by Peter Seth
But as soon as I got halfway down the path on the side of the house, where the Princes’ garbage cans were all lined up nice and neat, before I could even scope out the upstairs windows, all this high-pitched dog barking started. Max! I forgot about the damned dog! I guess they kept her in a back room, but wherever she was, she heard me and started a huge racket. I turned and hustled back down the path to my car, running away, just like a scared little dog.
I got back to my car and turned on the motor, revving it loudly several times so that Rachel would hear me . . . (and also, to tell the truth, so that it wouldn’t stall out – the Ford had trouble starting in cold weather). I sat there, trying to get warm, cursing myself for my cowardice and impotence, trying to think of what to do. I couldn’t just drive away and do nothing; that was out of the question.
What I did was drive back into the town of Oakhurst, found a pay phone on a corner by the train station, and called the Prince house. It rang ten times before someone picked up, my heart pounding harder with each ring. Finally, someone picked up.
“Hello,” I said calmly. “Can I speak to Rachel, just for a – ?”
“Don’t,” said Eleanor curtly. “Call. Here. Again. Tonight.”
And she hung up with a slam before I could say anything. Not that there was anything to say . . . to her.
Unfortunately, it was just about what I expected. But it didn’t make me any less angry or frustrated. I drove back to the Lexington, to regroup and have something to eat. I cursed myself for making the call, a call that I knew wouldn’t get through to Rachel. It was highly unlikely that Eleanor would’ve let her talk to me, if she were “grounded.” Still, when Rachel heard the phone ring, even if she wasn’t allowed to talk, she would know that it was me, trying to break through to her. I wanted her to know that I was making the effort, any effort. The results almost didn’t matter.
That’s what I told myself, sitting alone in a corner booth in the Lex, drinking coffee and treating myself to a piece of seven-layer cake. I ate it just the way I used to when I was a little kid, taking the cake apart and eating it one layer at a time. I almost made myself laugh, when I realized that I was eating like a Doggy. Little kids are demented, and I was really no different.
From the corner booth, I could see everyone who came in and out of the Lex. Unfortunately, no one came in; at least no one I knew. No one to take me out of myself. I just sat there brooding, turning over the events in my mind, going all the way back to that first meeting at the Costa Brava. And even before then, even while we were still at Mooncliff, Rachel told me that her mother would give us trouble. Since then, there had been so many instances of disrespect for us – shortened phone calls, cancelled dates, sudden changes in Rachel’s schedule – that it was impossible to feel anything but disrespect for the person who had such little regard for our relationship. You would think a mother would want her daughter to be happy, especially when she was going through a painful divorce. But Eleanor Prince was not that kind of mother. And with each recollection of one of Eleanor’s snubs, I felt a wave of the same white rage that I felt on the front porch when she slammed the door in my face, and on my life.
So what was I going to do? Nothing? I couldn’t do nothing; I had to do something. But what?
So I paid my check, leaving a good tip for my waitress Adele for good luck, and went outside. It was freezing cold; I could see my breath in the light from the Lex’s bright marquee. I couldn’t go home, so I took a middle course of action: I drove. Driving, even driving the old Ford, always took some of my tension away. And even if I wasn’t doing anything productive, at least I was moving. The radio was still good and loud, and it was so late that there weren’t many cars on the road as I blew out my frustration at eighty mph on the Southern State Parkway till I was halfway out to the Hamptons.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Rachel and this grounding. What did it really mean? How long would it last? Would she be grounded all weekend? I had had a tough week at school: lots of work, lots of papers, and a couple of quizzes. Earlier in the semester, I had referred to the attractive female graduate student with a blonde ponytail in charge of the geology lab as “Pebbles,” and she had heard me. It was actually a compliment, but somehow she didn’t see it that way, and lately was getting her revenge on me with pointed questions and extra scrutiny. So I was really looking forward to being with Rachel that night; I needed the comfort and sympathy that only she could provide.
After a while, almost without my intention, my driving took me back to the town of Oakhurst, all quiet for the night. And like a penny nail to a magnet, I was drawn slowly back to the Princes’ neighborhood. All the streets were super silent. There were no cars on the roads or in the driveways. Except for porch lights and the occasional soft light behind a heavy drape, everything was closed up for the night. I felt a slight spark of hope: maybe Max was asleep now. Maybe there would be a light on in one of the upstairs bedrooms around the back of the Princes’ brick fortress – the light in Rachel’s bedroom. She said that she wasn’t sleeping well lately. I wonder if she did take some of Eleanor’s sleeping pills. I wished she didn’t talk about killing her mother; that was allowing Eleanor’s poison to enter her heart. But maybe she was still awake, waiting for me. Maybe right that moment she was looking out her window, expecting me to come back.
I slowed down as I turned the corner onto Buckingham Terrace. I figured that the best strategy would be to park around the corner from the Princes’ house and approach the cul-de-sac on foot. That way my car would not be visible from the Princes’ house. Stealth and darkness would be my friends. Just as I started to look for a place to park in the shadows of one of the big, sheltering trees, far away from one of the few streetlights, my eye caught sight of something in my rearview mirror: It was a police car! With a row of lights across the top!
