City Mouse

by Lender, Stacey;

  And on the days I managed to stay awake, I’d take frequent sips of my still-warm coffee, sit back in my seat, and smile, ready for our first summer in our backyard, catching fireflies.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning I was unpacking the box labeled KITCHEN MISCELLANEOUS when the doorbell rang. I opened the door to a woman about my age, maybe a little younger, holding a round red tin with waxed paper peeking out the sides.

  “Hi, I’m Alyson.” She smiled through lips shimmering with a peachy gloss. I noticed greenish eyeliner rimming her deep-set green eyes, and her cheeks had a hint of blush. Ten a.m. on a weekend seemed kind of early to me for makeup, but maybe she was selling something or on her way to a luncheon, because she was all put together in a turquoise tunic belted over white capris and wearing silver sandals with a small wedge heel.

  “We live next door in the Tudor. And we made these this morning for you—chocolate chip,” she said, handing me the tin.

  “Thank you so much, that was so nice of you!” I replied. I could feel the warmth of the cookies from inside the box. “I’m Jessica. Jessica Almasi. It is so nice to meet you!”

  Aaron and I had been wondering who lived in the big house at the end of the long, winding driveway next to ours. We could make out a sliver of backyard through the trees and had seen their black Lexus SUV coming in and out a few times, but hadn’t yet spotted anyone. We kidded around that they were mafia. FBI. A family on the run from the law in Uruguay.

  A little girl who looked about Phoebe’s age peeked out from behind Alyson’s leg, a leg so skinny it was practically the circumference of my arm. “And this is Emmy. Emmy, this isn’t like you, come out and say hi.”

  I crouched to eye level with Emmy. Her hair was up in pigtails separated by a very straight part. “I have someone inside you might want to meet. Do you want to come in?”

  Alyson answered, “Sure, but just for a minute.”

  As we walked inside I cringed at the sight of our undone house—half-opened boxes with brown paper and bubble wrap strewn about the floor, frames leaning against bare walls, single bulbs hanging from the ceiling where light fixtures would eventually be. And, I realized, I hadn’t yet showered.

  “Sorry about the mess,” I mumbled, tucking my hair behind my ear and grabbing Phoebe’s pajamas off the floor. We were far from company ready.

  “We were so curious who was going to move in,” Alyson said, eyeing the kitchen. Her nose had that molded pinch and slope, groomed smooth like an Olympic ski jump. “And what it was going to look like inside. I like these floors. Very homey.”

  “Thank you,” I said, wondering for a second if homey was a compliment or not. It had to be—the wide planks of reclaimed eastern white pine were one of my favorite details of the house, one of many touches the builder had added to give the new construction the feel of an original Victorian, with antique-looking cabinet handles and wide crown moldings in the dining room and even a refurbished claw-foot tub in our master bath. Standing in our sun-filled kitchen, sometimes I swore I could feel an actual connection to the people before me who might have once stood on the same pieces of timber.

  “We still have a ton of work to do—wallpaper the bathrooms, hang up all the lights.” If I can ever find time to go shopping for lights. “And eventually fill in with some furniture. Moving from our apartment, we had next to nothing. Basically a couch and a bed and a couple of end tables.”

  “Where did you move from?”

  “Manhattan. The Upper West Side?” I asked, as if she might not know it. Duh. “How about you? Have you lived here long?”

  “I’m actually from here,” she said. “I grew up a few miles up the road, off Airmont, across 59. And my husband Jeff is from New City. We moved back from Weehawken after we got married and have been in the house six, almost seven years now. True Rockland County-ites, back to the nest, I guess.”

  “I’m originally from Westchester. Mount Kisco.” I hadn’t introduced myself like that in ages, but it actually felt good for a change to be able to leverage my suburban DNA.

  I looked down at Emmy who was still attached to Alyson’s leg. “How old are you, sweetie?”

  “She turned three the end of May,” Alyson said.

  “My daughter Phoebe turned three the end of May too! Which day?”

  “The twenty-sixth.”

  “The twentieth! I have another daughter, Madison—she’s one. Finishing her morning nap upstairs right now.” It still felt funny to hear myself say upstairs. “She’ll probably be up any minute.”

