With Friends Like These

by Sally Koslow

  He got down on one knee. “This ring says I’ll be there for you.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Chloe

  “We’re going to the liberry,” Dash said, stretching his arms toward me with a book in each hand. Jamyang had incorporated a reading hour into Dash’s routine.

  “Library,” I repeated. “That’s wonderful, sweet prince. Bring back some good stories.”

  “Then the playground,” he said. “With Asher and Jack.”

  “Who are Asher and Jack?” I directed my question to Jamyang.

  “Nice boys,” she said. “They go liberry, too.”

  “Why don’t you invite them back here to play one day?” I suggested. She nodded. Did that mean yes or no? I no more felt I could press her on this than correct her grammar and pronunciation.

  “Ready, Dash?” she asked. For my son, she put on a smile. “Don’t forget your mittens.”

  He giggled as he plopped himself into his stroller, put the books in his lap, and shot up his right hand for a high five. Who taught him that? I kissed Dash goodbye and waved them off, reminded yet again that any control I thought I had was melting away faster than jam on toast. I looked out the window and waited until they’d turned the corner. I couldn’t start until they were safely out of view.

  For the last week Xander had continued to be edgy, switching on his standard hail-fellow humor only when someone who wasn’t me was around. For her part, Jamyang was as inscrutable in my presence as always, but my suspicion was mounting by the day. I had to know what was going on.

  Feeling like the intruder I was, I tiptoed down the short flight and stepped first into the bathroom directly outside Jamyang’s bedroom. The towels, embroidered with daisies, were folded in thirds and neatly hung. Next to the toilet were copies of People and Glamour, both from months ago. I snooped behind the shower curtain: Suave shampoo and hair conditioner, and a razor. Nothing special or incriminating. I opened the medicine chest. Most of the jars were foreign brands, presumably brought from her homeland, though I spotted Crest toothpaste, a bottle of nail polish in the vampy shade I’d seen on her toes, a rosy lip gloss, black mascara, and an eyelash curler. The only surprise was the stealth with which I was invading our nanny’s privacy. I could hear Autumn Rutherford telling me to stop before I’d completely debased myself, but I moved to the bedroom.

  At first glance the cozy space looked exactly as I remembered. The double bed was tidily made with yellow chintz linens, which I’d selected to complement the apple green walls, although an aqua corduroy reading pillow now squatted on the bed like Buddha. The framed poster from the New York City Ballet that had hung in my first apartment remained on the wall, but the photograph of Prospect Park had been swapped for a calendar featuring tranquil mountains, its words in an exotic alphabet.

  I walked to the dresser and, hands shaking, slid open every drawer, taking pains not to disrupt Jamyang’s precision. Bras and panties, plain as paper, were neatly folded next to socks and leggings. Her sweaters and T-shirts were arranged by color, all muted shades of blue, gray, and green, not a stripe or a print breaking the monotony. I looked into the closet. A black dress in a silky synthetic hung limply next to black pants and a down coat, its modest price tag still attached. The shelf above was empty except for a small bag from Sephora.

  I stepped back into the hall. The drone of the furnace was the only sound I heard. I told myself to get a grip, to stop. I couldn’t. A demon Chloe inhaled deeply and returned for a second look.

  I gasped. Inside the shopping bag, wrapped in red tissue that I scrupulously unfolded, was an unopened bottle of a scent—my scent, the only one I ever wore, Xander’s favorite, Romance. Every morning I allowed myself two spritzes, with one more before bed.

  Could Jamyang have bought the eau de toilette for herself? Not at sixty dollars a tiny bottle. Had Xander bought it for her? Why not give her my underwear? I wanted to rip the tissue paper to shreds, but I forced myself to replace it exactly as it had been, and turned back to the bedroom.

