by Lisa Lutz
“A bag of Bavarian pretzels is hardly an appropriate gift for an eighteen-month-old child.”
“Why not? Everything you give her she sticks in her mouth anyway. It might as well be edible.”
“Leave the pretzels at home. Your presence will be gift enough.”
“I think it’s time to find a new babysitter. Do you really want a dropout with a compromised immune system watching your child?”
“Isabel, I will see you at five o’clock tonight,” David replied.
“Why so early? Word on the street1 is that the opera doesn’t start until eight.”
“We have dinner reservations beforehand, at six fifteen.”
“And how long will it take you to get to the restaurant?”
“Fifteen minutes. But it will be at least forty-five to give you babysitting instructions.”
Yes, I did point out that I had already babysat with marginal success, but David felt the need to provide a full debriefing on Sydney protocol should this sort of thing happen regularly. I pointed out that I had no intention of this thing happening regularly, but David disregarded my comment.
I arrived at five o’ five on the dot to find my brother striking a remarkable resemblance to Old David. His tux was pressed and creased and fit him like a glove. A little more like a glove than it used to, but the elegant cut concealed the baby weight he was still carrying. His hair was neatly combed back with one of those products Old David used religiously and he was clean-shaven and cologned.
“Where’s David?” I asked.
“Hilarious,” David replied.
“Doesn’t he look wonderful,” Maggie said, descending the stairs.
She didn’t look so shabby herself in a simple black cocktail gown. Although I could tell she was having some trouble with the four-inch heels.
“You two make a striking pair. Are you sure about those shoes, Maggie?”
“Nope. But I’ve committed.”
“Down to business,” David said, interrupting the niceties.
The instructions took only forty minutes, if I’m looking on the bright side. The diaper-change discourse was the most time-consuming—not because of the basic instructions (which I probably could have figured out on my own with a good Internet connection) but because of my insistence that the diaper change could wait until the fat lady sang.
David had apparently anticipated the ensuing debate and figured it into his timeline. The baby monitor explanation was thankfully brief. I’m a PI; listening devices are hardly new to me. We did, however, have to go over emergency protocol, which involved car seat instructions just in case I had to take her to the emergency room or she wouldn’t stop crying.
The last part was an off-the-cuff remark by David, but I pressed for an explanation.
“What do you mean, ‘won’t stop crying’?”
“Kids like cars,” Maggie explained, deflecting. “This one, more than most; if she won’t go to sleep by eight or so, then you might want to take her for a drive.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. She’ll sleep as long as you drive.”
“Do environmentalists know about this?”
“Once she’s sound asleep, you can usually transition her from the car to the bed without incident.”
“I see. Anything else I should know?” I asked, suddenly feeling the full weight of the responsibility that lay ahead of me.
“No swearing,” David said.
“She only knows like five words. Seems unlikely,” I replied.
“You. No swearing.”
“How about I cut back?” I replied.
David gave me his Don’t mess with me look and I responded with my That window looks mighty inviting look.
“I’m doing you a favor,” I said. “Let’s get our facts straight.”
Maggie passed Sydney to David and took me aside.
“I owe you,” she said. “My only request is that you don’t respond to ‘banana.’”
“What do I do if she asks for one?”
“Distract her and five minutes later give her a bottle. She already had dinner, so she should be fine.”
“If you have any questions, you can text us,” David said.
“No, David. You will not be staring at your BlackBerry while we’re in a theater. We’re not that kind of people. Izzy can call your parents if she has any questions. They’ve raised three children on their own.”
“And two out of three are still children,” David replied. “How do you like those odds?” he said to his wife.
“Hey!” I said, because my head was too full of regret to come up with a better comeback. But then I had a brilliant idea. “Why don’t you call the unit? They totally dig Sydney.”
“Thought of that, but we’re afraid Grammy Spellman will invite herself along,” David said. “And we already have enough food issues in this house; we don’t want to add an eating disorder to the mix.”
“That is indeed a sound argument.”
“Thank you, Isabel. You are the best,” Maggie said, kissing me on the cheek.
David didn’t echo her sentiment. Instead, he put his daughter into my arms and said, “Ten fingers and ten toes. I’ll expect that same number when I return.”
Maggie and David then departed. Sydney and I watched through the window as their car backed out of the driveway and disappeared down the street. Sydney then turned to me and stared into my eyes for a full five seconds, showing no recognition whatsoever. Then she began crying. Perhaps wailing is a more appropriate term. Whatever it was, the sound pierced my ears and made it quite difficult to carry on the various telephone conversations that eventually followed after I tried giving her a bottle and dangling her favorite stuffed animal in front of her.
“Henry, I need your help.”
“What’s that noise?”
“It’s a child.”
“What child?”
“My niece. Who else?”
“Why is she so close to the phone?”
“Because I’m holding her.”
“Put her down. I can’t hear you.”
I put Sydney on the floor. She stumbled to the front door and scratched at the wood like a dog wanting to go out. Only she was also crying.
