by Emma Straub
She scurried over to the window—no one should be coming in, unless something was wrong. She got to the glass just in time to see the back bumper of Elliot’s car pull in. Wendy looked in the mirror and patted her under-eye bags, squeezing the skin on her cheeks. She walked down to the kitchen and found Elliot sitting at the table.
“Hi,” she said.
“Where’s everybody?” Elliot said.
“The boys are asleep.” He could know the details if he listened.
“Okay,” Elliot said. He looked sweaty. September was still summer, after all, and still hot enough outside to make anyone glisten if they stood in the sun for more than a few minutes.
Wendy crossed her arms and waited for him to tell her why he was sitting at their table, and not at his desk, in his office. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the wood.
“Are you sick?” Wendy looked at the clock—they had an hour left, maybe less. Did he not understand that her entire life was more carefully timed than a parking meter?
“Not exactly,” Elliot said. He sat up and made a face like he might have to put his head in a plastic garbage can. “I have good news.”
“You could have fooled me,” Wendy said. She cocked her head to the side. “What kind of good news?”
He gestured to some glossy folders spread out on the counter. “I got an offer. A real one.”
Wendy’s eyebrows shot up.
Elliot had bought the parcel of land on the roundabout a year ago. It was hard to keep a secret in Clapham, and hard to keep a secret in real estate, but it could be done. Still, Wendy was amazed that Elliot had managed to keep it from his mother. Astrid thought that she knew what was best for everyone—for Elliot, for the twins, for the whole town.
The idea was this: Bring Clapham into this century. Build the town a new anchor. Make it a destination. Elliot had a long list of things the town needed: an upscale boutique hotel, a bar that didn’t have a neon Budweiser sign, a Shake Shack, one of those movie theaters where you could eat dinner in your seat. Elliot had a million ideas and he wanted to build them all. He loved his town but not as much as he loved the idea of what it could become. It was what his father would have wanted for him: to make his mark.
“Who?” Wendy asked. For months, Elliot had been courting as many potential bidders as he could. It had been harder than he’d imagined, to transform Clapham into his vision of the future. He changed his pitch depending on who he was talking to—Clapham was the new Westport, the Hudson Valley was the new Hamptons. In the last year, six different businesses had made proposals: a Tractor Supply store, a vegan bakery, a store that sold model trains for adults, a pet groomer, and a Mexican restaurant. Some of them had slipped proposals under the door, others had mailed packets of paper to the address listed, Wendy’s parents’ house. Elliot knew both the Tractor Supply guy and the pet groomer—they’d both talked to him at the counter at Spiro’s, not realizing.
“Beauty Bar.”
“Shit.”
“What? They’re huge, it would be the destination for every woman in fifty miles!” Elliot still looked nauseated.
“Right, and it’s big and glossy and will be right across the street from your mother’s girlfriend’s salon. Is that not what you’re thinking about?” Wendy reached over and picked up the black folder—she could see the back-to-back lowercase b’s of the Beauty Bar logo embossed on the cover and ran her fingers over it. “Expensive.”
“It’s a good deal, I think. I need a lawyer to read it, but the person I spoke with, Debra, she told me it’s a really good deal. They want me to build it, they want to rent for ten years, they’ll pay more than anyone is paying on Main Street. Twice as much, maybe more. Enough for us to buy more buildings, to do the shopping center by the gas station.” Elliot wanted to make the valley into the Strick Brick Corridor, with his buildings and businesses running from New York City to Albany.
Upstairs, a wail, and then a thump. The twins should have slept another forty-five minutes, at least.
“I’m a lawyer, you know,” Wendy said.
“I’m going to figure it out,” Elliot said. He swallowed a pocket of air.
“Let me read it. And why don’t you talk to your mom about it? It’s your decision, but you don’t want to do something you’ll regret.”
“Why the fuck would I ask my mother? Jesus, Wendy!” Elliot’s cheeks were blotchy, and his nostrils flared. “It’s my decision!”
“Yikes, okay,” Wendy said, putting up her hands in surrender.
“It’s my decision!” Elliot said again, as if she could have misheard him the first time.
Over their heads, Wendy heard one set of feet turn into two sets, a small herd. She could see the rest of the day: Elliot locked in his office, making phone calls, or maybe just tapping golf balls in the backyard, his Bluetooth headset on, while she wrangled Aidan and Zachary from nap until bedtime, with Daddy swooping in for a good-night kiss. If he wanted to live somewhere else, they could have lived somewhere else.
One of the boys—it sounded like Aidan—let out a full-throated scream.
“Are you going to go see what the hell is going on up there?” Elliot asked her.
“No,” Wendy said, now loving the sound of the word in her mouth. “Give me the proposal, show me what they actually said. I’ll go read it.”
“What the fuck? It’s a workday, Wen!” He was still sitting, an impatient customer at a restaurant.
Wendy picked up his keys from the table. “I’m doing you a favor, you can just say thank you.”
