Local Knowledge

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  “I was thinking about leaving for Bangor a little earlier than we talked about,” she said. “I don’t think Mrs. Zeller is going to need me this week.”

  “Is that because Mr. Zeller’s home?”

  “I guess so,” Rachel said. “I checked the bus schedules already and they’re the same for every weekday. I thought I’d go up on Wednesday instead of Friday.”

  I was trying to think of a way of asking her more about Anne and what was happening at the Zellers’, so I wasn’t really paying much attention to what she was saying about her long-anticipated trip to Maine to see Aaron.

  “Are you sure that would be okay with Anne? I mean, didn’t she already pay you for the whole month?” I knew she had, because I’d been there a week or so ago when Anne had handed Rachel a check made out to “cash” for over three hundred dollars, saying she was just trying to get her bills taken care of before Richard arrived. I’d suspected, though, that it was because she didn’t want Richard to know how much she’d been relying on Rachel for help with the children and housework.

  “She said she wouldn’t be needing me anymore,” Rachel replied. “And I did ask her about the money, Mom. She said I should keep it—like a bonus.”

  “Honestly, honey, that just seems to me like a lot—” And then an altogether different thought struck me. “Wasn’t Aaron’s dad going to pick you up at the station on Friday night on his way back from work in Boston? Who’ll be there to meet you on Wednesday?”

  “Maybe his dad’s taking the week off?” Rachel said. It was because she answered me with another question that I realized she was lying. I suppose she thought that her “maybe” kept it from being a blatant deception, but it was a lie nevertheless. I knew it was a couple of hours from Bangor to the Neissens’ house up on the coast. I supposed that Aaron would be there to get her, that perhaps they’d arranged to spend a night together somewhere. I guessed that Aaron was covering things up on his end, as well. This was the first time, at least that I knew of, that Rachel had ever willfully tried to deceive me. I felt sad—and guilty somehow. It seemed to me now that the summer had become overgrown with secrets and lies, an impossible tangle of good intentions, outsized hopes, neediness, and longing.

  “I think I’d better give Aaron’s mom a call then,” I said. “Just to make sure that your being there a couple of days longer won’t be an imposition.”

  “Please don’t do that!” Rachel said.

  “Why not?” I asked, turning to look at her. She was blushing. She knew that I knew.

  “Just don’t. You’re right. It would be an imposition. I’ll go Friday, the way we first planned.”

  It felt like a victory for me then. I believed I’d handled things with finesse—forcing the issue without provoking a confrontation with Rachel. Of course, I couldn’t have known how much better it would have been for Rachel if she had left that Wednesday. If I’d allowed her what, in retrospect, would have been such a relatively harmless falsehood: a stolen night with a boy she imagined she loved. I wonder if she thinks about that, too. What might have been if she’d been able to lie to me a little better, if I hadn’t known her quite so well.

  At first I thought it was a deer or bear—a thrashing sound coming from the woods. I turned, alarmed, to see Paul come running through the underbrush, stripped to his bathing trunks, banging his chest like a gorilla and roaring, “Heeeeeeere I come, ready or not!” He ran across the beach as Beanie and Lia screamed, “Watch out for the castle! Daddy, be careful!”

  But he leapt like the old hard-charging fullback he was over their little sand battlements, ran out several yards, and threw himself into the darkened waters. His antics broke the tense mood between Rachel and myself. By the time he’d had his swim, toweled off, and changed, the steaks were almost ready and it seemed to me that we were one happy family again.

  “I had a good talk with Luke,” he said after we’d all sat down. That he was even bringing this up in front of the girls was indication enough for me that the conversation had gone well.

  “That’s great,” I said. “So he’s agreed to clean things up?”

  “He’s already started! Can you believe it? He says that he’s been clearing the place out all weekend. The basement’s still a wreck but the downstairs looks almost presentable. I’m not sure what got into him, but he told me he’s ready to start over. That this is going to be a whole new beginning for him. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. It was really great to talk to him.”

