The morning was already blisteringly hot. She could take Sophia to the pool club and walk back and forth with her in the icy blue water, even though theoretically she wasn’t allowed there in diapers, and they might be exiled to the awful pee-stinking wading pool to exchange desultory conversation with Jamaican nannies, probably employed via Housemates.
Or she could stop by Nick’s again. The spot right in front of his window air conditioner always felt deliciously icy. No, she convinced herself. She mustn’t look urgent.
She could call Ashley, who had disappeared from her life as abruptly as she’d entered it. But that would require potentially risky interaction with Patti or, at the very least, leaving a message with the housekeeper.
Or she could call Debbie. With Jared neatly filed away, she seemed more her typical self, no desperation seeping out at the corners. Now that she no longer needed to roam all corners of the New York City metro area searching for Jared, she’d returned to work. But she never initiated contact with Erica and, when faced with her, shied away like a timid kitten. They’d brushed up against each other gingerly at her parents’ supper Sunday night, clearing platters of chicken and loading the dishwasher. That whole long evening, no one mentioned the Pritima Center. When Erica threw Jared’s name out into the conversational void, just to hear it spoken, just to validate his existence, the syllables simply hung there, echoed, and dropped. Separated from Erica by the width of the dining room table, holding Ron’s hand between turns, Debbie beat everyone at backgammon. Dad chattered on about Budapest and Prague.
Today, Monday, was Debbie’s day off. Erica briefly considered inviting her to the club. Perhaps, lounging by the pool, she could worm some information about the Pritima Center out of her. But, even under the best of circumstances, Debbie disliked swimming and lying in the sun.
Erica called Justine instead, who accepted Erica’s invitation with genuine enthusiasm. Her husband was away on a golf boondoggle with some doctor buddies and her children away at sleep away camp. They ate chips from the snack bar and flirted with the gross lifeguard in his zebra-striped Speedo. Erica produced a metal flask filled with Jamaican rum.
“You sure are a character, Erica,” Justine enthused, glugging a shot. “A real individual.”
“I try,” Erica said.
Justine sighed, readjusting her bikini top. “Life is so monotonous,” she said. “When’s the last time you did anything really exciting?”
Erica thought back to Josh Hendrie’s apartment. That seemed pathetic; plus, she wasn’t about to share it with Justine. She thought back farther.
“Childbirth,” she said. “Childbirth is the best rush ever.” She remembered how the pain, and all the memory of the pain, vanished at the moment of each of her children’s births, leaving her only a light sensation in her body like she’d run a marathon: a soft elation, a desire to do it all over again.
“Childbirth is agony, Erica,” Justine said. “I wish they could have knocked me out. I suppose you were one of those all-natural women? No epidural for you?”
“No epidural for me.” Erica finished off most of the rum and handed the last driblet to Justine. “I’m tough.”
“Four times tough, huh? I gotta say, I’ve never met anyone like you.” Justine tossed her hair back in full view of Mr. Speedo. By early afternoon, sunburnt and giggly, they retreated to Erica’s house for tuna salad and more rum cocktails.
That night, Erica lay on her bed, hot and headachy, wearing only a pair of panties and supporting a can of lemon soda on her tummy. Ethan, the paycheck that occasionally materialized in human form, made a rare phone call. He was feeling lonely. He’d attended a barbeque at his boss’s house, in some gated luxury development in Boca, but everyone else attending had come with their wives and families, so he felt awkward. The weather in Florida had turned uncomfortably steamy, with swarms of mosquitoes and humid air that stuck to him like paste. He would return in a week and a half.
“Why not earlier?” Erica asked.
Believe him, he wanted to come home earlier, he said. But he couldn’t swing it—there was a lot going on he didn’t want to talk about; he was under pressure; he was working eighteen-hour days; something about the SEC.
“I should have gone back to the Bay Area and worked at Apple with my father,” he repeated.
“What’s the point of regrets?” asked Erica.
“Not much,” Ethan said. He was sorry about his mood. He was tired. He was going to bed.