Elliot’s mouth fell open with such stupid shock—the insult!—that Wendy laughed. “If I had to guess, it would be that Aidan had to poop. Check the potty when you get upstairs, unless you want to spend the next hour cleaning waste off the walls and the floor while two children climb all over you. I will be home soon, to help. Definitely by bedtime.”
Elliot sputtered. He was scared, Wendy realized, of his own children.
“You’ll be fine,” she said, and was out the door.
Chapter 18
Family Meal
Astrid believed in a proper dinner, she always had. First, when it was just her and Russell, it had felt like playing house, with cloth napkins and candlesticks; and then with baby Elliot, who had been a solemn, reedy creature, like a tonsured monk, content to gnaw on a single hunk of bread for fifteen minutes; then Porter, who squawked and sometimes threw handfuls of peas but would eat anything within reach, even slippery oysters; then baby Nicky, who loved the feeling of soft food mashed against his skin and so had to be bathed after every meal, Astrid rinsing off the pureed carrots, the peanut butter, the creamed corn, whatever it was that they’d put on his plate. Those were the best years, the years when the children were all growing, when the differences between them were so vast (one learning to do multiplication tables, one sorting out the rabbit ears of shoelaces, one walking, on two feet, all the way across a rug) that Astrid and Russell were filled with genuine marvel for at least five minutes each day, no matter how hectic and frustrating the other one thousand four hundred and thirty-five minutes were. When Elliot left for college and Porter and Nicky were teenagers, that was when the roller coaster ducked into a dark tunnel, and before they could come out the other end, Russell was gone and the tunnel was permanent. Astrid had been looking forward to coming out the other side—flying to foreign countries and huddling around a tour guide holding aloft a colorful flag, renting a houseboat, who knows. It was easy to say it would have been a wonderful and exciting chapter in their lives now that it was purely hypothetical.
Adding Birdie and Cecelia felt good, a return to form. Astrid had tired of cooking only for herself—so many things seemed no longer worth the trouble. Goodbye, short ribs, goodbye, coq au vin. Each configuration had fit around the same two tables, the massive dining room rectangle or, more often, the small kitchen table tucked i
nto the corner. Cloth napkins at every place setting. She wasn’t sorry when the children got big enough to help clean up, and when they stopped throwing food on the floor. Every parent had spent enough time on their knees trying to scrape day-old pieces of elbow pasta off their floor.
Why hadn’t Barbara Baker had children? Astrid had always thought it was strange—not that a woman could or would choose not to, though it was less common when they were young, harder to defy expectations. But Barbara in particular had always stooped over to talk to her small charges as they crossed the street, she’d put M&M’s in her homemade Rice Krispies treats for town hall events, she’d dressed up for Halloween. Not to mention all the pets. In many ways, Astrid thought that Barbara seemed better suited to parenthood than she was—more patient, probably, more willing to have endless conversations about dinosaurs, more dexterous with child-friendly scissors. Astrid knew her limits—of course she did. Limits were important. That was why her children were polite to strangers.
Cecelia was reading at the table. Astrid was surprised they still taught J. D. Salinger in school—he had slept with a teenager, hadn’t he? They should just be reading Toni Morrison. It seemed so easy, to cut out the creeps and sexual predators, just by cutting out all the men. Sure, you’d lose some decent people, but the net result would be so positive, who would complain? Still, it was nice to see a small face tucked behind a paperback, elbows splayed on the wood. Astrid paused at the counter and just watched. This was what she’d wanted—this was what everyone wanted. To have your children’s children around, to be young enough to watch them grow, and for them to be self-sufficient, within reason. Grandparenting wasn’t the same as parenting, thank god, even in cases like this. She couldn’t quite imagine Elliot’s sons getting to this point—she’d be old, or dead, by the time they could sit still and read books. But Cecelia was right here, an easy guest. It meant that she’d done something right with Nicky after all, whether he’d admit it or not. She looked so young to Astrid, clearly still a child—when Porter was thirteen, Astrid had seen her as a young woman, closer, as she was then and now, to Astrid’s own age. When Porter was a teenager, Astrid’s own teenage memories still felt like a relevant part of her DNA, whereas now, those same memories seemed like a sad, dull movie whose plot she couldn’t quite remember. Cecelia was a kid. Astrid hoped that she had known that when her children were teenagers, though she didn’t think she had. Everything was so much easier with distance.
A timer dinged, and Birdie perked up. She’d been mixing a salad dressing—tahini and yogurt, Astrid’s new favorite. “Roasty toasty!” Birdie said, as she swung open the oven door and slid out a baking sheet of caramelized butternut squash and red onions. Astrid watched as Birdie shook off her oven mitt and began making plates for the three of them.
