For Better or Worse

by Donna Huston Murray

  I lingered while The Hunter caught his breath.

  “So do you like it here as much as New York?” I inquired.

  “My goodness! A friendly question," he remarked with a sardonic smile. "Are you sure you want to risk your status as a true Philadelphian?"

  A few of my minor muscles twitched. “Being reserved doesn’t mean we’re unfriendly.”

  One blond eyebrow arched. “Really?”

  I’ve always imagined New Yorkers to be smarter, wittier, more worldly, and more ruthless than those who chose Philadelphia as their home, generalizations that are probably no truer than the perception that Philadelphians are slow to accept strangers. His choice of dog aside, had I labeled this stranger unfairly?

  Or was it my protective instincts again?

  I once read that a male police detective preferred a female partner, “because women are more aware of their surroundings,” historically because we needed to be.

  Forget about why I had the jitters. Surrounded by shadows rapidly blurring the landscape, I voted for instinct.

  "We better keep moving,” I remarked.

  "Don’t let me stop you," the man in the Buddy Holly glasses complained as he signaled his dog to proceed.

  Dilemma. If I obeyed my nervous system, I’d be tramping on the Hunter's heels all the way back to my car.

  Instead I gritted my teeth, secured Fideaux's attention with two pats to my leg, and proceeded deeper into the woods. The stretch ahead seemed clear for thirty yards. Beyond that I couldn’t say.

  Nightfall came on fast. I clicked on my phone’s flashlight app to keep from tripping.

  Sensing my fear, Fideaux lifted his ears, and pranced on his toes as if poised to bolt. When an owl's hoot sent chills up my arms, I caved in and turned around.

  Now I couldn’t reach my car fast enough, couldn’t wait to secure me and my skittish pet inside something that felt like a fortress.

  Thirty yards uphill.

  Twenty.

  Ten.

  I clicked the unlock button on the Acura's remote. The lights blinked in response.

  I allowed myself to breathe.

  Chapter 12

  NO BOOGEYMEN jumped from behind the bushes when Fideaux and I raced to our front door; but once inside I turned on lights I didn't need, locked up extra tight, and poured myself a small brandy.

  Curled up on the sofa, my companion at my feet, I longed to call my son, but I resisted. Garry would be consumed by whatever nineteen-year-olds did on vacation on Cape Cod, and I doubted that he would welcome an interruption from his mother.

  Instead I scanned the living room for the book I was into, which made me notice that I had a phone message.

  “Mom, give me a call, will you?” Chelsea requested with a hint of panic.

  “What’s up?” I asked as soon as we connected.

  “My mother-in-law is coming to visit.”

  A relieved laugh burst out of me. “Without her husband?” An executive of some sort, all I knew for certain was that Chelsea’s father-in-law traveled for work.

  “Seattle,” she explained. “Mom! What am I going to do with Marilyn?” Marilyn Alcott, not “Mother Alcott” or “Bobby’s mother,” or God forbid, “Mom,” which I hoped would forever refer only to me.

  “Valley Forge? The Phillies? How should I know? You’ll be done school before she arrives, won’t you?”

  “Yes, and unlike you, she loves shopping. I’m talking about where she’ll sleep. The guest room is stuffed with wedding presents and camping gear.”

  “Want her to stay with me?”

  Chelsea reminded me that I didn’t exactly live around the corner.

  “Hotel?”

  “Heavens no. Totally wrong message.”

  “Sofa? Oh, right.” When I’d stretched out on it, their sectional slid apart and dumped me on the floor.

  I finally caught my daughter’s drift. The top floor of the kids’ ninety-seven-year-old Victorian possessed two unused rooms. As I recall, they contained nothing but stale air, bat poop, and dust.

  “How long do we have?”

  “Ten days.”

  “Pick a paint color yet?”

  “No, but Marilyn likes blue.”

  Tuesday wasn’t my scheduled day with Jack, and Chelsea’s school meeting wasn’t until two. We agreed to start early.

  No longer lonely, I bent over and gave Fideaux a vigorous belly rub.