My heart jumped, my foot pumped, and I sped ahead. I nervously checked the car that was now right behind me. Wait a second, I told myself, that’s not a police car. It was a red-and-white car from some private security company, some rent-a-cop; not a real policeman. He was probably just cruising the neighborhood, checking on one of his customers’ houses. Still, he scared the you-know-what out of me and I panicked, thinking that if this guy was around, what other security company cars could be driving around? And what about the regular Oakhurst police? And if they’re that paranoid in this neighborhood – and maybe they should be – maybe I should get out of there. I hit the gas and sped out of the Princes’ super-safe neighborhood, losing the rent-a-cop behind me.
And so I went home without ever going back to her house that night, scared again, like a frightened little dog. Very brave, very loyal. My parents were asleep when I got home, and the house was freezing. My father – “Heat-ler” – kept it so cold in the winter that we all had to wear sweaters inside. By nighttime, my room upstairs was like a meat locker. So I undressed as quickly as I could and scrambled into bed, under four blankets. I wound up tossing in my bed most of the night, feeling stupid and frustrated. I must have slept, but I don’t remember exactly when. What I remember was planning: planning how to break the grounding of Rachel. At least how to get a message to her. I finally fell asleep after tormenting my brain almost until dawn, trying unsuccessfully to remember fat Nanci from Lord & Taylor’s last name. If I could get to her, maybe she could get to Rachel, and we could devise something, some way to get around this ridiculous grounding. She had to live; we had to live. I couldn’t let them get away with destroying the best thing I had going in my life. I could picture that Nanci’s face, her clothes, her large roundish body, her Dingo boots, even her giant purse with all the fringe; I just couldn’t for the life of me remember her last name. Of course, first thing in the morning while I was brushing my teeth, looking at my red, wrinkled eyelids, it snapped instantly into my mind: Jerome.
Record of Events #23 - entered Sunday, 10:46 P.M.
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So the n
ext day, instead of reading Aristotle and churning out the two papers I had due, I drove over to the Oakhurst Public Library and dove into the local telephone directory that they had by the pay phone in the lobby. I found three listings for “Jerome” in the white pages and instantly I knew which one probably belonged to Nanci’s family. Only one street address had one of those fake-British names that they used in Rachel’s neighborhood. I wrote down all three addresses and cross-referenced them against the big street map of the Town of Oakhurst (Incorporated in 1836) on the lobby wall. Sure enough, one of the Jerome addresses was right around the corner from Rachel. I smiled: now I was getting someplace.
I drove over to the address that was nearest Rachel’s. I prowled slowly and quietly through the winding streets, so as not to attract attention. My shabby Ford didn’t really belong there. When I got to the streets with the fake-British names, I went even slower. There was always a chance that Eleanor or Herb might be driving around. Of course I had every right to drive on these public roads, but still, I didn’t want to be seen. My mind flashed back to that ridiculous argument that the Doggies had about which super-power would be the best to possess. I remember thinking that invisibility would be my preferred power. I was right; I wished that I were invisible right then. What if Eleanor couldn’t see me? Or Herb the Sleaze? Or Manny, if he was around. If I were invisible, I could walk right into the Princes’ house, right through that shiny black door, and right up to Rachel’s bedroom. I’d never even seen her room, but I imagined that it must be beautiful: a princess’ boudoir, all soft and frilly and inviting. I could walk right up there and –
But if I were invisible, then my body might not have any substance. Then I wouldn’t be able to feel or touch her.
Maybe I had better rethink this invisibility thing again.
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I parked and approached the first Jerome house on my list. This had to be the one. It was even bigger than the Princes’ house. Only this one wasn’t brick. This was a giant fake-French chateau made of pseudo-limestone. OK, maybe it was real limestone; only it all looked fake, this mini-Versailles on the south shore of Long Island.
With complete confidence – I was doing nothing wrong – I walked up to the front door, painted a perfect glossy white, and rang the bell. As I waited, I looked around at the neighborhood, the wide lawns cut close as winter was approaching, the perfect hedges and the bare trees, one humungous house after another, and absolutely no people. Why wasn’t anyone out on a Saturday morning?
The door opened and I turned around. It was a nurse in a white uniform – no, it was a maid. A black maid in a starched white uniform who was looking at me with dark, suspicious eyes.
“Yes?” she said, putting her hand on the doorjamb, blocking my way in.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Is Nanci home?”
I waited an eternal, hopeful moment as she looked me up and down.
Finally, she said sarcastically, “And who should I say’s calling?” She could hardly get out the words.
“Just tell her Rachel Prince’s friend,” I said brightly. “She’ll know.”
She snorted and said, “Wait here,” closing the door flat in my face.
I didn’t care. I smiled. I had found the right Jerome.
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Five minutes later, I was inside Nanci Jerome’s enormous, echoey house, following her rather large behind in jeans and her flopping moccasins up the winding staircase to her room.
