Hanging by a Thread (18 page)

And here's hoping I remember that the first time Starr brings home somebody that makes my heart drop into my shoes.

“God,” Frances says, dumping a load of boxes on the floor.
She's in jeans and a ratty old brown sweater, she's not wearing a drop of makeup, her hair's a mess, and she's gorgeous. “Could this room be any gloomier?”

I've lifted both sets of blinds and tied back the sheers, but it's still murky in here. Forget what I said about letting in the spring sunshine, since it started raining—a miserably cold deluge—right after Jen left and hasn't let up since. Frances turns on every light in the room, including the overhead, so now everything's a pale urine color. I could do without the interrogation room ambiance, but I'm not about to argue with someone who's volunteered to go through an old man's underwear, for Pete's sake. Some of which I'm convinced predates the New Deal.

Two hours later, although our conversation's been pretty much limited to the occasional “What do you want to do with this?” or “You think this is worth hanging on to?” we've made good progress. Everything's been sorted into three groups: the few things I want to keep; the stuff that should've been tossed ten years ago; and the rest into boxes and bags for Frances to take to her church's thrift store, a task she's undertaken for my family four times in fifteen years.

But we don't mention that.

However, it hasn't all been morose. As Starr and I agreed, many of the items sparked an impromptu memorial, which more often than not got the two of us laughing, much to Frances's obvious relief. The idea of giving most of Leo's possessions away to strangers doesn't seem to bother my daughter at all. In fact, she's only keeping a trinket or two that sat on his dresser, as well as his watch and a pair of silver and onyx cufflinks I'd given him when I was ten. I tell her we can have them made into earrings one day, if she likes.

I, on the other hand, have held back a tweed sportjacket, all the sweaters the moths haven't half devoured and two pairs of nearly new corduroy pants we'd just gotten for him at Christmas.

After Jason hauls off the first box of clothes for the thrift store, Starr climbs up onto Leo's bed, slowly inspecting my choices.

“How come you wear men's clothes so much?”

Frances looks over, clearly interested in what my answer's going to be. Especially as I'm still wearing the same cardigan I've been in all week. Yes, because it still smells of my grandfather and it's helping me to ease into the idea of his not being here. I'm well aware of what I'm doing. And why I'm doing it.

“Because they're comfortable. And wearing Leo's or Grandpa's clothes helps me remember them. But I don't just wear men's clothes, I wear my grandmother's, too, you know.”

Which might seem odd, considering my relationship with her. But hey—I can't fault the woman's taste. And we were close to the same size. It seemed a shame to just toss them simply because of a few negative association issues. Besides, I have a real strong feeling she'd pop her girdle if she knew I was wearing her duds. A good reason if ever there was one to strut around in them from time to time.

“You should wear that pretty red dress,” Starr now says. “The one with the big skirt.” She means one of my grandmother's fifties outfits from when she was still in her twenties, a cranberry duppione silk I will cherish until the day I die. “You look like a girl in it.”

Again with the girl stuff. Although I notice her obsession seems to be focused on me, not on herself. “Question—how come I have to look like a girl and you don't?”

“Because you're the mommy,” Starr says, with a is-she-slow-or-what? glance at Frances.

“Frances is a mommy. Why doesn't she have to wear dresses?”

“Because she looks just as pretty in pants.”

Ouch.

“Hey,” Frances says, her chin lowered as she points at my
daughter. “You watch your mouth, little girl. Your mommy looks just fine the way she is.”

But Starr lets out one of those sighs that lifts her shoulders several inches. Clearly, we don't get it. Although someday, I suppose I'd better make an effort
to
get it.

My cell rings. I find it under one of the piles, frowning when I see my work number. Have you ever noticed how you're allowed exactly one week to recoup from a family death—especially when it's a “routine” death, like that of an aged relative—after which you're expected to buck up and get on with your life? Or rather, on with whoever's life your personal problems have disrupted?

Nikky gave me seven days exactly. And showered me with sympathy—not to mention flowers and a fruit basket—during that official grieving period. But now we're on Day Nine, in which case my sorrow is now on her time.

“Hello, darling,” she says, her voice laced with I-don't-mean-to-prod-but-where-the-hell-
are
-you? kindness. “Just calling to see how you're doing.”

“Oh…I'm getting there.”

“Any idea when you might be coming back?”