  I could tell by Paul’s unreserved enthusiasm that Luke hadn’t confided in him why he was turning over this new leaf. But for the first time since my aborted phone conversation with Anne on Friday night, I allowed myself to believe that she was going to leave Richard after all. That she’d somehow communicated this to Luke; that he was readying his house for her and the children. Yes, this had to be what had happened! Perhaps Anne had slipped down there while Richard was asleep and they’d talked it all through: Luke explaining away his youthful missteps; Anne assuring him it didn’t matter to her, nothing mattered but the two of them being together. Paul’s obvious relief infused me with new confidence: it was all going to work out. Hadn’t I always been too much of a worrier, a doubter? Later that night as we were getting ready for bed, I asked Paul, “Did you tell Luke about Richard Zeller—about what happened at the meeting?”

  “No. But why else would he be doing what he was doing? Of course, he was adamant he was getting his act together for his own reasons. But I’d claim the same thing in his place. Nobody wants to feel pushed around by that asshole. I think he hates him as much as I do—no, maybe even more.”

  But, as Monday and Tuesday passed and I still hadn’t heard from Anne, my uneasiness returned. I hadn’t really thought about how often she’d taken to calling me at the office throughout the summer—chatting about some new store she’d found, checking in with me about Rachel’s schedule, and, more recently, almost daily finding something to confide to me about Luke—until the phone calls so abruptly stopped. Late Tuesday afternoon, I decided to call her, something I very rarely did. But why not? I thought. It was another hot day and I’d promised the girls that we could go for a swim if I didn’t get tied up at the office. I’d invite Anne and her kids to come along. Richard answered the phone.

  “Who?” he replied when I gave him my name and asked to speak with Anne. He put down the phone and I heard his footsteps down the hall.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me. How are you?”

  “I’m sorry. Who is this?”

  “Anne, it’s me. Maddie.”

  “Oh. Of course. I’m sorry. Richard told me it was Hallie.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. That’s great. Listen, I’m taking the girls up to the pond later, and I thought you guys might want to come.”

  “Oh. No. We can’t. Sorry.”

  “You can’t talk right now, can you?” I said. It was obvious she was uncomfortable; I sensed Richard in the background, listening.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I understand. But you can always give me a call when it’s better for you, okay? At work or home, it doesn’t matter.”

  I felt a little better just hearing her voice. But I felt so bad for her. She clearly hadn’t found the courage yet to tell Richard about Luke. I thought it must be agony for her, and I wished so much that I could help her somehow.

  The office seemed eerily quiet on Wednesday; Heather was in Boston and Linda had started her vacation. Nana pointed out that a lot of people were away that week, the final one of the summer, which might account for the inactivity. But she looked preoccupied and left early that afternoon. It was Dan Osserman’s seventy-fifth birthday the following day and Nana was putting on a big party for him at their house, complete with caterers traveling up from Manhattan and a jazz combo coming in from Boston. I wasn’t surprised, or even hurt really, that Paul and I hadn’t been invited. Though I think Nana is more
egalitarian in her social dealings, Dan Osserman only mixes with the other wealthy second-home owners and the local monied class; Owen Phelps is a frequent golf partner of his.

  It was a little busier Thursday morning because the new assistant, Alice Tolland, had long ago arranged with Nana to take the day off for a family wedding, and I was the only one in the office. I finalized the copy and digital photos for our listings in the September Real Estate Buyer’s Guide. I rescheduled a closing for Linda.

  When I went home for lunch, Lia asked me if she could go over and play at Kathy’s that afternoon. Rachel had been so preoccupied getting ready for her trip to Maine the last few days that I think both her younger sisters felt a little abandoned by her. They’d loved having Rachel so involved with their daily lives over the course of the summer, sharing in all the attention and inventive fun she’d lavished on Katie and Max. But this week they’d been left to their own devices, and though Beanie was good at entertaining herself, I could tell that Lia was at loose ends. Kathy always welcomes drop-ins, so I didn’t bother to call her: I just drove Lia and Beanie over there on my way back to work. I know I should have stopped and chatted, but I was already running late. I waved to Kathy from the car. She was in the backyard, surrounded by children, setting up the sprinkler hydrant. She looked unquestionably pregnant now and just plain heavy: her upper arms doughy in a sleeveless sundress.

