He nodded.
“Did you see the tree poem today?” She pulled out her phone, then read aloud: A tree is known by its fruit; a man by his deeds. A good deed is never lost; he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love.
“That’s pretty deep.”
“But is it true? So far, courtesy hasn’t reaped diddly-squat as far as I can tell.” She took another hit. “What am I doing wrong?”
He shrugged. Then he took another hit too.
“Why did I ever stop smoking pot? That was a mistake,” she said.
He laughed. “Luckily it can be remedied. For a while, at least. I’m going to need to buy more eventually. Know any high school kids we could buy some off?”
Her expression went serious. “No. You mean, this might be it? It’s like Cinderella? Magic for one night?”
“Might as well enjoy it, right?” He held out the pipe.
“I better stop. Jakey’s asleep inside. And well gosh, if Lindy comes out and sees me . . .”
“Gotcha,” he put the pipe down. “I better go to the meeting. I told Suzanne I would.”
“Why doesn’t she like me?”
“She likes you.”
“No. I can tell. Nobody does. Nobody likes any of us. Not me, or Nick or Lindy or Jakey.”
“I like you.”
“You do?” She smiled. She was like a little child, just wanting to be liked.
“Yeah. I think you’re fun.”
“I am! I am fun!” she said, and she grabbed the pipe and took another hit. She held the smoke in her lungs for a long time, a dreamy smile on her face.
JILLIAN PUT AWAY THE BOOKS AND STUFFED ANIMALS, TAKEN OUT TO soothe Adam, but which only seemed to make him crankier. She washed the almond milk out of his cup and put it on the dish rack. He’d spent the half hour before his bedtime lying on the floor with his knitted cap pulled down over his ears. Now he was in bed, thanks to a chocolate bribe. He’d been such a cutie the first few times she sat for him—but now!
She opened the cabinet above the stove, grabbing a handful of popcorn and popping it in her mouth. Cheese flavored. Yum. She took three gingersnaps and some low-fat barbecue potato chips. “Why didn’t you eat any snacks, Jillian?” Suzanne would ask when they got home. Little did she know. Lindy was the one who had taught her how to raid the kitchen so stealthily. They team-babysat last time. It was more fun to babysit with a friend. Other people’s houses were a little creepy when you were alone.
Lindy wasn’t coming tonight though. She’d asked Jillian if she was going to babysit during the hearing, and Jillian had said no. It was a white lie, and white lies, while not great, were not terrible. The truth was, she didn’t want Lindy to come. She didn’t want to be friends with Lindy anymore. She thought Lindy would ditch her now that she’d gotten to know Mark, but it turned out Jillian was the one who’d had enough of their “friendship.” Lindy was a thief, and a sneak, and mean, and no amount of coolness could offset that, not really.
Jillian swung the refrigerator door back and forth, turning the light on and off. She scooped some chocolate powder in a glass and poured milk over it, stirring until the milk became a muddy brown. The straws were under the sink. Was sneaking food this way stealing? She thought about it, and decided that no, it wasn’t. Suzanne had told her to eat, and she was just making a game of it.
She checked to make sure all the doors were locked, then heaved her backpack onto the kitchen table. Her phone buzzed. A text from Lindy. Im bored. Jillian ignored it. She had a lot of catching up to do after slacking off on schoolwork for so long. She opened her math book. There was a funny ticking sound. She sat up straight, on the alert, until she realized it was just the heat.
Math used to be easy. She and Sofia used to do their homework right away after school. They’d even joined the Math Club. It sounded nerdy, but it had been fun. They’d competed to see who could finish problems the fastest. She started the first problem.
Something was tapping on the window. Branches, she told herself. She made bubbles in her chocolate milk. It covered the sound. She could see herself in the black reflection of the kitchen window, so she closed the blinds.
