sink he’d wrestled free from our kitchen counter. The sight conjured up a vision of my Grandma Rose, standing at her yellow Formica kitchen counter making dill pickles. I could see the mason jars lined up in neat rows, and my grandma covering the glass jars with pieces of waxed paper that she’d washed and reused, then screwing the lids on tight. She came from a generation that used things until they were worn out. She shamelessly darned socks, tore unsalvageable clothes into reusable rags, and always squeezed the toothpaste from the bottom to wring out every last bit. When she bought a chicken, nothing was wasted. Even the carcass was boiled for chicken stock. She couldn’t have fathomed destroying a functional house.
So how could I? It felt less like a choice and more like an inevitability that I’d finally caught up to. Having the perfect house had been my dream for so long that the idea itself had become an unstoppable force, powerful enough to lure me into its grip, even if it meant compromising my values.
“A few more weeks and this won’t be here.” Wim gestured to the house with a sweep of his hand.
My stomach churned with guilt and regret. I pulled my thumbnail out from between my teeth and gave him an unconvincing thumbs-up.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I just hope we made the right decision.” We’d both been raised in homes our parents had built. But neither of our parents had purchased and knocked down an existing home to do so. It all just felt wrong.
Since we’d moved to Rye it had become more common for builders to bulldoze older houses and replace them with luxurious spec homes. But it was rare for individual homeowners to tear down a house and build a custom home from scratch. Most people didn’t want the headache, but mostly they didn’t want the expense.
Yet here we were, ripping down a home to get what we wanted, where we wanted it, and it made me feel both ashamed and misunderstood. It wasn’t just a matter of conspicuous consumption. To people who were passionate about preserving our neighborhood’s original character, our teardown was sacrilege, and I worried they’d look on in contempt. We’d already managed to tick off the Zambonis with the fence thing.
It was a problem I’d long suffered, looking at myself from the eyes of others, measuring my self-worth based on others’ perceptions. I wanted to assure them all that we were going to build a home that would fit with the integrity of the neighborhood and wouldn’t be too large for the lot or eliminate all of the trees. But what was I going to do, drive around shouting it through a bullhorn? It was a worry that kept me up at night, nagging at me like a garment tag scratching my neck.
Yet the more Wim and I had talked about it, the more convinced I’d become that it was the best decision. “We live in a desirable area with older houses and no open land,” Wim had said. “If we want to be in this neighborhood and the house doesn’t meet our needs, then it’s the most logical solution.”
But now, as I watched two volunteers cart off a gently used refrigerator that we’d rejected because we wanted new appliances, I imagined my grandma grimacing, hands to cheeks, rocking her head side to side in disapproval.
“You hope we made the right decision?” Wim responded, his demeanor changed. There was an edge to his voice when he said, “Janie, please let’s not do this now.”
I knew it wasn’t the right time to have this conversation. But I wanted reassurance. I willed him to affirm for me that we were doing the right thing. I
gave him a pleading look.
He softened. “Look, we ran the numbers and it makes sense. Renovating wouldn’t get us everything we want. We wouldn’t be able to add to the mudroom or build out the basement. It makes more sense to spend a little more and get what we want. Can we just accept that and enjoy this day?”
“You’re right, you’re right,” I said, using repetition to convince myself.
CHAPTER 18: BULLETS AND DUMMIES
Lexington Ave, Rye – May 2007
The sound of bullets firing shattered an otherwise peaceful afternoon. My kids and I huddled quietly in the side yard under the narrow shade of a small pine tree, watching the chaotic scene unfold. I spied dark-suited men descending upon our house, surrounding the place, crouching behind fences, and hiding along the sidewalk and bushes. They wore heavy body armor—ballistic vests, helmets with face shields, and gloves—their backs, sleeves, and helmets marked “POLICE” in white lettering. The six armed officers, members of the Rye SWAT team and Rye Police Department, stepped out with an arsenal of shotguns, sub-machine guns, and long-range rifles slung over their shoulders. Each wore a handgun on his leg.
From their command post in the front corner of our yard, two officers moved forward quickly, weapons drawn. I heard only fragments: “Police … search warrant!”
“Look at the smoke, look at the smoke.” Our son Hunter seemed more awestruck than nervous as he pointed to the pollen-like haze of yellow smoke billowing out from an upstairs bedroom. In an eight-year-old’s eyes, these cops were exciting cartoon ninjas come to life.
“It smells like fireworks!” Paige shouted.
“Shh!” I placed a finger to my lips to quiet my daughter, but her eyes were focused on the officers who had suddenly left their post by the old, weathered split-rail fence and moved toward the house.
We heard more gunfire—three loud shots, followed by two more—warning shots fired to flush the suspect from his hiding place. A dog barked mercilessly in the background.
Hunter jabbed at the yellow-streaked air with his finger and pointed out more men across the street. Cars slowed as curious onlookers passed our house. I took a few steps forward to get a better view of the men, but the hot sun forced me back into the shade.
Paige gasped. “They’re breaking the windows!”
I swiveled back around, the sound of shattering glass reminding me we were no longer in control of our own house.
More shouting came from inside: “Show me your hands!” Two shots rang out. “Police! Show me your hands! Down on the floor!” Gunshots again.
A man exited the house, his hands raised over his head. “Stop shooting,” he said.
Two men made a diagonal move to a large oak in the front yard while a point man carrying a tactical shield led the others to the back of the house. The officers moved snake-like in a single-file line, weapons ready. They halted at the back door.
With several thrusts of a battering ram, the point man broke the door open. The loud boom caused my heart to leap out of my chest. He rushed in; the others followed. I felt my color drain as I imagined a hostage lying dead, facedown, wearing khakis and a bloody T-shirt, his body sprawled across the kitchen floor.