  The afternoon dragged on. I got a lot of filing done and killed some time checking out the latest listing updates on Promatch. The phone finally rang around four o’clock.

  “Mom?” It was Rachel. “I’m sorry to bother you like this but Mrs. Zeller just called. She needs me to babysit for her tonight. Is that okay? And do you think you can drive me over there around six?”

  “Sure,” I said. I felt so relieved to hear from Anne again! Even though she’d called Rachel, I knew this was her way of reaching out to me, as well. “But I should hold the fort here until at least quarter of, so be ready to go when I get home, okay? I won’t even get out of the car.”

  Rachel looked so pretty when she came running out to meet me. She’d lost some weight over the last few weeks, and her new slimness accentuated the fullness of her breasts under her flowered sundress. She had a pale lavender sweater tied loosely around her neck like a big scarf, a fashion trick she’d picked up from Anne. She’d had her hair cut and highlighted on Saturday in preparation for her visit to see Aaron; it tumbled around her shoulders as she ran, honey-colored, soft and thick.

  “Thanks for doing this,” she said as she slammed the door and I started to back out. “I was so sure she didn’t need me that I left all my packing until tonight. So I’ve been scrambling to get everything ready. You know the bus leaves at seven thirty—and I can’t miss it! You’ll drive me down to Northridge, won’t you? I’ll set the alarm for six so we won’t be late. And I’ll make you a thermos of coffee.”

  “Did Mrs. Zeller say why she needed you?” I asked, as we turned onto the highway. “Are they going out?”

  “No, she didn’t say. Just that it would be great if I could help her. You know, I think I better set the alarm for five thirty to be safe.”

  Maybe it was because Luke was clearing things out inside the house, but, as we passed by, it seemed to me that the outside looked worse than ever: old boxes and empty bottles stacked on the front porch, a pile of stuffed garbage bags spilling down the steps. I thought I saw him as we made the turn—a flash of something in the doorway—but then the trees cut his house off from view. The Zeller property looked pristine in comparison. At Richard’s insistence, Anne had hired a professional yard care and garden design outfit from Northridge that kept the long sloping lawn neatly mowed and watered; they’d also recently planted a garden of shrubs and hardy perennials around the front of the house. The vegetable garden that Bob had put in, its fence covered now by overgrown weeds, looked out of place, homegrown and rural in the middle of what was now a neatly manicured landscape.

  I drove up to the house, circling in the turnaround, and stopped in front of the wide slate path. Rachel unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door.

  “Thanks. I’ll call you or Dad when it’s time to pick me up. I’d rather it be you than Mr. Zeller, okay?”

  “Sure, honey,” I said as I looked beyond her to the house. It seemed so much more substantial and welcoming with the new garden, the lawn trimmed, the path weeded. Someone—could it have been Anne?—had put up one of those expensive butterfly houses at the top of the rise; it was circled by a newly planted mini-garden of Shasta daisies and echinacea. Then the front door opened, and I saw Anne standing there. On impulse, I turned the engine off. I followed Rachel up the pathway. Rachel said something to Anne, and then moved around her into the house.

  “Hey,” I said, walking up to the door. Anne stood there, her arms folded across her chest. She was wearing a sleeveless light blue silk sheath, printed with some kind of Oriental calligraphy in a shimmery silver. A braided silk cord holding an intricately carved piece of jade circled her neck; and, for the first time that I could remember, she was wearing a number of rings, including one with a diamond about the size of an almond. She shook her head. She didn’t say anything. Was Richard standing nearby? I wondered. Was this her way of warning me not to mention Luke?

  “What a pretty dress!” I said. “Is it new?”

  “What?” She looked down at what she was wearing. “No, it’s not.”