  Stop! I heard Autumn order. I ignored her. On the bedside table was a snapshot of Dash, Xander, and me. The picture had been taken last month. I’d printed out images to send to my parents but discarded this one, since on closer examination I realized my eyes were closed. I resembled a corpse. Xander, however, looked especially handsome, as did Dash. Jamyang must have fished the photo out of the garbage. She’d placed it in a small silvery frame, next to a stack of three books. An English dictionary was on top of a paperback I could recognize from four feet away, a preachy self-help tract about raising three-year-olds. The book beneath it was brown leather and well-worn. A Bible, most likely. I’d assumed Jamyang was a Buddhist. I walked to the table for a closer look.

  It was my childhood favorite, and not just any library copy, but one of the few volumes in Xander’s literary tabernacle that belonged to me: Jane Eyre, its pages dry and cover worn, yet worth thousands, a present from Xander for our second anniversary. It was the most thoughtful gift I’d ever received.

  I stood still and pictured Jamyang struggling with the English, but nonetheless identifying—as I once had—with the wisp of a governess whose unadorned beauty, hard work, and blunt nature had beguiled the Byronic hero. I wondered if the Byronic hero of Thornfield Manor, Brooklyn Heights branch, knew the book was here. More to the point, I wondered if the Byronic hero had recommended the book to the impoverished waif who was yet another skeleton in one of his many closets. I wondered if he had delivered it personally, to this room. I wondered if he had tarried, trifled with her affection. If her heart had heaved. I felt as if I’d swallowed a cat and its tail was sticking out of my throat, choking me. I collapsed on the bed and flipped rapidly through the book to look for clues—a love note or a revealing bookmark, perhaps—but Jane, that mouse, yielded no secrets.

  With guilt matched by my anger, I returned Jane to her hiding place beneath the other books and opened the table’s drawer. I didn’t know what I was looking for—birth control pills, a letter in Xander’s handwriting, tickets to Venice? The drawer was empty except for a black leather diary. The entries were, to me, unreadable.

  With a deep sense of shame, I saw myself as the madwoman in my own attic, dumber than those teenagers who gain fourteen pounds, get a bellyache, go to the bathroom expecting to poop, and walk out with an infant, never once suspecting they’re pregnant. In my effort to reinvent a better Chloe, had I missed the Big One?

  I thought I’d made progress. Recently I’d been proud of myself, ripping pages from magazines when I liked the way the clothes were put together, each morning cobbling together the looks from garments hanging in my closet, often with excellent results. I had never once bought myself jewelry, but when I took Arthur shopping for Jules’ ring, I spotted a brooch—a lizard!—and not only bought it but haggled down the price. On the bulletin board above my desk, I’d copied a list I’d found of ways to become happier and had adopted them as my sixfold mantra.

  Act the way you want to feel.

  Play fair.

  Stop keeping score.

  Identify the problem.

  Remember there is only love.

  Do what ought to be done.

  Do what ought to be done! I would. As Jane herself said, laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation. I smoothed the wrinkles on the bed and darted out of the room and up two flights of stairs. Jamyang might be a silent wren to my ditzy canary, but at least canaries can sing. Panting, I pushed open the French doors to Mr. Rochester’s inner sanctum and inhaled the woodsy scent of tobacco smoke, his library the only place where the master smoked a pipe. On the shelves, the books stood still as toy soldiers, defying me to snoop. But I did. I did!

  Aside from the gap in the Brontë section, nothing seemed amiss. The brass-studded green leather wing chair sat as thronelike as ever, the tapestry ottoman a disciple at its foot. On the table was Xander’s silver magnifying glass, crystal paperweights, and a book of matches from a restaurant we
’d eaten at the previous winter.

  I turned on the lamp, sat down at the desk, and surveyed the objects on its surface: a closed laptop, a letter opener engraved with the name of his firm, a cherry box holding sheaves of monogrammed stationery, and a pewter mug—a gift from Tom Wells in thanks for being his best man. That no work seemed to have been done here in months didn’t surprise me, given the hours my husband—my husband—was keeping at his office.

  The large file drawers, where Xander kept our financial records, were locked, darn it, but the desk’s pencil drawer slid open, only to reveal mundane supplies—a stapler, tape, and stamps that were now two cents short for a standard letter. It would serve Xander right if his mail got returned! I checked the wire wastebasket. Empty.