“Soon,” is my oblique answer. Funny how I was okay with this job until Mari dangled the other one under my nose. However, since that's now moot, and this is the job I still have, and need, it's not as if I can afford to blow it off. And I do miss the city. But the fact is, I'm not ready to go back to that madhouse and I don't know when I will be. So there. “I still have to arrange for child care.” Starr's eyes dart to mine, accusing.

“Child care?”

“For my daughter?” Okay, fine, maybe I don't litter every conversation with the kid, but it's not as if I've never mentioned her, for God's sake. I walk over to the window, out of earshot. “She's only five,” I say in a low voice, “and since her grand
father was her main caregiver when I wasn't around, this might not be the easiest transition.”

“Oh, kids are more resilient than we sometimes give them credit for,” Nikky says brightly. “Look at my two—they've had nannies and caregivers from the time they were babies, and they turned out just fine.”

What's sad is that she really believes that. “That may be, but I'm not going to rush things. Of course, if it's really a problem and you need to find someone to replace me—”

“No, no!” A nervous twitter tickles my ear. “Take all the time you need, dear. We'll just…muddle through as best we can until you return. But keep me posted, will you? And by the way…I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh? What?” Another Return To Vendor shipment, no doubt, that she wants me to convince a department manager or buyer to take back.

“You'll see. Just as soon as you come back.”

Then she hangs up. I stand there, staring at the phone, vaguely aware that Starr's gone off with the returned Jason, leaving me with Frances. Who takes the phone from me and sets it aside, then gently pulls me down to sit on the edge of the bed with her, looping an arm around my shoulder. “Do you really need to go back there?”

“I need the money. Not to mention Manhattan.”

She ignores the second part of my sentence. “The rent money from next door isn't enough?”

“Barely. And some of that goes back into maintenance, of course. But I don't know…” I look at her. “My sister was here the other day, did you know?”

Her eyes widen. “Jennifer? You're kidding?”

“Nope.”

“God. It's been, what? Eight or nine years?”

“Ten. She was trying to figure out a way to somehow circumvent the will so I could sell the rental house.”

“Why? It was left to you, not her.”

“Ah, but she thinks if I sell, she can get a loan.” I explain the whole business about Stuart losing his job, etc., watching as Frances's mouth gets increasingly thinner. Then she blows out a harsh breath.

“That girl always was a piece of work. If I hadn't had six kids of my own, so I know how different siblings' personalities can be, I'd swear one of you was switched in the hospital. And my money'd be on Jennifer.” Frances stands, hauling one of the boxes up onto the bed to tape it closed. “Anyway, there's no way the will can be broken, right?”

“Not according to the lawyer. Is it true, though, that the houses are worth around four hundred thou a piece?”

She nods, ripping off a piece of packing tape with her teeth. “That's a pretty fair ballpark figure, yeah.”

So if Starr decides to sell when she reaches twenty-one, she'll have a nice little investment. A pretty stable one, too. And one that nobody—like, say, greedy, self-serving aunties—can touch.

Good old Leo.

Which reminds me…

“You ever hear Leo mention somebody named Sonja?”

Slowly, Frances looks up, then brushes her bangs out of her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Was that her name?” she says softly.

“Are you saying…you knew about her?”

Strong, capable hands stretch the tape across the closed box. “I wouldn't exactly say I
knew
about her. Suspected, maybe. Jimmy and I were closer to your parents than we were your grandparents. Mainly because I don't think your grandmother liked me all that much.” She shrugs. “Not that I cared. But we had them all to dinner from time to time, you remember, when you and Jennifer were little? Anyway, I'd pick up on these…clues that something was going on. You
know, when somebody says something and glances shoot across the table? That kind of thing. Suggestions, nothing more. But I'd catch your grandmother giving your grandfather these looks.” Another shrug. “For a long time, I decided it was just my overactive imagination. Until Jimmy said he thought there was something funny going on, too.” She sets the box on the floor, closes up the next one. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“I didn't tell you everything about the will. Like that my grandfather apparently left this Sonja person a money market account worth a nice chunk of change.”

“Really?” Then she grimaces. “Bet Jennifer loved that.”

“You have no idea.”

Frances smiles, then says, “You think Leo was still seeing this woman?”

“Who knows? He rarely volunteered where he was going when he went out, and I never asked. I always assumed he was just going to Pinky's or someplace. Or the senior center.” With a small smile, I add, “He never came back smelling like perfume or anything like that.”

“Maybe she didn't wear perfume.”

