Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Well, I guess some of the stuff the Beatles did individually was pretty good,” she finally said, so long after their conversation had ended that her comment sounded totally out of place. She felt sullied for having made such a namby-pamby remark.

  Compromise, she insisted to herself. Compromise is what it takes to make a marriage work. That’s all you’re doing. Ann Landers would want it this way.

  Besides, this time it seemed to work.

  “Hey, I’m sorry.” David slid into bed beside her, then deftly slipped his hands up under the silky fabric of her robe, already hiked up over her hips. “Forget it. I’m just in a bad mood, okay? I don’t like Ringo Starr either.”

  There. It was gone. Well, almost gone. The bad mood had been tucked away, another unresolved and unresolvable issue stuffed under the bed with the socks and the odd plastic Duplo block. But that was all right, for now. Better to tuck it away than to have it ruin one of their few chances to be a married couple, for a change, rather than a Mommy and a Daddy.

  Jessica was grateful for a second chance. She was more than willing to move away from a topic as controversial as Top Forty hits, but she did crave a bit more conversation before she and David pared down their utterances to the occasional grunt or moan.

  “Hey, we never had a chance to talk about last night. Did you have a good time?”

  “What, you mean with the Denholms? It was okay.”

  “Did you like Jim? I mean, do you think you two are going to be best friends?”

  “Well, let me put it this way. I’d be happy to lend him my wheelbarrow or compare notes on crabgrass. But if they ever invite us back for dinner, let’s suddenly be busy, okay? Tell them we have to go to an A.A. meeting.”

  Jessica laughed. As a reward for him not being mad at her anymore, she snuggled up against him and kissed his neck.

  “How about you? Are you and Lorraine going to be trading recipe cards over the back fence from now on?”

  “You mean Lolly, don’t you? And thanks, but I think I’ll pass on the buddy-buddy stuff where the Cupcake Queen is concerned. It’s bad enough that I’m getting roped into going to that Mini-Mart thing with her.”

  David’s hands were moving around underneath the kimono with such skill that Jessica was quickly losing interest in their conversation. “And here I thought you were all part of the sisterhood,” he murmured.

  “I think Lorraine Denholm is part of a different sisterhood. The one that still thinks of the nineteen fifties as the good old days, when men were men and women were victims.”

  “Hey, Jess?”

  “Ummm?”

  “Let’s not talk about the Denholms anymore, okay?”

  “Sure, David. Okay by me.”

  Jessica was only too happy to slip off her silk robe and send it over to the chair, air mail, to join the rest of her clothes.

  Chapter Three

  The Sea Cliff Mini-Mart was the event of the year—at least, to hear Lorraine Denholm talk about it. And talk about it she had, every time Jessica had failed to duck out of view quickly enough to avoid her.

  “Craftspeople come from all over the northeast,” Lorraine had told Jessica as she pinned Jim Junior’s Masters of the Universe underwear to the clothesline.

  “You can do all your Christmas shopping there,” she had insisted as she dragged a two-foot pile of newspapers out to the curb for Thursday’s pickup. It was a pile so neatly stacked, so carefully tied up with twine, that it resembled one of those fantasy Christmas presents she was so hell-bent on acquiring at the street fair.

  “You’re gonna love it,” she had said the Friday before the fair, when she had telephoned Jessica to make sure they were still on for their “girls’ day out.”

  But Jessica was looking forward to the fair itself, especially when Sunday turned out to be one of those crisp, invigorating early autumn days. It was the type that always made Jessica want to bake an apple pie, even though her last three attempts at that rather excessive bit of homemaking had turned out so disastrously that she had finally resorted to buying the Mrs. Smith’s frozen variety and destroying the boxes.

  The plan was that Lorraine and her two little urchins would stop by just before eleven, the starting hour for the fair. It was bound to get crowded pretty darned fast, she informed Jessica, looking smug about her superior knowledge, what with all the buses of people that were hauled in throughout the day and so many drivers from near and far that the Kiwanis parking lot was generally turning people away by noon. So it made sense to get there early. Besides, she insisted, that way they would have all the more time to enjoy the festivities.