  Beneath the desk was the printer. I crouched down for a look. Sitting in its tray was a piece of printed paper. I pulled it out and read it once, twice, then a third time. The words were in English, though at first they made no sense. I read it once more.

  I returned the paper to the printer. Who was this man I was married to? I didn’t know him at all.

  CHAPTER 39

  Quincy

  Mom and I were driving to Montana like we did every August, our station wagon cutting through fields that God had colored to match my goldenrod crayon. I was thinking about how my grandparents would kick off my days on the farm with the smell of sizzling bacon, and move on to chicken feeding, pony rides, and pineapple upside-down cake. We’d end up every evening on the front porch, Gramps pointing out the Milky Way in a black satin sky, Grammy knitting in the dark.

  My eyes were shut tight, drifting in the sepia of memory, when Fanny started to lick my face. I realized it was time to shake off my dream and attend to my new ritual. Every morning I’d been gluing a star on my calendar to celebrate that Jubilee and I had gotten through another night. I was reaching for the stars when Horton called.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” he said. “You get my fax?” Apartment listings, which he’d started sending again a week ago, had been piling up unread.

  “Haven’t had a chance yet.”

  “Too busy, are we?”

  I’d used Dr. Frumkes’ required rest as an excuse to retire from life. Jake and I had been getting by on takeout and had cycled through every cuisine twice—Chinese, Thai, Japanese, Mexican, Vietnamese, Turkish, and Italian—and were debating Ethiopian. But now that Maizie had signed off on her manuscript, I was restless. I supposed this was a positive sign. I’d seen the doctor, and she’d given me a green light to go out for up to two hours each day as long as I was “sensible.” Is there a day in my life when I haven’t been?

  “I promise I’ll read the fax and call you back.”

  “The listings from a few days ago already have bids,” he said. “It’s still a hot market. Today’s apartment should not be missed. It’s in an outstanding family-friendly building.”

  “You do realize the familyless may sue if they hear you talking that way?” I’d read that a listing advertised as “walking distance” from anywhere offended people in wheelchairs and “near churches and synagogues” caused atheists to initiate a class-action suit.

  “Excuse me, but we’re talking a classic six on Riverside Drive, with a recently renovated kitchen, a bike room, and a locked storage bin.”

  This was a reason to cheer. We city folk have been known to arm-wrestle over the highly coveted basement space required to warehouse sleds, camp trunks, and leaves for the dining room table. “Tell me more,” I said, feeling a squeak of curiosity.

  “Motivated owners—the husband lost his job,” Horton added, a bounce in his voice.

  Poor guy. Not only had his income and identity evaporated, he’d become a reason for a broker to dance a jig.

  “This one won’t last,” Horton added.

  “Isn’t that slogan engraved on your business card?”

  “Go ahead, blow me off. Raise your baby in a shoebox—see if I care. Better yet, move after the tot’s born. You can pack between the two a.m. and four a.m. feedings.”

  “Fine,” I said, clutching the fax in my hand. “I’ll look at it.” I had no reason not to humor Horton, who other than Jake was the person I’d been speaking to most often. Talia had visited—twice—and while Chloe called every few days, she preferred to talk on Facebook, where she’d “joined the cultural conversation.” Jules and I weren’t speaking at all.

  The building was only two blocks away. I swaddled myself in winter wool, knowing that the closer I got to the river, the chillier it would be. I spotted Horton, dressed in dark green, planted by the entrance like a topiary. When he saw me, he tipped his fedora and proclaimed, “You’re going to love it.”

  As I shambled through the marble hallway, I hoped that I would. I was feeling just optimistic enough to imagine I might get excited about a new home for the Blues.