Good point. I get up; the boxes are all ready to go. Which means the bed is cleared.

The bed still made up with the linens my grandfather slept in.

Frances looks over, waiting for me to make the first move. I reach for the top of the hobnailed bedspread; in seconds, we've stripped the bed, the sheets dumped into a laundry basket.

“You want me to wash those for you?” Frances says.

“No, I'm fine.”

“If you're sure.” I nod, my throat closing. Then she says, “Where do you keep the vacuum? This floor is a mess.”

“That's okay, I'll do it later—”

“Ellie. Where is it?”

“Hall closet by the kitchen.”

A minute later she returns with the vacuum. I see the cord twisted in the figure-eight pattern and burst into tears.

Frances holds me until the storm passes; eventually, I wipe my eyes and blow my nose, then say, “Guess I'm not as over it as I thought.”

“Who says you have to be?”

I smile and blow my nose again. A second later, the vacuum cleaner roars to life. I watch Frances pushing it around, wondering again who this Sonja is, how she'd take Leo's death, if she knew.

Does
she know?

Another dangling thread, leading nowhere. Which seems to be the theme of my life these days.

T
he next several days are spent in a marathon session of investigating all the day-care options within a reasonable radius of the house, ninety percent of which I reject out of hand. Especially the “loving care in my home” ones I find tacked up on assorted local bulletin boards. But eventually I narrow it down to a couple of places that seem clean, well-run, with smiling caregivers and children who aren't huddled in the corners, rocking and sucking their thumbs while staring blankly into space.

Of course, there is the issue of Starr getting along with other children. Liv's testimonial of how well my daughter deals with Andy notwithstanding, having been raised with adults, she's just always preferred adult company. She can tolerate children for an hour or two, then becomes bored with them, like a cat
with a dead mouse. Forced to endure their company for nine hours a day could be a challenge for all concerned.

Be that as it may, I realize I can't put this off any longer. Especially as Nikky's taken to calling twice a day. At this rate, she'd be less of a pain in person. So, in a nasty drizzle I'm convinced will never stop, off Starr and I go to check out what I can only say is the least offensive place, someplace called Precious Seedlings (gag), close to the subway stop. One little hand shoved into the pocket of her puffy pink parka (only a shade lighter than Mrs. Patel's flamingo, today attired in a shiny emerald green top hat and matching vest), the other clamped tightly around a matching umbrella, she stalwartly crosses the street, slightly ahead of me. And not a single word does she utter on the way there. Once we arrive and are ushered into the director's office, she sits primly across from the smiling, dark-skinned woman, her mouth set, answering Mrs. Harrison's questions with as little enthusiasm as possible.

The humidity has done a real number on Starr's hair, poor baby.

“Well, Starr,” the director says, “would you like to spend a few hours with us and see what you think?”

Shoulders hitch. “Fine, whatever.”

We walk down a short, brightly lit hallway to a glass-paneled, double door leading to the main classroom. A cheerfully lit room filled with bright colors and several dozen active, boisterous, chattering children. Normal children. Probably very nice children. Just nothing like Starr.

“It's free play time, which they normally have outside,” Mrs. Harrison says apologetically. “But the weather's so awful, we decided to keep them in.” She smiles. “In twenty minutes, you'll be able to hear a pin drop in here.”

Starr, the child who will play quietly by herself for hours,
who has no problem with being alone, looks up at me, betrayal in her eyes.

I lean down and whisper, “Do this for me, and there's a puppy in it for you.”

“Deal,” she says, striding into the melee like a soldier into battle.

 

When I pick her up at the end of the free trial session three hours later, she seems resolute. Although, frankly, none the worse for wear. It occurs to me that it won't kill her to learn to interact with members of the human species her own age. She's going to have to do it anyway come fall, when she starts kindergarten.

Kindergarten. Aiyiyi.

“So how was it?” I ask as we walk home. The drizzle has turned into a fine mist. I tell myself it's great for the complexion.

“The art stuff was okay, but they made us sing these stupid songs. And most of the kids are such babies.”

“Oh, Starr…”

“Well, they are. Some of them still like
Teletubbies,
for crying out loud.”

Not much I can say to that. Then she slips her hand in mine, a tiny show of vulnerability. “C'n we go get a puppy this afternoon?” When I don't answer, her eyes lift to mine. “You said.”

“I said you could get one. I didn't necessarily mean this afternoon.”