  “Don’t they call bat poop guano, or something?” I asked the dog. “Maybe that’s only when they use it for fertilizer.

  “Doesn’t matter. It won’t be fun to clean up even if we call it Chloe and buy it a skirt.”

  ***

  FOR UNLOADING purposes I parked as close as possible to Chelsea and Bobby’s front door.

  Glancing back, I caught sight of a large man in a disreputable bathrobe on Mrs. Zumstein’s porch. Something about him made me smile, so I watched as he yawned and ran a meaty hand through his straight, sandy hair. He reached down for the newspaper.

  Oops. Nothing on under the robe.

  Lucky he didn’t notice me. Indeed, his eyes were so puffed up, I wondered whether he’d be able to read the newspaper. A hangover maybe? Was that what Maisie Zumstein did to a person?

  Not my problem. I set about trucking my shop vac and the other tools the kids probably wouldn’t have into the front foyer.

  Chelsea shouted hello as she hammered down the stairs and rushed out the door. “Taking Bobby’s wallet to the train station. Have some coffee.”

  I admired the new kitchen floor as if I hadn’t put it there. Then I realized that if I wanted coffee, I would have to make it.

  When Chelsea returned, we sat at the breakfast bar.

  “So who’s the Incredible Hulk next door?” I inquired after we had our day nailed down.

  “Incredible Bulk’s more like it. Mrs. Zumstein’s grandson.”

  “He her intended victim?”

  “Victim?”

  I explained about the weird behavior I’d observed, the falling objects, the strange popping noise, and the ensuing smell. The noose, if it had been a noose.

  Chelsea shrugged. “I work, Mom. You tell me what’s going on. I scarcely know the people.”

  “You must know something. Like why is the grandson here? Does he have a job?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s here because he doesn’t have a job.”

  “There. Was that so hard?”

  For mental exercise Chelsea clearly preferred music over speculation, because the first thing she set up on the third floor was a radio. Then came dust masks and trash bags, the shop vac, and hot sudsy water. Before long we both looked like chimney sweeps.

  We showered then went to Burger King for lunch. Then Chelsea had that school meeting, so I volunteered to pick up the paint.

  After taking it upstairs—two gallons of cornflower blue and white for the woodwork—I opted for a lazy half-hour in the kids’ backyard before facing the turnpike.

  Fideaux flopped across my borrowed blanket as soon as I spread it on the grass. Scooching him over, I lay watching clouds through the trees and the sky beyond.

  Completing the perfection, a beautiful male voice began singing Ol’ Man River. Had to be a recording, the voice was that professional, that moving. I closed my eyes and let the lyrics break my heart.

  “No!” someone shouted from the opposite yard. “NO! Please don’t tell me...” Cissie Voight, distraught about something.

  Rip often said I would dive into a pond to save a frog. “The fool who rushes in,” was another favorite.

  This time I believed he would endorse my instinct. As Head of a school, he had encountered plenty of messy marriages. Surely he would agree that Cissie was up to her earlobes in pond water.

  I stashed Fideaux back in the house then scurried around the hedge to tap on the Voight’s backdoor.

  “Anybody home?” I called, discreetly in case the baby was asleep.

  The screen door opened inside
of three seconds.

  “You're back,” Cissie exclaimed. "It must be mental telepathy." She wore a stained lavender t-shirt and denim shorts. Without makeup she looked about two.

  “No telepathy,” I told her. “Just good ears.”

  “You know anything about cable TV?”

  I shrugged a tentative yes.

  “Omigosh, where are my manners? Come in.”

  The kitchen was in disarray again, but judging by the rubber gloves and the sink full of bubbles, Cissie had been trying to do something about it.

  “What’s the problem?”

  She gestured toward the small TV in the corner of the counter. “It comes on, but no programs.”

  I unplugged the set briefly, but that didn’t work. I suggested she call the cable company.

  Cissie squeezed her face between her hands. “They keep you on hold forever then ask you to do things I don’t understand.”

  I began to suspect that she needed a backbone more than a soft-hearted volunteer, so I amended my offer. “How about you call the cable people, while I do the dishes. Deal?”

