Within Arm's Reach

by Ann Napolitano

  “Technically,” Meggy says. “Technically. But you’re a practical woman, Kelly. Think about what’s best for your daughter. Mother is getting too weak to pull all the strings in this family like she used to. We’re going to have to start looking out for each other, or we’re going to drift apart when she dies. I’ve been thinking about this.”

  I hear myself say, “How can you bear to?”

  “I’m strong,” she says. “I know how to get in people’s faces. Daddy told me that when I was fourteen, and he was right. It’s my gift. I think we all need to play our strengths now. I can see that this family is in a crisis, even if no one else can. And I am trying to do something about it.”

  I pace across the kitchen, my forward motion stopped only by the pull of the telephone cord. I know that no matter how this conversation ends I will be upset for days. Only another McLaughlin can get to me like this. Untruths are mixed with truths in such a dizzying combination that the two can’t be disentangled, and I am left straining and shattered at the end of the phone cord.

  “I have been taking care of this family single-handedly since Daddy died,” I tell her. “I am the one Mother calls when she needs something. I have been the one to make sure Ryan is all right, that his needs are met. I am the one who lent you money so your daughter could go to a better school. Don’t tell me that I have to do something for this family. I gave up taking care of myself years ago to take care of all of you.”

  I pant for breath, caught up in the power of having given so much. Having been so much.

  Meggy makes a disparaging noise in the back of her throat. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  I cannot believe that after all I have said she can still condescend to me. I make my voice icy cold. “What don’t I get?”

  “This is a different kind of crisis, Kelly. You can’t solve this one with money or carefully placed phone calls. Our family is about to change shape in a big way. I for one don’t want to wake up a year from now and find Mother gone and none of us in touch and Gracie and her child on welfare. And you know that could all happen if we don’t do something.”

  I am worn out. It is an effort to hold on to the phone. “You worry about your daughter, and I’ll worry about mine.”

  “I am so deeply into Dina’s business that she tells me at least once a week that she hates me.”

  The corners of my mouth lift into a smile. “Neither of my girls has ever said anything like that to me. We have a civilized relationship.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Meggy asks. “Congratulations, then. Good for you.”

  WHEN I hang up the phone I grab my purse and run for the door. I will meet Louis and Ryan at the hospital. I will show up, even if it’s late. I will call my girls tonight. I will check in on Gracie. I will spend less time at the motel, and more time at home. I know that despite what I said to Meggy, it has been Louis who has been looking out for the McLaughlins lately, not me. He took my mother to the hospital after her fender bender, and he is at the hospital with my brother now. He carried Ryan, his least favorite member of my family, out of a burning building. I can picture that scene as vividly as if I were there. I see it, and I know what I should have known all along. That Louis is as much a member of my family as I am. His ties are not just to me, they trail across my heart to every person I love.

  My sister’s words keep running through my head like ticker tape at the stock exchange. I know that I will remember every syllable Meggy said along with the cadence of her voice and the feel of the phone cord under my hand. I will never be able to forget, despite my best efforts. This family is in crisis. All I can do now is lower the top on my car and drive a little too fast so the wind whooshes in my ears and takes the place of any and all thoughts.

  Halfway to the hospital, I stop at a traffic light and notice a bouquet of rainbow-colored balloons tied to a white mailbox. Over the front door of the house there is a banner that reads, HAPPY BIRTHDAY JIMMY. I look at the balloons, and when the light turns green and I drive away, an idea pops into my head. A brilliant idea.

  I will throw Gracie a baby shower.

  It is the perfect solution. This baby is coming. If Meggy made me realize anything, it’s that. Steps need to be taken. Throwing a baby shower is something mothers do for their daughters everywhere and across time. My mother threw me a shower when I was pregnant with Gracie. It is a wonderful tradition, and I can’t believe that I didn’t think of it sooner. Lila and I will clean Gracie up and remove the cardigan and invite my mother and sisters over. They will give her the gifts and the advice that she and the baby will need. Meggy will see firsthand that Gracie is fine, that the baby will be fine, and that I am taking care of everything as usual.