  We entered the den where Phoebe was vegging out on a blanket on the floor in front of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. “And here’s Phoebe,” I announced. “Phoebe, look—this is Emmy. She lives next door and guess what—she just turned three also!”

  Before I could warn little Emmy to take it slow, she ran right up and thrust her wrist in front of Phoebe’s nose. “Look at my new bracelet,” Emmy declared. Phoebe glanced at the colored beads and then went right back to watching TV.

  “Okay, time to turn it off,” I said, grabbing the remote. Please, please, please don’t be shy, just this once, I said with my eyes to Phoebe. This one’s important—she’s your new next-door neighbor.

  “Sorry, it takes her a little bit to warm up,” I explained.

  “Please, it’s fine,” Alyson said. “Not a big deal.”

  I was relieved to hear her say that. And Emmy didn’t seem fazed at all by Phoebe’s brush-off, making herself right at home digging through the bin of Littlest Pet Shop figures while Phoebe stared at her warily, anchored to her spot on the floor. I hovered, ready to intercede, and tried sending her one of the positive mental messages I’d recently read about in an article discussing how to help shy kids feel more confident. If you think it, they will feel it, the article had advised. Phoebe, you are strong.

  “Go ahead, Phoebe, show her your new vet house,” I pushed. Although I knew my words wouldn’t do much to convince her and she would only engage with Emmy if and when she was ready. I took a deep breath and thought, Phoebe, you are brave. She didn’t move an inch. For god’s sake, Phoebe, play a little!

  I wished I had known they were coming. I would have set up the kitchen table with some crayons and paper and snacks laid out on a cute little tray. I would have definitely prepped Phoebe about making-new-friends manners. I would have at least showered. Too late for that now. Next time I’d have to be ready for the unannounced drive-by, no longer with the luxury of a doorman buffer. I wished my doorman was still around to help me break down all of these boxes too.

  “I was trying to get a few more things unpacked while my husband Aaron’s at the gym. It feels like we’ll be swimming in cardboard forever.”

  “Which gym?” Alyson asked.

  “Planet Fitness.”

  “Me too. There’s an amazing spin class on Tuesday mornings at nine if you ever want to go together.”

  That must be how she stayed so thin. I had never tried spinning but it seemed like torture, going round and round for miles and never actually getting anywhere.

  “I wish I could, but I work on Tuesdays. Mondays through Thursdays in the city. But starting next week, I’ll be working from home on Fridays!” I said excitedly. “I finally convinced my boss. It took me awhile to get her to agree and I’m really looking forward to it.” Why on earth was I talking so fast, spilling these inane details she probably couldn’t care less about? I told myself to slow it down.

  Alyson asked, “What do you do?”

  “I work at an agency that does advertising for Broadway shows, Becker Glancy.”

  “That sounds like fun,” she said, glancing out back through the curtainless window. Curtains, I have to remember to put curtains on the list.

  “It can be. But I’m just getting used to the commute. Our office is in Midtown so the train’s not too bad so far, but with the kids and the move and hiring a new nanny and everything, it’s been a little overwhelming.” Yet again, sharing way too much. What wa
s wrong with me?

  Alyson didn’t offer up whether or not she worked, and next came that slightly uncomfortable mommy moment of whether or not to ask. I let it sit another second and then decided to go with the generic, “Are you working?”

  “Not right now. I used to be a sales rep for Pfizer, but when Emmy was born I decided to stay home for a little while. Now a little while’s turned into three-plus years.”

  “Oh,” I said. It was hard to tell from her answer whether she was happy being home or not. Navigating the working/not-working mom divide was always tricky, especially with new friends, and I certainly didn’t want to risk offending my new next-door neighbor by saying the wrong thing.

  I suddenly realized that not only had we hit a too-long uncomfortable silence, I was also being the world’s worst hostess. “Would you like to sit down?” I asked, gesturing to the ottoman doubling as a makeshift couch. “And I am so sorry, I haven’t even asked, would you’d like something to drink?” I leaped over to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and rattled off, “Water, coffee, Pellegrino? Milk, orange juice, apple juice for Emmy?”