  “I guess so. Thanks, Ms. B.”

  She was still on with Technical Support when Caroline mewed for attention, so I set aside the last wet dish and hurried to rescue the child from her Pack N Play.

  When laughter suddenly blared from the TV, Cissie swept back into the kitchen flushed with pride.

  She had just relieved me of her squalling baby, when the backdoor squeaked open and closed with a slam.

  Mr. Wonderful had come home early.

  Chapter 13

  BASED ON WHAT Cissie had said about her husband, I already disliked the man. Now here he was, Viking blond and beautiful, masculine with a capital M, flashing a Hollywood smile, and offering to shake my hand. Every man under fifty has tried to bring off the too-busy-to-shave look, but Ronald Voight owned it. His clothing was broken-in and mussed just right, his boots steel-toed and dirty. Not many women would kick this one to the curb.

  “Who’s this?” He addressed his wife, but his bead on me never wavered.

  Cissie had stepped back as soon as her husband entered the house. She stopped biting her lip to answer. “This is Ms. Barnes, Ron honey. Chelsea’s mother.”

  “Cheslea who?”

  Cissie’s neck suddenly looked scalded. “The new neighbors. You know. Chelsea and Bobby next door.”

  Trying to be cute, and almost bringing it off, Voight folded his arms and peered at me like a game-show host asking a thirty-thousand dollar question. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”

  Cissie jumped in. “She been a big help, Ron. I had to call the cable company, and, and the TVs working again. You can watch the Phillies if they’re on, or whatever...”

  Ronald chewed the side of his cheek. “You from around here?”

  I mentioned the name of my town, but I couldn’t tell if it met with relief or indifference. At the time it didn’t seem to matter.

  “How was your day?” Cissie asked.

  Ronald dropped his arms. Wandered over to the Formica table. Tented his fingers on it. “Same old, same old. What’s for dinner?”

  “I, I haven’t started yet.”

  “Been busy?”

  “Well, yes. The baby, then the TV went out...”

  “Um hum.” Ronald stepped closer. Wrapped his arms around his wife’s head and kissed her hair. The challenging stare he gave me clearly conveyed, “This is private.”

  As I pulled the backdoor shut, I saw that Cissie had freed her face enough to breathe.

  If I had to guess, I’d have said she was in shock.

  Chapter 14

  AFTER RESCUING Fideaux from my daughter’s house, I began the slow, rush-hour drive home. I considered putting on some music, but artificial cheeriness didn't suit my mood. It took a few miles, but I finally figured out what was wrong.

  I liked Cissie. She reminded me of me when my first child was little. Back then I yearned to be the Super Woman I thought everyone expected me to be—that I expected me to be. How freeing it would have been to have even a half-hour without that pressure.

  Was it so wrong to want to give Cissie some relief, to allow her to accomplish one minor chore without interruption, to have some small victory to brag about to her husband?

  Having met Ronald, maybe yes.

  Just at the sight of him Cissie’s confidence appeared to plummet. Then came the “busy” remark, which may have been sympathy but sounded like a dig. Same with the “dinner” question. And then came that smothering hug.

  I am not naïve. I know opposites attract. But Cissie and Ronald’s match must have been made in Psych 101.

  As soon as he saw Cissie had had my help, I saw that my good intentions had backfired.

  Again.

  ***

  WEDNESDAY MORNING my woodsy park was softened by mist. Van Gogh might have painted the broad oak trunks in thick strips of black and white, the heavy leaves electric blue drenched in silver. The lace of distant beeches, first to catch the sun, could have been butter yellow with a gentle touch of blue-green. In contrast to yesterday afternoon, my day started with a smile.

  Fideaux wanted to linger over what I refer to as his “p-mail,” and although I didn’t mind his dawdling, I had a job to get to and was forced to hurry him along.

  Trying to watch my footing and daydream too, I was startled when another woman rounded the corner from the second bridge. Judging by its bouncy gait, the fluffy tan dog tugging her along was a youngster.