A cascade of crickets chirped in the backyard; tires squealed down the street. The night was still young. Talk about regret. Summer had always been her favorite season, but now, the season in only its second week, she could already sense the fading of its heavy light.
The phone rang: Amelia.
“I’m sorry to call so late,” Amelia said, “But I’m freaked. I had to let Dahlia go. I couldn’t take a chance, with Jason’s county job and all. And here I just started my interior decorating business. I don’t know what on earth I’m going to do.”
“Can’t you hire a replacement?” Erica guzzled the last of her soda.
“You didn’t hear? I thought you were friends with Nick Stromboli. An old high school buddy or something.”
Muscles tightened across Erica’s skull. Her right eyelid twitched. She forced herself to sound casual. “We did go to high school together. He owns Housemates, right?”
“You never did follow up on Housemates, did you?”
The air-conditioning didn’t seem to be working right. Erica opened the bedroom window for air. A sultry, rich fragrance drifted in from the yard.
“Are you listening to me, Rikki?” said Amelia, sounding agitated.
“Yes. No. I decided I didn’t want some strange girl living in the house. Isabella comes once a week, and she keeps things clean enough, I think.” Erica pressed the can of soda, still retaining some residual cool from the refrigerator, into her sweaty forehead.
“Well, it’s just as well. They closed the whole operation down. It’s been in the works for weeks, I guess, but it all blew up a couple of days ago. Seems like none of Nick’s housekeepers had green cards. He had shady connections funneling them in from the Caribbean or something. He’s in major trouble. I always thought he seemed a little slippery, you know. I’m sorry—I realize you’re friends.”
“He’s not my friend. I hardly know him.” Erica’s knees vibrated of their own volition.
“Well, whatever.”
“Hang on for a sec—it’s call-waiting,” said Amelia. Erica waited through several minutes of silences, wondering if her phone was tapped. “It could be,” she thought. There were so many suspects: Ralph Rossiter the private eye; the SEC; the DEA.
Amelia’s breathless voice returned. “Gotta go,” she said.
So that was why Nick had been so distant and distracted, so testy. It had nothing to do with her looks or her urgency. The thick air closed in like a wall, pressing on Erica’s chest. She sank down onto her Pakistani cream wool carpet. It smelled of lanolin and dust.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tuesday morning’s air bristled electric, rife with unfinished business. She needed to go somewhere, if only there was anywhere worth going. She couldn’t return to the pool; it was closed for a swim team competition. Once again, she fought the desire to stop by Nick’s. She was too dependent on him. Plus, she didn’t trust him. Now that the authorities had discovered the INS scam in his “legitimate” operations, surely they’d dig further into his activities. Maybe she should buy her drugs from someone else. She still had Stephan Langston’s number written right there in her phone book. Or maybe she could cut down. She could save it for the morning, as a supplement to her coffee. She would start that afternoon. Or better yet, tomorrow afternoon, after she used up the stuff, right there in the car, right there in her diaper bag.
She called Stephan’s number and left a mes
sage. He was at work, no doubt. For all she knew, he was in Florida holding mysterious meetings with Ethan. She called Nick, despite her misgivings, and to her surprise, he answered and tersely suggested she try him late afternoon. Late afternoon seemed eons away.
And what was the deal with Ashley? She’d barged into Erica’s house, breaking scars off her heart, and then vanished, la-de-da, into the ether. Erica ran through Jared rescue scenarios in her head: scaling a brick wall, dropping into the ivy on the other side, charging toward a gothic bricked structure with barred windows, breaking the glass, shoving away orderlies. The scenarios grew ever more ornate, but she needed Ashley’s assistance to enact them.
Her heart beating way too fast, Erica drove to Kiddie Warehouse in Mineola and bought Sophia a new bathing suit. All around them shoppers buzzed like ravenous flies, sucking up bargains under the fluorescent lights. On the way home, she listened to yet another one of Jared’s atrocious tapes, an LA-based band called Roach. Thrash metal, that’s what Jared had termed this noise. She figured the term itself was a significant part of the appeal; it reminded her of the way her boys thrashed their legs all over the bed when they slept.