  “That’s okay, I’m fine. We just wanted to stop by and say hello.”

  I looked over and saw Phoebe had finally started sorting through the toy bin next to Emmy. “Look at that, they’re playing so nicely!” I exclaimed. Thank god, I thought.

  I brought Alyson a glass of water anyway. “Thank you,” she said, taking an obligatory sip.

  “Where’s Emmy in school?”

  “A preschool called Laurel Meadow.”

  “That’s where I signed up Phoebe!”

  For the first time since she’d arrived, Alyson’s eyes lit up. “You are going to totally love it! The new director’s terrific. And this summer they’re renovating the art room.”

  With her free hand, she then took an iPhone out of her back pocket, skimmed the message on the screen, thumbed a response, and slid it back in her pocket in a move so fast I wondered if I had actually just seen her do it. I thought it was kind of rude to be checking her phone while we were in the middle of a conversation, but then she said, “Emmy—two more minutes and then we have to go meet Daddy.” A text from her husband, of course. “Maybe you could join our Laurel carpool.”

  “Sure, if I could ever figure out where I’m going,” I said, not wanting to remind her it would be our nanny picking up and dropping off most days. “Driving around I feel like I’m always getting lost. Especially at night.” Suffern, it turned out, had very few streetlights and more than a few deer coming down from the mountains in search of food. Not a great nighttime driving combination.

  “I’d be happy to show you around. And let me know if you need anything else—pediatrician, dermatologist, the best spots to eat. I can make you a list, if you want—I know all there is to know about Suffern.”

  “Thank you so much,” I gushed. “I would really, really appreciate that.”

  Alyson looked at her watch. “Time’s up, Emmy.” The girl obediently stood up and took Alyson’s hand. “If you happen to be free next Friday, Jeff and I are having some friends over for a Fourth of July barbecue. You can bring the kids, bring your bathing suits. Write down your e-mail and I’ll forward you the Evite.”

  Next-door neighbors not only with a daughter the same exact age as Phoebe, but a pool! “I’ll double check with Aaron but I’m sure we’ll be able to come,” I said, a little too eagerly, scribbling my e-mail on a ripped-off corner of red construction paper, the only scrap of paper I could find.

  I led them to the front door and called back, “Phoebe, come say goodbye to Emmy,” but she didn’t. “Next time,” I apologized. “And thanks again for the cookies, that was so nice. And for the invite. To the party.”

  “See you next Friday if not before.”

  I watched as Alyson walked down the driveway holding hands with her daughter. Why, why, why, every time she asked me a question, did I babble on like such an idiot? And how many times could I possibly repeat the word nice? That’s so nice of you; you are so nice, over and over, like meeting a new friend in the second grade. She was probably walking home regretting she even invited us to their party. I guess it was the hospitable thing to do; we’d see a bunch of cars and wonder what was going on. But still. Next time I’d have to be more prepared for when people dropped by. And I had to remember to bring a terrific hostess gift, maybe pick up some chocolate from Jacques Torres in the city or that sun tea kit I’d read about in Real Simple. And definitely something for Emmy.

  Most important, Phoebe had met someone in her school, a friendly face to help her feel comfortable on the first day. Maybe even a friend. And she had all summer to work on warming up.

  Chapter five

  “Margaritas, girls?” Alyson asked, holding a tray filled with icy drinks in translucent neon-orange plastic cups.

  “Hand me one of those bad boys,” Alyson’s friend Tami said, taking a break from unloading towels out of her striped beach bag to grab one. She had introduced herself as Alyson’s BFF from way back in elementary school, a “townie” still “slumming it” in Suffern. She took off her hat, one of those cowboy beach hats woven of straw, practically the same shade as the streaks of blond in her long wavy hair. She placed her oversized tortoise sunglasses on her head and took a long, slow sip out of the straw, like she was drinking a milkshake. “Mmmmm, yummy. Love your suit, Aly—is it new?”