“I’m babysitting,” I said. “Don’t ask. But you have to come over here immediately and help me.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” Henry replied. “Have you tried giving her a bottle or a toy?”
“Of course. Now get over here.”
“I can’t. I’m on a stakeout.”
“You wouldn’t just be saying that, would you?”
“Using surveillance to evade personal obligations is your thing, Isabel.”
“So there’s no way you can help babysit,” I said. “Please stop crying, Sydney.”
“That’s not going to do you any good,” Henry brilliantly commented.
I figured that out on my own since Sydney was still crying.
“I have some phone calls I need to make,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Stay calm,” Henry said.
“Easy for you to say.”
I disconnected the call.
“Sydney, I beg of you. Please stop crying.”
I picked her up again, but she squirmed in my arms, reaching for the door, crying, “Dada.” I texted DAVID: Sydney would like you to return home. Me too.
A few minutes later, Maggie texted me from her phone with the following words:
• Pacifier
• Bottle
• Dangling keys
• Television
I was given no specific TV instructions, so I gathered up their DVD collection (obviously the ones that appeared to be for children) and inserted the discs, one at a time, hoping to lure my niece away from the front door and in front of the TV. I tried a wide variety of entertainment options, beginning with what I was certain was a winner: SpongeBob SquarePants.2
This was the episode “Sailor Mouth,” in which SpongeBob can’t stop swearing.3
His sidekick Patrick refers to profanity as “sentence enhancers.” If there was ever a better description, I have not heard it. Then he later calls it a “spicy sentence sandwich.” A beautifully apt description, void of all judgment. And, yeah, I’ve watched my share of SpongeBob in my life. Completely sober.
Next came Bob the Builder, Zoboomafoo, 4 and The Wiggles. 5
Then I phoned my mother for some advice, but the call went to voice mail and I realized she was in the midst of expanding her horizons (a.k.a. evading Grammy Spellman). I grabbed Sydney’s bottle, blanket, and stuffed elephant, picked her up, and put her in the car.
Then we hit the road.
The crying subsided as soon as we backed out of the driveway. I headed south on Van Ness and, after a mile or so, looked through the rearview mirror and saw my niece out cold. Since this whole driving-as-a-cure-for-crying was new to me, I was wary of red lights and stop signs. I avoided them as much as possible until it became obvious that Sydney was not going to wake up any time soon. Although the unnerving jingle on my new phone did cause her to stir.
I picked up immediately and whispered, “Shhhh.”
The person on the other end of the line whispered back, “Is this a bad time?”
“I’m not sure,” I whispered. “Who is this?”
“Walter.”
“Hello, Walter.”
“Are you in a movie theater?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t answer my phone in a movie theater,” I said. “Only complete assholes do that.”
“I agree—in theory. I don’t go to movies.”
“I know, Walter.”
“Where are you?”
“In a car,” I replied.
This didn’t answer Walter’s primary questions, so I elaborated. “I’ve got a sleeping toddler in back. I’d like her to stay that way.”
“You have kids?”
“No! It’s my niece.” All this still said in a whisper.
“Maybe this is a bad time. I’ll call back later.”
“What is it, Walter?”
“I have to go out tonight. Just for an hour or so. I offered a study session on campus for my students. The final is tomorrow.”
“That’s good, Walter. You need to get out.”
I had stopped whispering. Sydney wasn’t stirring.
“Will you be around later? I don’t know what I might come home to.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine, but call me if you have any problems.”
“Thanks, Isabel. You’re a saint.”
“That’s a first,” I replied.
Since I was already in the car and only a mile or so from Walter’s apartment building, I drove straight there, double-parking down the street. Within a minute of my arrival, I watched Walter exit his building and drive off in his immaculate Volvo.
Sydney remained asleep. Unprepared for a stakeout, I played several horrendous games of chess on my cell phone. Since I was competing against the easiest level (which they had the nerve to call “Silly”), losing put me in a sour mood and my already limited desire to study was diminished even more. To kill time, I followed up on that Bernie project I mentioned to you earlier with a few phone calls.
“Hi, Natasha. Have you had a chance to do that thing I asked you to do? . . . Remember the conversation we had the other day? I understand that it’s hard to find a fax . . . If it would facilitate matters—Oh, I’m sorry. If it would make it easier, I could call you and we could record your affidavit and then I could type it up and just have you sign it. Will tomorrow work? Okay. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Hi, Shelly. I got your report. Thank you. I just have one question. You mentioned that he’d leave his socks in the refrigerator in the summer. Were those socks clean or dirty? Really? That is unbelievably disgusting. That too? Yuck. Could you add that to the report and then I will need it signed and have the appropriate legalese—Excuse me? I just mean it needs to sound lawyerly. No, I didn’t make up that word. I promise you. Oh, you did date a lawyer once. How’d that work out for you? I once used Litidate.com.6 You’d be surprised who’s out there. So, if you could send me the revised report, I’ll type it up and then you can sign it and fax it back to me. You don’t have a fax? Okay. Well, do you have an envelope and a stamp? Great. That will work just as well. Thanks, Shelly.”