More scratching or whatever it was. Or maybe knocking. On the door? She hummed so she wouldn’t have to hear. Then she stopped, realizing the song she was humming was from Annie Get Your Gun. She thought about Mark and his amazing hair. They said hi in the halls now, and yesterday, they’d had an actual conversation after English—that was the good thing to come out of the day at the mall. She went over their conversation in her head. “Did you start your essay?” “Yeah. Did you?” “Yeah.” She’d been trying to think of something good to say, something funny and relationship sealing when Lindy appeared and messed up everything.
“Mmm,” Lindy said. “You smell good, Marko.” Mark and Jillian exchanged looks.
That was the thing about ending her friendship with Lindy. Lindy couldn’t know Jillian was doing it or she would make her pay. She would turn the whole school against her. She had to be sneaky. It was sort of like stealing snacks. She told Lindy she couldn’t come over to her house anymore because her parents forbade it, even though they hadn’t. Why hadn’t they? They hadn’t punished her at all for getting her ears pierced either, which made Jillian mad. Weren’t they supposed to set limits or something? It wasn’t fair to make Jillian do all the work.
She kind of missed Kaye. Kaye understood about kids and school and stuff, unlike Jillian’s mother, who always came up with some cheerful, eye-roll-inducing piece of advice when Jillian confided in her: “Tell her you don’t like it when they gang up on you.” “Tell her you’re free to make your own choices.” It was enough to make Jillian want to shake her.
Jillian’s phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, so she didn’t pick up. Unknown numbers were nearly always fake calls, about some mortgage she didn’t have or a special interest rate she’d qualified for. Had she somehow accidentally gotten on the list of grown-ups? How? She was only in seventh grade. The call went to voice mail, then, within seconds, her phone started ringing again, another call from the same number. What if it was Grant? Jillian only had Mrs. Davenport-Gardner’s number in her contacts. If she didn’t pick up, they’d think she was a bad babysitter and they’d never hire her again. They might even tell other people she was a bad babysitter, and she’d never get work in Willard Park again, which would be a shame because she was on the cusp of some very good income-earning years.
“Hello?” Jillian said.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” Jillian waited for as long as she could stand it, then she hung up.
She opened the refrigerator and tore off a cheese stick from the pack, separating it from its mates. She liked this type, which peeled off in strips. She was supposed to make a Greek dish for the social studies party, scheduled to take place at two forty-five on Friday, the last day before break. A fifteen-minute party. Big deal. What was Greek? Baklava. Feta cheese. Pizza. Was pizza Greek? She wouldn’t panic about the phone call. Nope!
The phone rang again.
“Hello?”
Someone breathed hard on the other end, as if he’d just been running.
Jillian hung up again. She shoved the rest of the cheese stick in her mouth. It rang again. Maybe it was the hospital. Maybe it was the police. “Hello?” she said through cheese.
“I’m calling from upstairs. I’ve already killed the boy.”
Lindy. She hadn’t even disguised her voice. Jillian laughed helplessly, her relief nearly making her cry. “Whose phone are you using?”
“My Dad’s. Open the door, Jillster.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Davenport-Gardner people’s front door. Why’d you say you weren’t babysitting?”
“I wasn’t sure . . .”
“Let me in.”
Jillian, defeated, hung up the phone.
THE SAME REASONS IN SUPPORT OF
THE MORATORIUM CAME UP AGAIN and again: tree canopy, soil permeability, privacy, height, noise, proportion, diversity, architectural integrity—it went on and on. Those against were concerned about their rights. “I’ve always wanted a breakfast nook and a Florida room,” a bent woman with an oxygen tank said.
Suzanne wanted to rip the mic out of her hand. First of all, the moratorium would expire in six months. Second of all, additions that don’t extend the footprint more than five hundred feet would be exempted. And third, if you’ve lived this long without a Florida room, you sure as hell don’t need one now.