  “Knock, knock!” Lorraine’s lilting voice came through the screen door.

  “Come on in. It’s open,” Jessica called back. She had just snapped Sammy into his Oshkosh denim jacket, me one that made him look like a member of a pint-sized motorcycle gang. “We’re almost ready. Give me two more minutes. I just need to grab a coat and get a couple of things together.’’

  Because it was so cool, the temptation was to bundle up. But the sun was shining, promising to warm things up, and they were going to a crafts fair. So Jessica bypassed her gray wool Icelandic sweater. Instead she reached for the handmade patchwork jacket she had fallen in love with during a previous foray into the world of crafts fairs.

  With its vibrant red, blue, and purple patchwork design, a devil-may-care mixture of a dozen or so traditional quilt patterns, it was not at all her usual style. But to Jessica it had always symbolized a free-spiritness, a certain joie de vivre, that her life lacked.

  Every time she put that jacket on, she felt freer, more interesting, a little bit daring. Today was no exception. Putting it on over the white turtleneck she was wearing with her jeans made her feel that delicious sense of rebelliousness, as if she were slipping on an attitude that said, “Take your Land’s End catalog and shove it!”

  Lorraine glanced up from fussing with Stacy’s collar for the hundredth time. “Gosh, Jessie,” she said, blinking in confusion, “is that what you’re wearing?”

  Pretending to misunderstand, Jessica retorted, “Why, do you think I’11 be chilly?”

  “Oh, no. I just...” Caught in the implied insult, Lorraine was quick to back down. “I, uh, I didn’t know those were your colors, that’s all.”

  Before Jessica could come up with a snappy reply, Lorraine had turned her attention back to her daughter.

  “There. Stacy, you’re always getting so mussed up,” she scolded, seeming to have already forgotten about her neighbor’s unorthodox fashion sense. “Goodness, what on earth am I going to do with you? Heavens, sometimes I just don’t know.”

  Poor Stacy, thought Jessica. She was tempted to intervene, to step in and play Good Fairy, but the very idea of getting caught in the middle of this no-win situation made her weary. Instead, she turned her attention to her own child.

  “Here we go, Sammy,’’ she said brightly, acting on her freshly renewed resolve to be so nice to him that his level of self-esteem would be nothing short of extraordinary. “All set? Want to go to the bathroom first?’’

  Sammy shook his head. “No pee coming.”

  Jessica only wished she could be so certain about such things. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  They were like a small-scale wagon train, making their way downhill to Sea Cliff Avenue. Jessica took the lead. She carried Sammy on her shoulders, even as a thousand warnings against such a foolhardy practice echoed through her ears, even as a thousand images of the horrifying fall that could result—the type of family catastrophe that was destined to become the basis for “A Young Mother’s Story” in Redbook— flashed before her eyes.

  Trotting along behind her was Jim Junior, already looking bored. Lorraine was a pace or two behind him, pushing Stacy in her MacLaren. Dangling on the back of the stroller, hooked onto the handles, was her tote-bag-sized purse, stashed with enough Baby Wipes, minute boxes of raisins, and small but absorbing toys to maintain a comfortable life on a dese
rt island for several weeks.

  “So how do you like Sea Cliff so far?” Lorraine chirped as they turned onto Glen Avenue, cramming onto the narrow sidewalk.

  “Well, it has only been a few weeks.”

  “It’s such a great place to live. Wait until Sammy gets older. There are all kinds of terrific programs for kids around here. They have nature classes up at Garvies Point, in that little museum that’s up there—”

  “Mom,” Jim Junior interrupted, “can I get a sno-cone at the fair?”

  “Yes, Jim Junior. I told you this morning that if you promised to brush your teeth the minute we got home, you could have a sno-cone. Anyway, there’s a drop-in at the parents’ center in Port Washington, where you can take your kids on rainy afternoons—”

  “Mom, can I have the big size this time?”

  “Yes, Jim Junior. I said you could. Jessie, have you heard about the Center for Parents and Children? It’s this really—”

  “Mom, can I have a red sno-cone?”