  We were the only two families so far; Alyson had e-mailed us to come by early so Aaron could meet Jeff and she could show us around before the others arrived. The day was bright and cloudless and toasty already, and the local forecast predicted that we’d hit a humid eighty-six degrees by midafternoon.

  I licked the salt from around the rim of my drink and tried a taste—it was super strong and tart, with a hint of fresh lime juice cutting through the tequila. Icy and delicious. I wondered how much of it I could drink before it wouldn’t be safe to watch the kids in the pool. But Aaron seemed to have everything under control without my help, spotting Phoebe jumping off the shallow end steps while twirling Madison around in the floaty-ring. It felt good to be off duty for at least a little while, relaxing next to a pool with a grown-up drink in my hand on a hot afternoon, just like vacation but sans the hassles of airplanes and rental cars and struggling to set up a Pack ’n Play. A thirty-second walk next door had been all it took to enter a backyard paradise straight out of a landscaping magazine, and so far, our first barbeque to get to know the neighbors was off to a good start. Aaron looked up at me and smiled—I toasted him, holding up my drink in the air.

  Tami yelled over to her four-year-old twins rummaging through a giant container overflowing with noodles and kick boards and super-soaker water guns: “Get over here now, Aidan, and put your swim shirt on. Brianna, you too.” Her voice was low and scratchy, almost like a man’s, incongruous with her delicate features. “They never fucking listen to me. Chris!” she barked to her husband who was still up on the top level of the deck near the driveway. “I need you to go to the car. I forgot to grab the twins’ water wings. Before they jump in the pool?” He dutifully headed back out to the driveway and she sat back in her lounge chair, looking almost, but not quite, satisfied.

  Whoa—that was some way to speak to her husband. And quite a mouth. But maybe she’d had one of those frustrating-kid mornings. As if she heard me thinking, she said to Alyson, “Did I tell you I’m giving up cursing this summer?”

  “Yeah, right, good luck with that one,” Alyson said. “Remember last summer, when you ‘gave up’ sugar? For like a day?”

  “Well, that was different. I was pregnant. My body needed sugar. But I’m serious about the cursing thing. We had to do something after that episode in Shop Rite.”

  “Tell Jessica.”

  “So I was in the supermarket a few weeks ago with the twins arguing whose turn it was to sit in the cart and who got to hold the list. I sent Brianna down to the end of the aisle to get the Quaker Oatmeal Squares and of course she picks
the one from the bottom of the pile. As I see the whole pyramid of boxes start to come down all over the place, all of a sudden I hear her start screaming at the top of her lungs: SH-IT! SH-IT! It felt like everyone in the whole freaking store ran over to see, thirty boxes of cereal on the floor and a little girl screaming the s-word.”

  I giggled and took another sip of my margarita. “What did you do?”

  “I swooped her up and did a beeline over to the frozen foods to finish up and get the hell out of there. On the drive home it hit me how many times they probably hear curse words in a day—at least ten probably, between Chris and me. Maybe more. She didn’t pick it up watching PBS Kids.”

  I imagined those silhouettes on The Electric Company teaching how to sound out the words: SH—IT. SHIT!

  “It’s not such a big deal,” Alyson said, kicking off her flip-flops and putting her feet up on an ottoman. “Just tell her it’s a bad word and not to say it anymore.”

  “You know how impossible the twins are, Aly. Especially Brianna. The minute I tell her not to say something it’ll be the only word out of her mouth. And then there’s Aidan’s tantrums. So I didn’t even get to tell you: yesterday I finally got Chris to go with me to that parenting consultant, the one I told you our pediatrician recommended?”

  “You mean the psychologist?”

  “Shhh! Ix-nay on the ychologist-psay. To get Chris to go I told him it was a ‘parenting consultant.’ I wasn’t even going to bring him but he kept giving me so much crap about the kids’ behavior. He’s not the one there every morning trying to get out of the house when Brianna can’t find her shoe and Aidan’s missing his Nintendo DS and I’m yelling, We’re late! and then Aidan starts crying and Brianna joins in and before I know it I’ve got two kids screaming and flailing on the floor. Any semblance of control we used to have has gone totally out the window. Ever since Connor came along.”