There had been other moments when Astrid had considered telling her children about Birdie. Porter, at least. Last Christmas, and on her last two birthdays. But then Birdie went to her sister’s for the holiday, and her children never showed up at the same time for her birthday, if they showed up at all, and so really Astrid would have been telling Birdie about Birdie and of course she already knew. It had never felt necessary, and Birdie had told Astrid over and over again that it was entirely up to her what she told her family and friends. They were happy together, that was what mattered. Astrid sometimes thought that if she had liked Birdie half as much, she would have told people twice as fast.
“It’s so nice to cook for more than one person,” Birdie said.
“It’s so nice to be fed,” Astrid said.
“It’s so nice that you guys forget that pizza was invented.” Cecelia put down the book. “I’m just kidding.” Her parents were usually vegetarians, and Cecelia was used to mushroom and tempeh feasts.
Birdie handed the full plates to Astrid, who walked them the few feet to the table. Astrid sat in the chair opposite Cecelia’s bench seat, leaving the chair next to her open.
“So, what’s school like, Cecelia? Find anyone else you like yet?” This was an ongoing conversation. Birdie hadn’t been around a teenager since she was one and was genuinely curious. Astrid wanted to explain that teenagers didn’t talk, not really, but it was sweet to watch her try.
“It’s okay. My English teacher is okay.” Birdie and Astrid shared a look.
“Anyone under the age of twenty-five?” Birdie asked.
“She might be under twenty-five, she might be fifty, how am I supposed to know? She’s a teacher. And August.”
“Other than August?” Astrid asked. Girls needed girlfriends for a million reasons: because they carried tampons, because they liked to talk on the phone, because they always wanted to talk about how you were feeling. Nicky had always liked to talk about his feelings, too, but he’d been a unicorn.
“Nope.”
“I was thinking,” Astrid said, changing the subject, “about going to see the bus driver.”
“The new one? She’s super weird. Like, very nervous.” Cecelia picked up a fork and dragged some roasted squash through Birdie’s thick, delicious dressing, which Astrid had glopped on top.
“No, the old one. He’s in jail, awaiting trial. My friend who works at the county clerk’s office told me.” Astrid looked for the pepper grinder, her fingers waggling over the table like a star-nosed mole sniffing out a meal.
Birdie and Cecelia made eye contact with each other and then both turned to Astrid.
“Why on earth,” Birdie said.
“That is crazy,” Cecelia said.
“I’m just curious! I think he may have had a motive. Not that he was looking for Barbara specifically, necessarily, but that he was looking for someone. I think he wanted to feel that power. It’s always white men, you know, nine times out of ten. It’s white men who turn to violence against their families, against strangers, against the world.” Astrid forked some dinner into her mouth.
“Sure, yes,” Birdie said. “But what does that have to do with anything? You’re not Miss Marple! Are you out for vigilante justice? He’s already in jail, Astrid. He did it. Everyone saw it. It’s not a mystery.
“What would you even say?” Birdie offered Cecelia some salad, and then Cecelia poured them all full glasses of water.
“I would ask him why! I would ask him how he was feeling. Clearly there are mental health issues there.” Astrid popped back up. “Napkins!”
“Gammy, I really think that’s a weird and bad idea. If it’s that important to you, I will make more friends,” Cecelia said, taking a cloth napkin from her grandmother.
“I agree with Cecelia,” Birdie said. “He went crazy. Or he was just on drugs! He’s not going to do it again. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t a hit job on Barbara. I know it’s not fair, but that doesn’t mean there’s some secret reason behind it.” She put her hand on Astrid’s shoulder. “Really.”
“It was just an idea! I think I just want something to fix. I had the worst lunch with Elliot,” Astrid said. She winced at Cecelia. “I shouldn’t say that in front of you.”
“It’s okay,” Cecelia said. “He’s not my dad. You can say bad things about uncles. I’m going to babysit for the twins, Wendy asked me.”
“What does your father say about me, Cecelia?” Astrid asked.
Cecelia looked at her expectantly, her fork hovering in the air two inches in front of her face. Birdie raised an eyebrow. “Astrid!”
“What do you mean?” Cecelia asked. The roasted onions were sweet, and she lowered them into her mouth like a sword swallower. “What does he say about you when?”
“I mean, if your mother were to ask your father if he’d spoken to me, what would he say? What expression would be on his face? I’m curious.”
Birdie clucked her tongue. “Astrid.”
“What! This is a unique opportunity.” She looked at Cecelia. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Um,” Cecelia said. �
�You mean you want to know what bad things he says about you? Like, his complaints?”
“Or not! The good things, too, of course!”
Birdie frowned at Astrid. “This is not the kind of thing that ends well.”
Astrid leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. “I’m trying a radical new approach to life. It’s called asking questions.”
“Honesty can backfire, just so you know,” Cecelia said. “I don’t know if you’re ready, Gams.”
Astrid nodded solemnly. “I can take it.”
Cecelia set her fork down on the lip of her plate and daubed her mouth with a corner of her napkin.
“Stop stalling,” Astrid said.
“Jeez! Fine! Fine.” Cecelia rolled her eyes. “I think that my dad thinks that you’re a little, um, rigid.”