  Jim Junior’s whining voice was causing excess acid to flow through Jessica’s stomach. “Jim, honey, why don’t you let your Mommy and me talk a little—”

  “It’s all right, Jessica,” Lorraine said coldly. “I can handle my own son. Yes, Jim Junior, you can have a red sno-cone if that’s the kind you want.”

  “Can I get it as soon as we get there?”

  Suddenly Lorraine stopped walking. She turned to face her son, her eyes bright with rage.

  “Jim Junior,” she said through clamped teeth, “if you mention that stupid sno-cone one more time, I’m going to put your pet hamsters outside when you’re asleep one night so that they freeze to death!”

  When she turned back to Jessica, she was smiling sweetly. “Have you looked into the kids’ swimming program at the Y? “

  As the group neared Sea Cliff’s main shopping street, the street festival was already under way. An additional level of cuteness had been added to what even under normal circumstances was a charming little town. Jessica and David had thought that from the start; in fact, it had been a major selling point with them back while they were still trying to make that big decision about whether there was, indeed, life east of Carl Schurz Park and, if so, if they could bring themselves to be part of it.

  Sea Cliff Avenue ran six or seven blocks and was lined on both sides by wooden Victorian buildings and modest storefronts. It included all the basics: the post office, Schoelles’s drug store, Gordon’s auto repair shop, and Arata’s deli, which stocked necessities like milk, bread, and Pepperidge Farm cookies.

  There were also several antique shops, a handful of galleries, not one but two book stores, and the Village Gift Shop. Indeed, the only thing that this town was missing was Robert Preston in a straw hat and a pair of crisp white slacks, strutting down the avenue with Marion the librarian clutching his arm adoringly.

  Today, an unbroken line of booths had been set up in the blocked-off street, packed to the gills with merchandise. The crafts were the main drawing card, but some of the shops were also displaying their wares outside. Community groups sold raffle tickets and home-baked pumpkin breads. The anti-incinerator citizens’ group. Save Our Seas, had a booth where volunteers sold S.O.S. bumper stickers and T-shirts. And, of course, there was food for sale: pizza, hot dogs, sausage with peppers and onions, cans of soda, all the usual junk that made this kind of street fair the perfect occasion for cracking open a new bottle of Maalox.

  While it appeared to be quite a festive event at first, disillusionment soon set in. In Jessica’s experience, there were two kinds of crafts fairs. The first type specialized in high-quality goods, created by craftspeople who deserved to be called artists. The second type she had nicknamed “the crocheted toilet-paper cover variety.”

  Unfortunately her new home town leaned heavily toward the second category. She knew within minutes that her chances of finding anything she wanted to buy were slim. Lorraine, however, was enthralled.

  “Gosh, look at all this! These people are so talented, don’t you think?” She picked up a small, plastic, turquoise garbage can hand-painted with balloons, its enamel paint so thick it looked as if one careless swipe with a fingernail would do the whole thing in. “I mean, I love this stuff. Don’t you want to buy everything here?’’

  Jessica forced a smile. “Yes, that is cute. But I don’t know. I don’t really need anything right now, and Christmas seems so far away. ...”

  Even so, she was her usual good sport, trailing after Lorraine as she scrutinized practically every single item on display.

  They had covered at least three-quarters of the fair when Sammy started getting restless. He refused to walk anymore, even after being bribed with a lollipop as big as his face.

  “I’m tired, Mommy,” he whined. With one of his more descriptive misuses of the English language, he added, “I can’t like this place.”

  “I wanna go home,” Jim Junior insisted, regressing about three years before their very eyes.

  “Me, too,” Stacy pouted from her stroller. “I’m cold, Mommy.”

  It seemed as if suddenly they had all had enough fun for one day. Jessica was about to suggest calling it a day, at least as far as her contingent was concerned, when Lorraine grabbed her arm.

  “Listen, Jessie, I know the kids are losing it fast, but please, please, please, would you do me a teensy-weensy favor?” Her face was flushed with excitement, her cheeks so pink that she looked as if she had emptied an entire compact of Clinique Velvet Rose blush on her face.

  “What is it?” Jessica asked, automatically wary of any favor requested with that much enthusiasm.