“Thank you, Pauline!” she shouted to the maid in white who was disappearing someplace into the vast downstairs beyond the marbled foyer.
“Welcome!” she drawled back and was gone.
Nanci’s room was big and pretty dark, with a high ceiling and tightly closed heavy satin drapes. There were posters (Janis Joplin and the Dylan one with the curly, colorful hair) on the walls and lots of taped-up pencil and ink drawings. She was burning incense, two sticks in a glass of sand, and had one small, yellow table lamp with a fringed, satin shade lit on the end table next to her rumpled bed. In the corner was one of those big slanted drawing tables, with cans of colored pencils at the top, and a swivel high chair in front. It was still daytime, but it could have been midnight in Nanci’s room.
“Eleanor and Manny Prince’s marriage was basically a nightmare,” said Nanci, tucking her short brown hair behind her ear. “Always was. And from what I can see, their divorce isn’t doing much better. Manny is basically a brute, a Neanderthal who made a little money. My parents at least have the good sense to be old and away a lot.” I couldn’t help but notice Nanci’s heavy asthmatic breathing between phrases, like sometimes she was eating the air.
“I guess it’s good they got divorced,” I said.
“It’s tough on Rachel, either way,” she replied, sitting back on her bed, which made the mattress sink.
“The only child of two psycho parents who fight constantly?” I said, finding a place to sit down – a desk chair that looked pretty solid. “Not a good situation.”
“Unless she can work some kind of divide-and-conquer.”
“Work both ends against the middle,” I assented.
“Whatever that means.”
“Whatever it is, it sounds good and aggressive.”
She laughed, “You really hate them, don’t you?”
“Why shouldn’t I? All they do is make Rachel miserable. It’s as if they enjoy it.”
“People do odd things in the name of love.”
I wondered what exactly she meant by that. She was obviously telling herself a private joke. I let it pass.
I complimented her on her drawings, which hung all over the walls – squiggly, obsessively detailed drawings of odd people and tilted scenery. I was polite enough to ask her about going to Pratt where she was a painting major, before I asked her for my favor. I wasn’t exactly insincere in my flattery, but I knew what I was there for.
“Of course, I’ll call Rachel for you,” she said. “Try to break through the Great Wall of Eleanor? I’m glad to do it: someone should be happy in this diseased, little world.”
“Great!” I said, ignoring the cynicism in her sentiment. “We’re lucky you can get through to Eleanor.”
“I am completely fluent in ‘grown-up,’” she replied, reaching for the yellow Princess phone on her night table. I didn’t say that it was because she was shaped like one, but that’s what I couldn’t help thinking.
“I even play canasta,” she added dryly, starting to dial. “That’s assuming they’ll let Rachel come to the phone. I don’t know why Rachel doesn’t get her own phone back.”
“Her own phone?” I asked, instantly liking that idea.
“She used to have a phone of her own,” Nanci said as she dialed. “But Hell-eanor took it away.”
“Why?”
“Because she could,” replied Nanci, and before I could say anything, someone answered on the other end.
“Hello, Eleanor?” said Nanci in a bright perky voice, totally different from the way she was just talking. “It’s Nanci! Is Rache’ there?”
She waited for a moment, with her eyebrows raised, wagging her head, listening hopefully.
“OK, I understand,” she said. “But I just need to talk to her for a minute. It’s pretty important.”
She winced a little, listening to Eleanor’s response.
“I see . . . I understand,” said Nanci. “It’s just something really important I need to discuss with her about school. . . . Now.” I liked the way she was playing Eleanor.
Nanci waited some more, listening to Eleanor on the other end, nodding patiently, while I tried to read her face.
“Great!” Nanci said, giving me a twisted thumbs-up. “I’ll wait right here.”
Taking the phone away from her ear and covering it with her free hand, she whispered, “She bought it.”
“You’re fantastic!
” I whispered as she shushed me.
“Hello, Rachel?” she said carefully. “I have someone here who would like to speak to you.”
With an excited grin, Nanci shoved the phone into my hands. I caught it and spoke quickly.
“Hello, honey?” I said. “It’s me. Pretend you’re talking to Nanci.”
“Hello, Nanci!” Rachel said with a big happy surprise in her voice. “How nice to talk to you!”
“I can’t believe the witch actually grounded you.”
“Neither can I,” she said brightly, responding to some nicer, imaginary comment.
“I really wanted to see you last night,” I said in a lower, more meaningful voice.
“Me too!” she sounded much too chipper.
“Is she standing right there?” I asked.
“You got it,” she said, relieved that I understood her circumstances.
“Do you think you could ask her for a little privacy?” I said.
I heard her voice a little distance from the phone ask, “Do you think I could have a little privacy, Ma? It’s just Nanci!”
I waited a few moments, listening to Rachel breathe, watching Nanci watch me on the phone in her dark room with all the weird drawings.
Rachel came back on. “It’s OK, she’s gone. We just have a minute.”