She faces forward, her mouth set.

Dam
mit.

“I guess there's no real reason we can't do this today.” And yes, I am the world's wussiest parent. “Especially as I'll have to go back to work on Monday.”

Either she doesn't hear that last part, or she's choosing to ignore it, because her head jerks up, a wide, baby-toothed grin
splitting her skinny little face in two. Just like a real little kid, even. Itty-bitty water droplets frost her lenses.

“I can't decide between a small fuzzy dog, or something really really big—”

“Small is good,” I interject, but she's on a roll.

“—and I like those dogs with the big floppy ears, what're they-called? Or those dogs that get dressed upon
Sesame Street
—”

“Honey,” I say as we near the house, “I think we'll just have to wait and see what's there, okay?” I see Jason sitting on the stoop, looking miserable and cold. Of course, he always looks miserable, but the cold part is new.

“Why on earth are you sitting out here?”

“F-forgot my k-key. G-got locked out. Thought I was g-g-gonna freeze to d-death. You got any ssssoup or something?”

I unlock my front door, push it open. “Yeah, I got soup. But aren't you supposed to be in school?”

“T-teacher's meeting or somethin'—”

“We're gonna go get a dog after lunch!” Starr interrupts as we all stumble inside and head for the kitchen. Even though the heat's on, Jason twists on the gas burner and holds his hands over it. “Wanna come with us?”

While it might be a stretch to say he actually perks up at this news, there's a definite flicker of interest in those dull brown eyes.

“Whatever,” he says, yanking his hands away from the flame. Two seconds later, he finds a can of tomato soup in my cupboard and hands it to me.

The promise of a fun-filled afternoon stretches in front of me like a highway in the desert.

 

There are roughly four million dogs in this place, all yapping their heads off and calling attention to themselves like desperate actors at a cattle call. The sound is deafening; the smell, un
believable (I know they do the best they can, but with four million dogs, poop happens. Frequently.). But what really gets me is my reaction. I realize I haven't been avoiding the dog issue because I don't want the extra responsibility; it's because another five minutes in here and I'll want to take them
all
home with me.

I'm telling you, there are far too many big, brown, pleading eyes in here.

So I hang back with Jason (the better not to get sucked in by all those big, brown, pleading eyes) watching Starr slowly make her way from cage to cage. The dogs are going nuts, trying to get her attention. But she remains expressionless as she walks, her hands stuffed into her coat pockets. Almost as if she doesn't even see them, although obviously she does.

“Whoa,” Jason says in a monotone beside me. “Scary kid.”

I roll my eyes, just as Starr suddenly stops in front of one cage near where we're standing.

“This one.”

Jason and I exchange glances before we both move closer.

“Dude,” he says. “Serious candidate for Extreme Makeover.”

Truer words were never spoken. Although I'm just trying to wrap my head around the most startling aspect of her choice. No big, brown, sad eyes here. Instead, more like the color of old pee.

“But honey…I thought you said you wanted a
dog?
”

Starr shrugs. Mind you, I've yet to see one iota of excitement over her choice. A feeling, or lack thereof, which seems to be reciprocated by the choice itself, which I can only describe as the feline answer to the Phantom of the Opera. Without the mask. And, I strongly suspect from the malevolent glare currently aimed in my direction, without the soul.

“I changed my mind,” she says, then adds, “Besides, cats are easier to take care of than dogs, right?”

The cat glares at me again, as if in challenge. The protruding fang is an especially nice touch.

“In theory, yeah,” I begin, only to have my breath catch in
my throat when my child leans her forehead against the cage. I have visions of the thing's head spinning around, or something. Instead, it bumps Starr's head, then lets out a long, mournful noise more like keening than a meow.

“Why?” I ask her.

Her eyes meet mine, full of that not-so-patient indulgence one uses with the slow. “Because if we don't take him, who will?”

And for this I'm about to shell out a hundred bucks. Unbelievable.

 

I have to admit, after two weeks stuck in Queens, I'm almost giddy when I come up out the of the subway station at 34th Street on Monday morning. And believe me, only a diehard New Yorker would find anything on 34th Street and Seventh Avenue worth getting giddy over. Glamorous, this part of the city ain't. Still, as I dodge guys shoving racks of plastic-shrouded garments down the filthy, cracked sidewalks, I'm nearly overcome with the urge to do a little jig.