  “Remember that booth we saw back at the beginning, the one with all the frilly stuff?”

  “Yes, sure.’’ That particular booth had been difficult to miss. It had featured enough lace, flower-sprigged fabric, and dusty rose velvet ribbon to decorate a Victorian brothel.

  “Well, I’d love to get a Christmas present there for Stacy. You know how little girls are about decorating their bedrooms with stuff like that.”

  “Sure.” When I was Stacy’s age, Jessica was thinking, my idea of room decorations was a couple of box turtles—dead or alive.

  “Anyway, I can’t buy her anything while she’s around . . . so would you take the kids away from here for a few minutes? Go show them the balloons or something, just to keep them distracted for a while?’’

  Jessica immediately felt the alarm she experienced whenever anyone suggested leaving their children in her care. But Lorraine was looking at her with puppy dog eyes, and she didn’t have the heart to back out. Somehow, resorting to the excuse of not having sufficient maternal instincts to spread beyond a single child, preferably one who shared her own DNA, sounded weak.

  “Of course, Lorraine. No problem.”

  “Oh, great. Thanks, Jess.”

  Lorraine looked so grateful that Jessica actually felt guilty for having had second thoughts. She was a firm believer that mothers were all in this together; if she wasn’t willing to help out one of her own kind for a few minutes, she didn’t deserve to consider herself part of that great sisterhood whose members were bonded together by the shared experience of episiotomies.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” Stacy immediately began whining, “I gotta pee.”

  “Oh, dear.” Lorraine looked crestfallen. “Stace, there isn’t really any place around here. Can’t you wait awhile?”

  The poor woman. Jessica’s heart went out to her. It looked as if her one short breath of fresh air was about to be yanked away from her, even before she had sampled as much as a single sniff.

  “Look, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I just take the kids home?” Saint Jessica to the rescue. “I’m finished looking around. I’ll just take all the kids back to my house. That way you can take your time and then meet me back there whenever you’re done.’’

  “Oh, would you, Jessie? I’d appreciate that so much.”

  “No big deal. Really.”

  Hell, t
hought Jessica, cheered up by the prospect of leaving all the chaos of the street fair behind, if I could orchestrate the national roll-out of calcium supplements in chewing-gum form, taking three kids up a hill and over to a red plastic potty seat should be ... well, child’s play.

  “Thanks, Jessie.” There was sincere gratitude in Lorraine’s eyes. “You’re a real friend.”

  Maybe old Lorraine’s not so bad after all, Jessica was thinking as she began making her way home. She seemed really moved that I was willing to help her out.

  She experienced a kind of peace as she trudged onward, heading up the hill toward home.

  It had turned out to be such a beautiful day; the sky was clear, the air was brisk, the leaves were just beginning to evolve into the brilliant shades that were always so much more interesting than plain old green. It was a day meant for standing back and feeling contented, maybe even feeling a little bit grateful for all the good things in one’s life, the kind of day on which nothing bad could possibly happen, not to anyone.

  * * * *

  “Mrs. McAllister? Jessica McAllister? I’m Detective Bugati, and this is Detective Jaworski. Sorry to bother you, but we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  The short, dark-haired man standing on the front steps of Jessica’s house opened up a battered brown leather wallet and flashed a badge. But Jessica didn’t have the presence of mind to scrutinize the credentials of this man wearing a sports jacket, its fabric looking dangerously close to madras, and his sidekick, a tall blond with an only minimally better flair for fashion. She was too busy trying to make some sense out of all this, to figure out what on earth two police detectives could possibly be doing at her house.

  It was Wednesday morning, three days after the Sea Cliff Mini-Mart. David, having gotten off to a late start anyway, had volunteered to drive Sammy to a play date. And so Jessica had been celebrating her extra half hour of freedom by savoring her second cup of coffee—still hot, a novelty not to be taken lightly. She had been taking her time, putting off her task for the morning: stripping the couch of its ill-fitting slipcovers, peeling off the smiley-face stickers, and lugging them over to the dry cleaner who hopefully would be able to remove the apple juice stains that Sammy had deposited across them only that morning.