  “Creepy in here isn’t it?” the stranger remarked. Roughly forty years of age, she wore a tight exercise outfit, matching wristbands, and an unzipped jersey. Probably on her way to spin class and a salad lunch with the girls.

  “First time here?” I guessed. Compared to Monday evening the park seemed downright festive.

  “Ooh, yeah.” Her eyes darted from tree to tree as if she expected an ambush.

  She didn’t need to know I’d been spooked here, too, so I defended the place. “It’ll grow on you, so to speak,” I remarked. Or not.

  The fluff ball pulled hard enough on his leash that the woman waved good-bye.

  Fideaux and I soon entered a natural tunnel of saplings. Whether it was the nervous newcomer’s misgivings or my own I couldn’t say, but a shiver began at my wrists and ran up the back of my neck. I thought Fideaux might offer some protection, might being the operative word.

  Long ago I'd learned a few self-defense moves, but who knew if I would have the presence of mind to use one of them?

  I glanced at my watch.

  “Fideaux! Turn around. I have to go to work.”

  I’d almost forgotten. My time was no longer completely my own.

  ***

  SUSAN SWENSON hurried off to her job with every bit as much glee as the first day, no visible ambivalence at all. Shiny auburn hair flying, eyes flashing, red lips twitching to repress a giggle, she touched my arm and might have hugged me if I’d been a smidgen more inviting.

  “Good morning, sport,” I addressed the youngster.

  Strapped into his high chair nibbling Froot Loops one by one, he eyed me with calculation.

  “Di-pur,” he said.

  “Oh! Are you wet?”

  His mischievious grin spread into a devilish smile. He was engaging me in his little game, and I was thrilled.

  “You done eating?” I asked. “Are you full?”

  Jack’s chubby fist swiped cereal to the floor.

  Guess so.

  Just to be certain, I held Jack’s sippy cup of milk to his mouth.

  He turned his head.

  “Diaper?”

  “Di-pur,” he repeated.

  I released him from the high chair, lifted him with effort, and settled him on my hip. I carried him to the makeshift changing table in the dining room, checked his pants, and announced. “You’re dry.”

  The toddler’s eyes twinkled.

  Jack—one. Babysitter—zip.

  “Dry,” I empha
sized with a motherly smile. “You’re dry,” I repeated, thinking to myself and you know it.

  I encouraged him to play with blocks for a while, letting him alone as long as his attention span lasted. Then I helped him imagine a highway and a truck, a gas station and a grocery store. I pretended his choice was to buy eggs, pickles, beans, or Froot Loops.

  "Froo loos,” he declared. Whether they were new words or not, I had no clue.

  This time when I checked, his diaper was wet.

  “Wet,” I told him.

  “Oo-et,” he replied. Whether it meant anything to him or not, again—no clue.

  I packed strawberry cereal bars and water for us both, locked the house, then walked Jack and the car seat to my red two-door sedan. I deposited the boy in the far part of the backseat then wrestled with the seat belt until the seat was attached according to regulations. Wondering how young mothers managed to get anything done, I snared the wriggling child, buckled him up, and wiped sweat from my brow.

  First stop—the nearest library. A homey old standby, the lower-level children’s section possessed a broad view of a tree-dotted lawn. I let Jack romp downhill before capturing his hand and walking him inside. From a table display, I selected a book about trucks with cardboard pages and lots of pictures. Snuggling the child against me on one of the beanbag chairs, I noticed the librarian mirroring my smile.

  At the last page, I inquired, “Again? More?” Which word did Jack know?

  He closed the book and tried to reopen it at the beginning.

  “Again,” I taught him. “Again. You say it.”

  “Gan,” Jack replied, and I warmed with déjà vu. How magical it had been teaching my own children, being there when they understood something for the first time, and how lovely it was to experience some of those special moments with Jack. Would Susan be jealous if she knew? I thought not. I felt more empathy coming from the librarian.

  After two more ‘gans’ and two more readings, I selected four additional books and signed them out. Enough static stuff. It was time to turn the boy loose. A municipal park near the high school faced a busy street. Maybe some of the trucks pictured in the library book would drive by.