Not that my troubles have gone far away, by any means. I still worry about Starr (Will day care scar her for life? Will she scar the other kids for life? Should I worry that she's fallen in love with the ugliest cat in the history of the species?), about Luke (Is he okay? How much do I dare care whether he is or not? Where do we go from here?), about Tina (Should I call? Should I let things ride? Should I stand by her or let her drift out of my life?), about how little I know about being a landlord and what my sister's next move might be—because, believe me, there will be a next move—and what the whole story is behind my grandfather's relationship with the mythical Sonja Koepke.

But right this minute as I'm whizzing along with the quadrillion other people whizzing along (a young woman passes me, yelling, “You're a fucking
asshole,
Marty!” into her cellphone) the city's energy goes to my head like champagne. Still clinging desperately to my high minutes later, I get off the
elevator and wish a stunned Valerie/Vanessa (she's still there, imagine that) good morning, then sweep into the—oh, yes—devastated showroom.

Uh-uh. I refuse to let a few crumpled garments crumple my mood.

I go on back, where we go through the brief, uncomfortable, obligatory sympathy thing (Jock sees this as a convenient opportunity to hug me a little too closely for longer than socially acceptable: either it doesn't take much to arouse this guy or he's mainlining Viagra); then everyone returns to what they were doing, leaving me with a positively beaming Nikky. Who takes me by the arm and swoops me off to the farthest recesses of the floor, where, carved out of a corner next to the door leading to the service elevator, stands—

“Your office!”

So it is. A desk, some file cabinets, a computer, a chair. No window, and the walls are only five feet tall, but hey. It is, indeed, an office.

Nikky looks like a little kid waiting to see what Mommy's reaction is to the lopsided vase she made in summer camp.

“Wow,” I say. “Thanks. This is great.”

“I realize it's a little bare bones, but it was the best we could do on short notice.”

Only Nikky would consider more than a year short notice. But far be it from me to look an office-horse in the mouth.

“It's great. Really.”

“And,” she says, “since you've been here for a while, I think you deserve a raise. How's an extra twenty-five dollars a week sound?”

“Fifty,” I hear myself say.

Whoa. Had no idea that was coming.

Neither, apparently, did Nikky.

“F-fifty?”

“I have to pay for day care now. If I don't get it, I'll have to
look for another job.” She has no idea I don't have housing expenses, or what my budget is. Nor is it any of her business. This isn't about what I need, it's about what I deserve. And around here, I think as Harold starts screaming about God knows what, what I deserve is freaking combat pay.

Underneath enough foundation to support a fifty-story building, she blanches, as if I've threatened to hold her Paxil hostage. Of course, I'm totally bluffing. Yeah, this may be about what I deserve, but it's not as if I can walk away if she says no. Or that there aren't a hundred other people eager for my job.

“Thirty-five,” she says.

Do I dare do this?

“Nope.” Apparently, I do. “It's gotta be fifty.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You've got another offer, don't you?” Then one expertly manicured hand shoots up before I have to lie. “Fifty it is. Just don't tell Harold.”

Not a problem.

“And I won't be able to work Saturdays.”

Nikky looks at me, agape. Agog? One of those. Then her mouth snaps shut, she says, “Fine,” and walks away.

I sit on my new chair in my new office until the dizziness passes.

 

The first week back passes without major incident. I go to work, I save Nikky's butt, I run interference between Harold and the rest of the world (literally—we've got suppliers in every continent except Antarctica). Now that I have an office, everybody seems to take me more seriously. I take myself more seriously. Hey, I'm a survivor. Sixteen months and counting, and I'm still here. I even suggested a way to rework that dress to flatter more figures, and Nikky thought it sounded like a good idea.

By the second week, however, things aren't so hot. Nikky seems crazier, Harold louder and I'm spending twice my net salary gain on taxis to make sure I pick up Starr before six-thirty
every night so I don't get slammed with a hefty surcharge. And since I don't have five minutes to learn how to do even the simplest maintenance tasks, it seems like everytime I turn around, I'm calling a repair guy. More big bucks down the tubes.

And then there's the time issue. As in, I need a clone to get everything done and still be there for my child. The child who, while not exactly saying she hates day care, is being uncharacteristically clingy. Which isn't a good thing since I'm now behind on Heather's dress. And I still haven't even thought about the bridesmaid's dresses. So Heather's freaking, my tenants are getting nervous and my child's expression when I drop her off every morning is tearing me up inside.