  The elevator took us to the tenth floor. Horton rang the bell and, hearing no reply, turned a key. A narrow foyer opened to a sparsely filled living room whose copies of Architectural Digest, cowhide rugs, and rattan sticks diffusing a potent grapefruit scent all screamed “staged.” Through French doors I took in a Stickley dining set that matched the one my mom had inherited from her parents. It was hibernating in her house in Minneapolis, which I’d rented out fully furnished. I hoped the tenants were taking care of the table as I caught a fleeting image of Jake feeding a baby in a high chair pulled up to its side. As quickly as it came, I blinked away the fantasy, turned, and saw Horton pointing to a limestone mantel. “Check the fireplace,” he gloated. “It works.”

  I bent down to evaluate three birch logs on the grate. I got up and asked, “Where’s the kitchen?”

  “Follow me.” I obeyed as Horton pushed open a swinging door. He hadn’t lied. Everything was spanking new—granite, stainless steel, or startlingly white. I’d have felt comfortable having surgery there. “Uh-huh,” I said as he pointed out one state-of-the-art appliance after the next. Remind me why I need a warming drawer, I said to myself.

  “Come see the maid’s room,” he said. We squeezed into a space slightly larger than a Honda. “It could work for a child.”

  If you give it growth-stunting drugs. “Where are the real bedrooms?” I asked, my enthusiasm wilting.

  “Other side of the living room. Wait till you see the view from the master.” Horton led the way to a large suite. To the west, the Hudson rolled along on proud display. This I liked. He opened two doors to show off deep walk-in closets and a third to a bathroom whose phantom stylist had forgotten to remove price tags from the thick white towels. “His-and-hers sinks,” he crowed. “And the shower has steam.”

  “Jake would like that,” I said, feeling obligated to shore up Horton. “Where’s the other bedroom?”

  “Down the hall.” We made two sharp turns. “I know it’s not huge …”

  From the room’s sole window I saw the sooty bricks of another building, six feet away. I couldn’t imagine raising a philodendron here, let alone a child. We returned to the living room and Horton reached into his briefcase. “Here’s the pro forma,” he said. My eyes raced to the bottom line. This apartment was no bargain. Even if a low bid might be accepted here, Jake and I would be strapped trying to handle the charges, especially since with a baby I could no longer take on as large a project as Maizie’s. I felt a thud of familiar disappointment, along with a distinctly sour feeling I couldn’t categorize. As I tucked the information in my pocket without speaking, we retraced our steps to the building’s entrance.

  “You’re not excited,” Horton said.

  “Honestly, I wish I were.”

  “I’m not gaming you, Quincy. This building’s solid—well financed, down-to-earth neighbors, low monthly charges, and a fair price for this amount of space.” He ticked off each attribute on his finely gloved fingers but saw I was unconvinced. “You’re comparing this place to Central Park West, aren’t you?”

  “If we’re going to be mortgage-poor, I’d at least like to be in
love.”

  He sent me a look that was not unkind. “Get that place out of your head. It was a gift from the gods.”

  The gods giveth. The gods taketh away. I couldn’t help noticing a pattern. “Speaking of that,” I said as we walked—quickly, since it had started to drizzle—“did it ever sell?”

  “Off the market. Talk on the street is it’s in contract to an insider, but there hasn’t been a closing yet.”

  I put one foot in front of the other and gritted my teeth as Arthur and Jules dive-bombed into my mind. They were hand in hand, admiring the pink, yellow, and white flowers that bedecked the park in April like party decorations. The happy couple were leaning out of the fourteenth-floor window of their living room, straining to get a better view of the forsythia, callery pear, and cherry tree blossoms. Suddenly there was a bloodcurdling scream as a body tumbled through the air, arms and legs spinning like a pinwheel, ending with a noise as loud as an explosion.

  Whoops. The strangest things happen when people overreach, I thought as I put names to my other feelings—envy, jealousy, and the lingering taste of anger.

  CHAPTER 40

  Talia

  “Mommy, do I have a play date today?” This was the first question Henry, who’d become heavily invested in his social calendar, lobbed at me.

  “Not today,” I said, still blurry.

  “Mommy? Mommy?”

  Who else does he think is in this bed? Tom hadn’t been here for almost a week. Fully awake now, I said, “Yes, boychik.”