  LOUIS

  It is much easier for me to do favors for Eddie’s wife now, because I know her work schedule. In the middle of a Wednesday morning, confident that she is two towns away sitting at my mother-in-law’s bedside and that her children are in summer camp, I park my truck directly in front of her house. I get out and check the gutters personally. I stroll around to the back of the house, my hands in my pockets, and note that the outside stairs down into the cellar need repair. I see through the kitchen window that the room’s wallpaper is beginning to give around the edges. Of course, I trust my guys, who have been cutting the lawn and making small repairs under my instructions, but I feel better now that I have a chance to see things through myself. It was difficult to get a real sense of the situation from the inside of my truck, across the street.

  At this point I have taken care of most of the minor adjustments necessary to the outside of the house. But now that I have gained proximity and can see through the windows, I want the chance to give the inside a good once-over. I worry about the internal stairs to the basement, a feature that is often poorly built in this level of home. Hanging light fixtures should be checked for stability. The overall wiring should be investigated because faulty wiring can lead to electrical fires. I wonder, as I circle the house, if there is a way for me to gain access to the interior without Nurse Ballen knowing.

  Late one morning, I am standing on the edge of the lawn wondering just that when a yellow school bus filled with campers pulls up. I am surprised at the sight of the bus, as camp does not normally end for several hours. I try to think if it is a holiday, but can’t recall the date. I watch a tall, skinny girl with dark braids run down the bus steps first, followed by a smaller boy wearing a bright yellow backpack. I know that this is my cue to walk past them, get inside my truck and drive away, but I find I can’t move. Given the chance, I would like a closer look at the children’s faces. I’m not sure what I’m looking for until they have crossed the street—the girl walks, the little boy skips, his backpack bouncing above his shoulders. They are at the mailbox, only a few feet away, before they notice me. The girl stops short, and the little boy bumps into her.

  “Hey,” he says. “Watch where you’re going.”

  “Who are you?” the girl says.

  She looks up at me with Eddie’s eyes, deep brown and intelligent.

  “Not supposed to talk to strangers,” the little boy whispers. I can hear the lisp of missing front teeth.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I know your mother. She’s doing some nursing work for me.”

  “You’re sick?” the little girl asks.

  I keep my hands by my sides. I want to look as unintimidating as possible. “No, not me. Your mom is helping my wife’s mother.”

  “Kids at camp are sick,” the boy says. “They have mice, so we got to go home.”

  “Lice,” the girl says.

  The boy’s face suddenly lightens and opens into a wide smile—it is Eddie’s smile. He wriggles out of his backpack and lets it fall to the ground. “Uh-oh,” he says.

  There is something crawling out of the bag. It is dark and thin and moving fast.

  “Step back,” I say, and gesture at the children. The dark shape is moving so quickly that it is hard to keep in my sight. It sn
akes among the straps of the backpack. I think I hear it hiss.

  “Careful,” I warn, because I can sense the little boy stepping forward and I have the animal in my sights.

  “Don’t!” the little boy cries.

  He dives to the ground right before I am about to bring my foot down. The boy comes back up with what I see now is a brown, scaly lizard cupped in his hands. Above the boy’s fingers the lizard recriminates me with beady eyes.

  “You’re not supposed to bring that disgusting thing to camp,” the girl says.

  I feel sweaty and shaken. I have almost killed the children’s pet. “Poor Fred,” the little boy says into the cup of his hand.

  The girl picks up her brother’s backpack. “We have to go,” she says. She marches off across the lawn, toward the neighbor’s house. Her brother follows her, murmuring words of comfort to the reptile. I notice an older woman standing in the doorway of the house next door, holding the door open for Nurse Ballen’s children.

  I turn away slowly. I use the handkerchief in my back pocket to wipe my forehead. I saw what I wanted to see. Two healthy and happy children. Eddie’s smile and Eddie’s eyes. But still, I should have left when I saw the school bus arrive. Why didn’t I? Things almost took a very unpleasant turn. I shouldn’t have gone near her children; I almost blew everything.