Seconds later, they opened fire, firing five rounds. “Search warrant! Police! Show me your hands! Police, show me your hands!” We heard the sound of glass shattering and banging on doors. More shots echoed from inside the house.
After a few minutes, the police retreated. The air fell silent. I closed my eyes and reveled in the absence of noise. Birds began to chirp. Things slowly returned to normal.
Just a short time ago, we hadn’t even known that Rye had a SWAT team. Now, staring at our battered house, I remembered the conversation we’d had with the police department after we learned from the demolition company that they were looking for vacant buildings to conduct hands-on training in. Sergeant Gladstone had said the trainings covered such potential situations as hostage rescues, barricaded gunmen, and practice using distraction devices he referred to as “flash-bangs.” The police training would involve “room-to-room searches and maybe knocking down some of the interior doors,” he said, but no live ammunition.
His description had not prepared me for this. The past twenty minutes had been like watching an episode of Homeland.
Sergeant Gladstone approached. “Mrs. Margolis,” he said with a nod.
“How did it go?” I asked.
His dark eyebrows gave his face, red with heat, a menacing look; lines of sweat trickled down his cheeks. He began to remove his helmet clamps. “They were a little rough on the place.”
He’d told me there weren’t a lot of private homeowners tearing down houses in Rye. “And the ones that do don’t usually know they can serve their community by letting us train there,” he’d said.
“Nothing says community like a hostage rescue,” I’d said.
After the armored SWAT vehicles drove off, my kids scampered into the house. The walls were riddled with bullet holes—the result of an afternoon session of gangster-style indoor target practice. They scrambled from room to room, picking up the rubber bullets that had ricocheted through our house and scooping into their hands as many as they could carry.
“Can we keep these?” Hunter asked, nodding to the bullet-torn silhouettes that populated the walls.
“Sure,” I said. They would be the only remnant of the house as it now was after we destroyed it.
The police training was so successful that we agreed to let the fire department use the house as well. I couldn’t help but hope that if the neighbors saw us putting the house to good use, it might mitigate any disapproval about us destroying it.
But things grew complicated.
The town required that we sign a contract that said that if anyone were injured on the property, Rye would not be liable, we would.
“There’s no way I’m going to assume liability,” Wim said. “I’m going to talk to Fire Chief Nate.”
We’d known Nate since his days as a volunteer fire fighter. He was a friendly guy with curly bright copper hair that licked the edges of his helmet like flames, as if his hair were on fire. Over the years he’d responded to countless emergency calls at our house involving natural gas odors, medical incidents, misdialed numbers, and, on one embarrassing occasion, a flaming salmon.
Finally, after a week of negotiation, Rye borough’s attorney agreed to change the language. For days, the local fire battalion used our house as a temporary training site. Despite the advance warning, the drills moved the neighborhood into a state of panic every time simulated smoke billowed out our windows. Training culminated in a multi-town emergency bonanza that included a dozen fire trucks, half a dozen police cars, and two ambulances, the flashing lights of the vehicles bouncing off the home’s white siding with cinematic flare. Power saws hummed, glass shattered, and men shouted as fire fighters cut holes in the roof, breached walls, and knocked out windows. A red fire truck was parked on our front lawn, an extension ladder thrown to a second-floor window pluming with heavy smoke, and water shot from a hose line stretched across the green grass.
From my perch near the curb I heard someone yell, “Help!” from the second-floor window. Seconds later, a tall, burly fire-fighter was climbing up the ladder. I watched him hoist a man in his arms, cradle him like a baby, and slowly make his way down the ladder. My hands were damp and sweaty.
Wim emerged from his car and mouthed the words, “Oh, shit.” He ran across the yard to where the EMTs had rushed to the victim’s aid and were administering artificial respiration through a plastic mask. “I knew someone was going to get hurt!” he said, drawing closer. He was on his tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the man sprawled out on the grass, his eyes despairing. “What the hell happened to his legs?”
I craned my neck to get a better view, but I couldn’t see through the wall of EMTs working collectively to resuscitate the victim.
Wim’s eyes cut over to Nate and back to the legless man. “Nate, what ha
ppened to that guy?” he cried.
Nate chuckled. “That guy is Dummy Dan, our search and rescue dummy.”
“Dummy?” Wim echoed. He closed his eyes and took a breath. “I didn’t know search and rescue was part of today’s drill.”
“Well, now you know.” Nate grinned.
CHAPTER 19: HURT AND STUPID
Raymond Ave, Rye – June 2007
Tension had been rising at Wim’s work. The previous week, when he’d returned from a trip to London, he’d told me that two of his company’s hedge funds had collapsed, something about an emergence of subprime loan losses on banks.
It was embarrassing, even shameful, that I had only a vague understanding of his job, other than that he securitized loans for a living. Sometimes over dinner or a drink I’d ask him how one of his deals was going. But before long, without realizing it, he’d be talking about business concepts I didn’t understand until I felt like I was back in Algebra I, where if you didn’t know how to work the variables you couldn’t figure out the equation. He’d grow impatient, and I’d end up feeling hurt and stupid.
I know he didn’t mean to make me feel bad, but he did. “I’m sorry,” he’d say, “I’m just having a hard time with the mortgage mess. The subprime mortgage pools are a symptom of a much bigger problem.”
When I asked him to define a mortgage pool, he’d spout off about collateral, tranches, and risk tolerance, which confused me even more.
After a while, I quit asking; whenever he told me about his business deals, I just listened and nodded.
This seemed like something I should understand, however. So while Wim was unpacking the English shortbread cookies and Royal Guard key chains he’d brought back from London for the kids, I asked, “What does that mean exactly, that the hedge funds have collapsed?”
“It means my business basically shut down,” he said.