Was the council going to let old biddies like this one determine the future of Willard Park? The moratorium had to pass. Passage would work in Suzanne’s favor, and more than just as it pertained to the town’s appearance. Grant would agree to a small addition rather than wait for the new rules on reconstruction—rules that would, no doubt, be stringent. He’d turned against their house in the past few weeks, calling it a dump. A tear-down. They deserved better, he said.
In the meantime, Suzanne had put a call in to the contractor who had done Nina’s screened porch. Well, at least she was doing something! She had to have the feeling she was moving forward on something! God knew, everything else was at a standstill. Squirts for Squirts was hardly more than a name at this point, and summer was just half a year away.
She caught a whiff of cigarette or, perhaps, pot smoke. Crowds were the worst. She could smell everyone’s bad habits: smoking, drinking, infrequent bathing. She tried to close her nose, but the smell of weed seeped in nonetheless.
Was the smoke coming off Grant? Instead of stopping by the house to get her, he’d come in late and had barreled over people’s legs to sit next to her, like a clumsy puppy. She frowned at him. He looked back at her, his eyelids heavy, and smiled. She closed her eyes. It could not be Grant. She would not allow it to be Grant. She had enough to worry about without its being Grant.
Adam had been out of school with headaches for ages now—three weeks? Four? She’d lost track. Suzanne called the neurologist and the allergist daily, sometimes twice, to see whether there were any cancellations. No matter. They were finally edging up on the actual appointments.
Then there was the baby. At her appointment this morning, Dr. Fielding recommended she schedule the cerclage. Suzanne argued against it. She was so busy! Was it even necessary? Couldn’t it wait?
“Maybe I haven’t been clear about the danger here,” he’d said.
She shook her head. She didn’t want to hear about the danger.
“Where’s your husband on all of this?”
“He doesn’t have an opinion.” How could he? She hadn’t told him there was a problem.
Dr. Fielding put his hand on her arm. “You don’t want to lose this baby, Suzanne.”
“No,” she had admitted, her voice small.
“It’s my property. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to do what I want with it?” Nick Cox, number twenty-two, argued.
How had he gotten a number? He’d arrived after people started testifying, long after all of the numbers had been handed out—and yet, there he was up at the lectern.
“A man’s home is his castle,” Nick said.
“Get off it, Cox!” Suzanne cried.
“You’re out of order,” the mayor said.
“A man’s and a woman’s home,” Nick Cox said, winking. At whom? Suzanne scanned the crowd. Allison was smiling back at him. Beaming. Was she beaming? Not possible. It must be a smile of disdain, but it bore a close kinship to a beam.
“A family’s home. It’s a matter of personal freedom. That’s my point,” Nick went on.
Freedom. There was something she lacked. Was anyone free, she thought, looking around the room at her neighbors. Edna Stant, with her short right leg—was she free? That fellow Jack, with his blind mother? Ted Miller with his disabled twin? It was an interesting question.
She put her hands on her belly, wishing she could simply will the baby to stay put till she reached term. She felt like howling. There were some things you couldn’t simply will to be. Most things, come to think of it.
The baby fluttered within her. Suzanne imagined her bouncing and floating like a baby mermaid, a gummy smile on her perfect face. Adam, her merman brother, was at home, swimming in his sleep. Suzanne had the urge to dash home and slip into his little racing-car bed with him. She imagined closing her eyes and sleeping side by side with her two babies. In and out, they would all breathe together, in and out.
AS TED MADE HIS WAY UP THE CENTER AISLE TO THE STAGE, COX MADE his way back down. They bumped shoulders as they passed each other. Well, Cox bumped into him. Was it an accidental bump . . . or a shove? A shoulder shove? His shoulders were big, but were they so big that they had to slam into Ted? Ted nearly pushed back, but then thought about how it would look—likely no one had registered Cox’s shoulder shove, but everyone would see Ted stick out his hand and push. Shaken, but dignity intact, Ted reached the lectern in time to see Cox leave through the back door, letting in a gasp of cold air. How had the bastard gotten to testify before him? Had he bought the slot?