  A FEW miles have passed before I remember where I’m headed. But then it comes to me: I have to get a haircut. I have been avoiding this for weeks. Except when shaving, I don’t look in the mirror. My appearance is not high on my list of priorities. But this morning Kelly told me I was beginning to look half-gorilla, half-man. So I head toward Main Street, and Vince’s barbershop.

  Vince has been cutting my hair since he opened the shop fifteen years ago. I went there on opening day, to support him. I still remember sitting in the squeaky new barber chair eating one of the cannolis Cynthia had made for the occasion. I can see red balloons and Vince’s grinning face—thinner then—in the mirror. I have referred a lot of business his way over the years. I thought, and still think, that the shop was a great idea for Vince. By nature he is a talker, not a doer, and the barbershop gives him a captive audience. On the weekends he has a steady stream of young boys and their fathers, and on the weekdays he has his regulars, a group of down-and-out guys with nowhere else to spend their time, many of whom Vince and I went to school with. Besides, the mayoral salary is a pittance, and the barbershop helps him make ends meet.

  I park in front of the barbershop, which could use a fresh coat of paint and a touch-up to its sign. I’ve heard rumors that over the past few weeks Vince has taken to disappearing from work for hours at a time. He’s been standing up regular customers and generally neglecting the upkeep of the shop. I can see that now, looking through the slightly dirty front window at the mayor of Ramsey clipping his scissors above the head of a customer. I have to wonder if he’s drinking again. If we’re going to go through that tired pattern of me offering help and his refusing it and then apologizing later.

  The little bells tied to the barbershop’s door ring as I push it open.

  Vince turns, his face full of surprise, even though I am fairly sure he saw me approaching through the window. “Louis,” he says. “Long time no see. How are you?”

  The air in the shop is stale and musty and I suddenly want to be back outside again. I stay by the door. “Look, if the wait is going to be long, I can come back. I have work to do.”

  “No, no. Don’t leave. I’m done with George here.”

  Obligingly, George stands up out of the chair. “Hey, Louis,” he says.

  “George,” I say. George is a salesclerk at the Ramsey Outdoor store. I’ve known him for twenty years, but we’ve never said more to each other than hello and good-bye. George is a man of few words. True to form, he hands Vince a ten-dollar bill, and leaves. The bells on the door ring out his absence.

  Vince and I face each other for an awkward moment. We haven’t spoken since the night he asked me to drop by his office and then told me he thought I needed a friend. He said that if I needed a shoulder to cry on, he was more than happy to offer his. Or that he could get a referral for me for a good shrink.

  I walk around him and sit down. The vinyl squeaks under my weight.

  “That was terrible news about the fire,” Vince says. “Thank God your brother-in-law was okay. It was Ramsey’s worst blaze in four years.”

  “I would have thought you’d have shown up at the scene, too. Didn’t the chief radio you?” I am talking just for something to say. I don’t want to talk about the fire.

  “Forgot my radio that day,” Vince says. “Gosh, you do need a trim. How long has it been?”

  “Two months, probably.”

  Vince tsks tsks over my head. He is comfortable in barber mode. Vince sprays my hair with a water bottle, and a damp mist falls over my face.

  “So, how are you?”

  “Great. Couldn’t be better. How about you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “How’s Kelly?”

  “She’s great, too,” I say.

  He clips at the back of my hair and I can feel the metal brush my scalp. “You guys are happy?”

  I give a small smile. Vince is crazy to try to get me to talk about my emotions again, but I have to credit him for perseverance. I say, “I’ve had Cynthia on my mind lately.”

  The scissors swish over my head, and I think I see Vince’s hand shake.

  “Why’s that?” he says.

  “I spent a lot of time at Valley when Kelly’s mom was in for her surgery, and it made me remember visiting Cynthia there. I liked our one-sided conversations. She was the only person, outside of my mother, who ever spoke Italian to me.”

  Vince’s hand trembles. I can see it plain as day in the mirror. I pull away and turn in the chair to face him. “Vince, I’m sorry that I have to ask this, but are you drinking again?”