She found herself pulling into Debbie’s driveway. Debbie opened the door, smiling tentatively. She was wearing her work clothes: crisp white shirt, navy slacks. Her wrists still looked pinkish and irritated where Erica had grabbed them, even after all this time.
“Oh, hi, Rikki,” she said. “You look bleary. Allergies or a cold?”
“I’m fine,” Erica said.
“You’re flushed. Your nose is running.” Debbie pressed her lips to Erica’s forehead. “Are you sure you don’t have a fever?”
“It’s just so sticky outside,” Erica said.
“Do you want some iced tea or something? I can’t sit long. I just got home from work, and I promised Ron I’d make pot roast for dinner.”
Erica sank down onto the couch, placing Sophia’s baby seat on the carpet. The baby’s fingers played against her seat buckle, attempting to penetrate its mysteries and unlock it.
Debbie brought Erica a glass of iced tea, the powdered kind with Sweet’N Low.
“I’m sorry I scratched you,” Erica said. Cool liquid sweetness slid down her throat. “It was an accident.”
Debbie nodded, maintaining careful distance.
“Are you still making DDD presentations with Patti?” Erica asked.
“Not so much since I’m back at the salon. And not with Patti. Patti’s taking psychology classes. She wants to go back to college and get a degree as a therapist. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved. We never had much in common, and the less contact I have with that daughter of hers, the better.”
Silence hung thickly in the air. Erica closed her eyes and leaned against the cushions. She could either fall asleep or punch through walls.
“I wish we could be closer, Rikki,” she said. “We were discussing the importance of sibling support in therapy. But you’re so inconsiderate and impulsive, and you always have been. You don’t care if I hurt, you don’t care if I’m in pain, and it’s always been that way.”
“Always?” Despite the tea and the air-conditioning, sweat beaded on Erica’s forehead.
“Yes. Since we were kids together. Remember my elbow fracture?”
“Of course I remember your elbow. I cared about your elbow.”
“I wouldn’t have broken it if it wasn’t for you.” Debbie stroked the faint scar on her arm as if it still hurt.
“It wasn’t my fault. I was seven.” Debbie had fallen, in slow motion like in the movies, crashing down on her arm, the arm splaying out against the concrete like it wasn’t part of her body. It wasn’t Erica’s fault she kept swinging. She kept trying to slow her swing down, but it kept going. She’d swung so high, and it took so long to come down to where she could put her feet on the ground.
“That wasn’t the only thing. You were always running away and terrifying everybody, like that day at the World’s Fair. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about the light. How when I opened my eyes and looked straight through the water, all the buildings and people broke down, and all I could see was rivers of colored light.”
Debbie snorted. “And what were you thinking about when you convinced my son to run away? Sparkles and fairy dust?”
“I didn’t convince Jared to run away. He decided that all on his own.” Erica’s legs shook of her own accord, and she expected Debbie to diagnose her with a terminal muscular disease. But Debbie wasn’t looking at her, only down at the silver bracelet on her fragile wrist.
“Well, Ron doesn’t think so. And that’s another thing we discussed in therapy. How you disrespect my husband. You and Ethan both. You treat him like he’s beneath you.”
“I didn’t come here to be insulted.” Erica put her leg up on the coffee table, in full defiance of Debbie’s rules.
Debbie pointedly said nothing but stood up and walked into the kitchen. Erica heard the sound of stirring, and the refrigerator door opening and closing. A scent of seared meat and onions drifted in. Erica wiggled her leg. One swipe of her foot and all those paperweights would come tumbling down.
“Rikki, I needed a moment to think,” Debbie said, returning to the living room. “Things have gotten out of hand again. If you take your foot off my furniture, perhaps we could have a few minutes of civilized conversation.”
Erica moved her foot. She felt dizzy. She forced herself to look into her sister’s eyes as if she was a normal human being.
Debbie sighed and sat down again. “Ron and I are visiting Elyse and Martin in Albany next weekend.” Elyse was an old friend of Debbie’s from beauty school. “We’re finally finding some time to get away and share some fun times together .”