  “But that necklace must be,” I said. “It’s so lovely. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.” I felt awkward standing there on the steps. I was about a foot below her, and she was looking down on me, though something seemed odd to me about her gaze. I remembered what Luke had told me about Richard’s way of handling her problems: drugs, drugs, and more drugs. Was she a little out of it now?

  “Anne?” I asked, lowering my voice. “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course,” she said, still not really looking at me. It was more that she was staring through me, the way I’d seen her gaze past people she didn’t particularly want to notice. I couldn’t believe that she really meant to look at me this way. Something else must be going on, I told myself. This couldn’t be happening. But it was as if all the warmth, all the friendliness and interest, had been shut off. Like the flick of a switch! Gone!

  “So, you and Richard are going out for the evening?” I knew it was a stupid thing to say, but I couldn’t help myself. I think some childish part of me believed that if I kept asking questions, kept trying various combinations, I’d finally hit on the right one. The spell would be broken. The light would flash back on. And the door that had somehow become closed between us would open wide again.

  “Yes, we’re going to the Ossermans’,” she said.

  “Oh, right! Dan Osserman’s big birthday party!”

  “Is that what it is?” she said, her hand curling around the doorknob. “Don’t tell me you’re going, too?”

  I stared at her, not believing what I had heard. It was the way that she’d said it—incredulous and yet somehow disinterested at the same time. But I knew she couldn’t have meant her words to sound the way they did. Something was definitely wrong. It had to do with Richard, with her trying to make her break from him. I stood there, looking at her, desperately searching for something to say, for a way to make contact. What was she thinking? She’d spent the whole summer chattering away at me in a kind of stream-of-consciousness abandon, confiding intimacies, welcoming the same. And, in my own way, I’d given back, I’d shared, I’d opened my heart to her with a willingness I’d never felt with anyone but Paul before. It had been so freeing. Intoxicating. Seductive. I’d felt valued and, yes, even admired by someone I thought to be remarkable. In my mind, Anne had become more than just a friend; she was the epitome of everything I’d hoped to be. And it was primarily through her admiring eyes that I’d been able to see this new, possible, far more interesting self. Now she looked at me as though she barely recognized who I was.

  “
Anne?” I said, but I couldn’t think how to ask what I needed to know.

  “Anne?” Richard called from somewhere inside. “Where the fuck are my cuff links?”

  “I’m coming,” she called back.

  36

  Sometimes the past seems so real, doesn’t it? Almost tangible. A place you could find your way back to if only you remembered the way. That’s what I felt as I came down the Zellers’ driveway and recalled, with disturbing clarity, walking up that same rise from the Barnetts’ cottage so many years before. It had been all woods back then, the trees leafless in the late November light. I’d been anxious but also secretly thrilled: I’d never been inside the mansion before. The light then had been the way it was now: red-streaked, luminous, suspended between afternoon and evening. I’d known that something was wrong from Paul’s tone of voice, his urgent Wait for me there. Just go. Now. But I’d really known all along that something wasn’t right. Like alchemy, Paul and Luke were generating money from an overgrown quarter acre of nothing. I’d allowed myself to believe what Paul told me, while I skimmed over the surface of things, willfully unconcerned.

  But then, when it all came crashing down, it was Paul who hit bottom, not me. He did everything he could to protect me from the fall. Yes, I was hurt by what happened. My life was never the same, but it didn’t fundamentally change who I was—the way it did Paul. He stopped believing in anything but the here and now: me, a job, a roof over his head. The rest—God, faith, hope—became dangerous chimeras for him. He developed a tough and limited moral code: judge not, mind your own business, be a good neighbor, watch your back. But me? Though we lived by Paul’s rules, I never really stopped yearning for more. To be more. Transformed. For years I waited for the chance: the thick vine beckoning me upward; the spinning wheel whispering: come, touch me, spin.

  Luke stepped out of the shadows when I reached the bottom of the driveway. He was carrying a beat-up weed whacker over his shoulder but it didn’t look to me as though he intended to do any trimming. The land on his side of the road was wildly overgrown, a dense bramble. I stopped the car and lowered the window.