  There is a frozen moment where we both stare at each other. Then Vince holds up his hands, as if I have him at gunpoint. “Drinking? No, I swear. I’m not.”

  I turn back around and meet his eyes in the mirror. I decide to believe him. “I’m sorry, then, maybe I shouldn’t have brought up Cynthia.”

  “Don’t say that,” he says. “I like to talk about her. I feel like almost everyone has forgotten about her now, except for me.”

  “You should try to find someone new to care about.”

  “I wouldn’t want to find just anybody,” he says. “Wouldn’t you rather be alone than be in a loveless relationship?”

  I see something in his eyes and say in real surprise, “Do you have a girlfriend, Vince?”

  “No,” he says. “No. I’m still alone.”

  But Vince speaks in an oddly gleeful tone. Actually, the combination of the depressing words and the way he says them seems to have a kind of strangling effect. He looks almost crazed as he moves from one side of my head to the other holding a black comb and scissors.

  I close my eyes and try to block Vince out of my thoughts. I think about Nurse Ballen’s house instead, and how I might get inside. I wonder if I should try to make friends with the baby-sitter next door. She probably has a key to the house, and maybe I could persuade her to let me borrow it. I have to get inside somehow. That shaky, cold feeling has been coming over me more and more frequently since the fire at Ryan’s building. I don’t know why, but I realize now that the only way to stop it is to work on Nurse Ballen’s house. To help her and her kids have a better life.

  Vince picks the electric razor up off of his tray and runs it, buzzing, around the side of my head. “You and I have known each other since we were seven years old,” he says. “You realize that?”

  “Sounds right,” I say.

  “Now that my parents are gone, and Cynthia, there’s no one alive I’ve known longer than you.”

  I sigh. I want to get out of this chair. I’ve had enough. “You okay, Vince?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.
I just think that’s something, don’t you? That’s history. I mean, I know a lot of guys, and I’m friendly with them, but we’re not friends. You reached out to me after Cynthia passed. You can’t deny history.”

  “Are you about done here?” I ask. “I’ve got a building site I need to check on.”

  “Almost,” he says, squinting at my head as if searching for remaining flaws. “Okay, finished.”

  I stand up and my whole body aches, as if I have been sitting in that chair for hours, not just ten minutes. I am not making anyone happy. Not myself, not Nurse Ballen, not Kelly. I am not man enough to be Kelly’s husband. I wonder if the best way to honor her would be to let her go. Perhaps I should be alone, like Vince. I could leave Kelly everything—the real estate, the cars, the money. I would just leave.

  “The cut is on the house,” he says, which is what he’s said every time he’s cut my hair for the last fifteen years. He swells out his chest as if he is offering me an amazing gift, when, in reality, I have brought in nearly half of his customers, so it is only good business to make my cuts complimentary.

  “Thanks.” I clap him on the shoulder and say, “Take care.”

  As I pull open the door the phone on the counter rings. Vince falls on it before the first peal ends. He hunches over the phone, his voice a soft whisper. I shake my head in amazement. This sweet, hapless man whom I, too, have known longer than anyone else in my life, does have a girlfriend. I wonder, as I walk into the humid air, what kind of woman would have him.

  I PASS the burnt remains of Ryan’s building on the way to the site. I will rebuild as soon as possible. I can’t wait to break ground. The original structure is more than half gone, the remains blackened and gnawed. The scene brings on the cold feeling in my gut. I knew the building was dangerous; I should have acted sooner. I see Eddie Ortiz standing on the edge of the caved-in roof, and look away. No one died this time, I tell myself. No one died.

  An old friend of mine on the town council runs one of the best residential psychiatric-care facilities in New Jersey. I called him the night of the fire, and Ryan had a room the next day. Ryan’s been a nervous wreck since he moved in, which is understandable. The guy lost his home, after all. But all he talks about is those damn birds. They don’t allow pets in the center, so he will have to find a way to get over the loss. At least now he’ll have proper care, someone to make him take his medications, and some structure to his days. Kelly cried after we left Ryan at the facility, but I know it’s for the best. He’s safe there.