“Great,” Erica said. Now her right hand was shaking. It wanted to take action.
“Did you hear about Nick Stromboli and Housemates?” Debbie asked, leaning across the table confidentially. “Mom told me all about it.”
She could punch her hand right through the glass cabinet on the opposing wall, housing Debbie’s insipid collection of ceramic bunnies, if only Debbie herself wasn’t in the way. She picked some peeling skin off her knee instead. “Yeah, Amelia told me. She was freaking out.”
“You never did contact him about a housekeeper, did you?”
“I changed my mind.” Erica put her ice tea directly down on the glass.
“Well, good thing,” said Debbie, discreetly sliding a coaster under the glass. “I’d never trust a stranger to clean my house. And Ron is so particular. He used to fight so with Jared, the way he kept his room, with books and records and clothes all over the place.”
Jared. The forbidden name had been spoken. Erica took the opening.
“How is Jared?”
“He’s doing well,” Debbie said. “He calls from a supervised situation.”
“Can you give out his address now? Can we write him letters and stuff?”
“No, Rikki.” Debbie sighed, as if addressing a nagging two year old. “I’ve told you a thousand times, outside contact is forbidden right now. When he progresses further in the program he’ll be granted more privileges. Excuse me, I have to check the roast.”
“I have to go anyway,” Erica said, rising from the couch. She picked up Sophia’s baby seat. Her limbs shook, both from nerves and effort; still way too much flab jiggling around her triceps. “Are you sure you don’t want the name of my ear, nose and throat doctor before you go?” Debbie asked, pouring a can of stewed tomatoes into the roasting pan. “You look funky and you sound congested.”
“Nah,” Erica said.
“You want this sandwich?” Debbie pulled a styrofoam container out of the refrigerator. “It’s a chicken teriyaki from Buckman’s. I think I’m allergic to the wheat in the soy sauce.”
“No thanks.” Erica shif
ted Sophia’s seat to the other arm.
Debbie looked hurt. “I’ll throw it out then,” she said. “Ron hates leftovers.”
: : :
Erica set up the wading pool at home but couldn’t interest Sophia in splashing around in it. Her face looked flushed and she whimpered irritably. Erica gave her a dose of Infant Tylenol and drove around the neighborhood in her damp swimsuit, listening to Peter Gabriel, hoping the ride and the tamer music might lull Sophia to sleep. Her neighborhood looked empty: squares of green lawn; a few wilted impatiens here and there; Hispanic gardeners blowing debris off a curb. She rounded a corner past a farmhouse colonial her mother had sold the previous year to a family with three boys, one in Dylan’s class, the others in middle and high school. A wood refinishing truck was parked in their driveway and the whine of their equipment echoed on the empty street. The ride, or maybe the Tylenol, didn’t put Sophia to sleep, but her color went down and her mood cheered up. She chattered away and pointed at the truck, but now Erica fought to keep her eyes open. The easiest thing in the world was to do nothing; to drown in her ennui. Crossing the railroad tracks, she saw that her parent’s lawn sprinklers were running full blast, popping up and down between the perennial beds, but neither her Dad’s Honda Accord nor her mother’s Mercury Sable were in the driveway.
Nick’s brown Acura was, though, and it was already afternoon, albeit not late. He met her at the door with her stuff—twice her usual order, this time, she wasn’t taking any chances—and Erica handed over a big lump of cash. Today there clearly would be no lazy conversations, no lounging on his sticky rug. She lingered on his stoop, fingering the metal doorknob, tracing the wrought iron vines fronting the screen. A few weeks before, recalling third grade math night, they’d estimated the number of metal holes in that screen. They’d counted the number horizontally (150) then vertically (324). There was a ragged tear, though, about two inches in diameter, that they couldn’t account for. The whole attempt had collapsed in hilarity. For Ethan, Erica noted, solving a problem like that would be as simple as breathing. Then Nick had asked, “Are you sure breathing is simple?”
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