Ted looked at Allison for reassurance, but she was looking at the door Cox had just exited. She turned back around and looked at Ted; she looked a little shaken herself. She’d probably seen the shove. She smiled and gave Ted a thumbs-up. “You got this,” she mouthed. He turned on the slide projector and the first image appeared on the screen: a shot of the Willard farmhouse circa 1900 with Mr. Willard standing on the porch in a white suit, a straw hat on his head. Someone turned out the lights, and Ted brought the picture into focus.
“Once upon a time . . . ,” Ted said. The timer started, the green light glowing, reminding him he had only three minutes to make his case.
He told the story of Willard Park, about the original farm and the plans for a community of twenty “stately homes in a countrified setting” Mr. Willard had proposed to build in 1890. Ted brought to life the soda fountain and the trolley tracks, the chickens the Willard family used to keep, and old Willard Pond—where kids sailed toy boats in summer and skated in winter. He told them the story of his parents, who’d bought one of the second generation of homes. There they were in front of the house, young again.
“Mom and Dad!” Terrance called.
Ted smiled gently at Terrance, giving him a wink to remind him that he was just supposed to listen.
There was Mr. Victor, who ran the general store; there Mr. Willard’s daughter in the 1970s—an old woman by then; there were the peacocks, feathers spread.
“Remember we played tickle with the feathers, Ted?”
Ted shook his head at Terrance, and showed a series of photos of children playing, at the fountain, on the green, on the playground over the years.
“We used to play marbles!”
Ted closed his eyes. All of the work he’d done. All of the effort selecting just the right slides, just the right words—just the right everything—and now Terrance was spoiling it.
“Down by the creek,” Ted started, showing a slide of a young couple picnicking, circa 1920.
“We played army,” Terrance called.
“Terrance,” Ted said, his voice firm.
Terrance stood and waved his hat above the crowd. He clambered over legs until he got to the aisle, and took a bow. People laughed and clapped good-naturedly.
He joined Ted at the lectern. “Not now, Terr,” he said, a whisper that got caught in the mic and amplified. A few people laughed. Ted swallowed. He could still regain control of the room.
“Children have been sledding on the hill by Wythe Manor—” Ted projected a slide of the sledding hill at the turn of the last century.
Terrance reached for the microphone. Ted moved it away from his hand, but Terrance reached for it again, smiling.
Ted felt a bubbling within, a simmer that threatened to boil. “You need to sit down, Terr,” he whispered, again a little too close to the mic. Someone yelled, “Let him talk!”
> Ted scanned the room for the heckler, giving Terrance his chance. He grabbed the mic and breathed on it, filling the room with Darth Vader–like breath. “Hi.”
Ted tried to pull the mic from him—the timer was blinking yellow now—but Terrance held on fast, grinning, as if they were playing a game.
Ted felt reason take wing. Fury, the furies, flew into his head, and seeped out, through his eyes, through his ears. Go home, he wanted to say. Go home, retard.
No sooner had the words formed in his head than he released his grasp on the mic and took a giant step back.
“Hi,” Terrance said again, louder.
“Hi,” some of the audience members called back.
Ted moved to the other side of the lectern. He was sweating. What was wrong with him? Was he losing his mind?
Terrance clicked the button on the projector, and no slide came up, just the bright yellow light from the bulb; then he clicked again and a slide of Ted and Terrance appeared: they were rolling down Willard Hill in summer, hair cut into crew cuts.
“We used to roll so much we got dizzy!” he said. He clicked to the next screen, a shot of the houses on their street. “We used to go to your house and you gave us cookies.” Terrance pointed at Adela Lambert. “And we shoveled your snow when you were sick that time.” He nodded to Martin Thorp, who was in negotiations with a developer.
The light turned red, but Terrance went on, holding tight to the mic while the mayor “eh-hemmed” a couple of times, then grabbed for it repeatedly, without success.
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