I checked my e-mails and tried, yet again, to hack into Rae’s instant-message account, whilst keeping one eye on the front door to Walter’s building. I should note that in his absence, I saw only one known neighbor depart and one known neighbor (Mrs. Averly—too old to be stopping up bathtubs for sport) enter the building. With all the driving and the plotting and the surveilling going on, I had lost track of time. When I looked at the clock on my dashboard it read eleven fifteen P.M.
The next phone call did not come as a surprise.
“Where are you?” my brother’s shaken voice shouted into my ear.
“On a surveillance,” I replied.
“Excuse me?” he said, even louder.
“You said take her for a drive if she wouldn’t settle down. Well, let me tell you something, she wouldn’t settle down. But the driving trick worked like a charm. Thanks for that.”
“You took my daughter on a surveillance?”
“I took her for a drive that included surveillance.”
“Bring her home immediately,” David said.
If he were talking on a landline, I can guarantee he would have slammed the phone into the receiver.
I drove directly to David and Maggie’s place. David met me in the driveway, still in his opera suit, sporting a brutal scowl. The second I pulled the car to a halt, he opened the back door, gently removed his daughter from the car seat, and said, “That’s the last time I ask you to babysit.”
“Okay,” I replied, wondering if he was planning to tack on a legitimate threat.
Maggie approached David, looked at her daughter, and said, “She fine; she’s asleep. We told her to go for a drive if she wouldn’t settle.”
“She took her on a surveillance,” David whispered loudly to his wife.
“What difference does it make?” I also whispered.
“It doesn’t,” Maggie said to me and David.
“It does,” David replied.
I briefly stepped out of the car, counted Sydney’s fingers and toes, and mentioned that not once in the entire evening did I say “banana.” Maggie removed the car seat, whispered another “thank you,” and followed David into the house.
When I returned to my car, I saw that the message light was blinking on my phone. Walter. I listened to his message on my voice mail.
“It happened again,” Walter said.
Only this time, I knew it couldn’t have.
INSIDE JOB
Someone had used Walter’s toaster. Two cold, burned slices perched in its stainless steel pockets.
“Anything else amiss?” I asked.
“That’s it,” Walter said. “What do you think it means?”
“It means someone was wasting toast, if you ask me.”
“I don’t understand,” Walter said.
“Me neither,” I replied. “Is this your toast? Or did they bring it?”
“It’s mine. Two slices are missing from the loaf,” Walter replied.
“How much do you like toast?” I asked.
“I like it. But I only have it on weekends.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of the crumbs. It’s so messy. I need the time to clean it up.”
“I see,” I said, pacing through the apartment in my socks. I felt like a nursery school Columbo. “So, your intruder entered your home, made toast, burned it, and left. Is that the gist?” I asked.
“I believe so,” Walter replied, sinking into his sofa, defeated.
“How friendly are you with your neighbors?”
“We say hello in the hallways and such.”
“Have you ever angered a neighbor by, I don’t know, suggesting they replace their
doormat or organize their junk mail?”
“I’ve left a few anonymous notes.”
“I’ll need a list,” I said as I sat down on the couch. I struggled to comprehend what would possess Sasha to repeat her trespass when she’d already been confronted. “Have you spoken to your ex-wife recently?” I asked.
“No,” Walter replied. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said. “Call me the next time someone makes toast,” I said.
“Even if it’s just Sunday and I’m making it?”
“No, Walter. Just call me if toast appears without your knowledge or anything in the same vein.”
“Thank you, Isabel.”
“Good-bye, Walter.”
It was past midnight, but I phoned the ex-Mrs. Perkins anyway, looking for an explanation—one that involved her having the skills of a cat burglar. “Are you the toast bandit?” I asked.
“Excuse me?” she groggily replied.
“It’s Isabel, by the way. The private investigator.”
“It’s late,” she said.
“My apologies,” I replied. “Are you the toast bandit?”
“I truly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Have you talked to him?” Long silence. “I take that as a no.”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too . . . embarrassing.”
“So you didn’t break into his apartment this evening and make toast?”
“I wouldn’t have made toast when we were married. The crumbs drove him mad.”
“When was the last time you stepped foot into Walter’s apartment?”
“Three months ago.”
“Three months?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I rearranged his shoe tree. He likes all the slip-ons on the left and the laces on the right. I swapped sides. It was immature, I know. I just had to do it, after all those years of living under so many rules.”
“Let me get this straight: You’ve only broken into his apartment once since the separation?”
“I used a key. I’m not sure it qualifies as breaking and entering.”
“Do me a favor, Sasha. Wait a bit before you call Walter.”
“Why?” she asked.
Because Walter never told me about the shoes. However, I didn’t reply to her question.