Hanging by a Thread (26 page)

“I really hate to bother you, but my kitchen sink's stopped up and I can't get it unclogged, no matter how much Liquid-Plumbr I put in it. I think maybe one of the boys dropped something in the drain. And Mickey won't be home for hours.”

Since nowhere in there are the words “your child is unconscious,” all is well. Clogged drains, I can handle.

“No problem, I'll be right over. Just run lots of cold water in the sink to dilute all that Liquid-Plumbr, okay?”

Telling Dolly I'll be back soon, I gather up my (Leo's) handy-dandy toolbox and head next door. The apartments really don't take much of my time, as it turns out, although I noticed the other day all the windows need new screens. Some of them have holes big enough to let Bigfoot through. Theoretically, I could make them myself. I mean, really—how is this different than making a dress? You cut the screening, you fit it to the frame, right? Piece of cake.

Once there, feeling oddly proud of myself, I shoo everyone out of the kitchen, don my heavy rubber gloves, goggles and face mask in case of splashing Liquid-Plumbr (ah, if they could see me at Nikky Katz's now) and take my trusty wrench to the pipe trap under the sink. A few minutes later, ta-da!

“What was it?” Liv says from the doorway.

I hold up a half-decomposed chunk of plastic. “I'm guessing a Lego guy.”

Liv sighs, then says, “Is Dolly working today?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Liv gets her purse down from a hook by the back door and digs something out of it. “Would you mind giving this to her? She bought some groceries for me the other day, I need to reimburse her.”

“Sure, no problem.”

Liv hands what turns out to be a check to me, faceup. On pure reflex, I glance down at it.

And nearly faint.

“I
s everything okay?” Dolly says from her machine when I return. She's feeding a layer of chiffon through the hem-rolling attachment; when I don't answer, she looks up, giving me a puzzled look through her glasses. “With the sink, I mean?”

“The sink's fine.”

“Then what—?”

“Liv gave me something to give to you.” I walk over and hand her the check, my heart pounding. “I take it Dolly's not your real name?”

She starts, then slowly, carefully folds the check and slips it into her apron pocket. “It's my nickname. Nobody's called me Sonja for years.”

“Except my grandfather?”

“What…what makes you think—?”

“You're in his will.”

On a soft gasp, she turns away, her hands trembling like frail,
indecisive insects. When she speaks, it's barely above a whisper. “He wasn't supposed to do that…tell anybody…”

“Is that why you never said anything to me?”

Her hands, still shaking, smooth the chiffon, over and over. “Why would I have said anything if I thought you didn't know?”

She has a point.

“But people suspected,” I say gently. “You have to know that.”

She stills. “And what, exactly, did they suspect?”

“That my grandfather was having an affair.”

“I see.” Her voice sounds far away; the oddest little smile tilts her lips, as though this news actually pleases her a little. She finally looks at me, worrying her lip in her teeth for a moment before asking, “You said I was in his will?”

“Yes. You're the beneficiary of a mutual fund. A fairly nice one, according to the lawyer—”

“I don't want it. You keep it, save it for Starr.”

“I can't. It's yours by rights. I mean, you can do whatever you want with it, give it away, whatever—”

“Yes, yes, I see.”

Her mouth pulls tight, a clear indication this whole conversation is making her nervous. But she says, staring hard at the rumpled chiffon under her hands, “It was a long time ago.”

“Was it?”

Several seconds pass. “I loved your grandfather. But I'm not proud of what we did. Of how…we handled things.”

I don't mean, or want, to sound judgmental. I only want to find out what happened. But I know, no matter how carefully I ask the questions burning inside my head, or how I phrase them, she's going to think I'm condemning her.

“Were…either your husband or my grandmother still alive when you—”

“No!” Her head whips around, her eyes on fire. “Not in the way—” Leaving the chiffon panel pinned to the sewing machine like a butterfly specimen, she bounds out of her chair,
sending a box of straight pins delicately clattering onto the linoleum. “I can't…I'm sorry,” she says, fumbling for her purse from beside the sewing machine. “I'm…not feeling well, I need to go home….”

“But the will—”

Her sharp, achy gaze cuts me off. “Not today, sweetheart. Please.”

After she leaves, I grab the magnet I keep for just this purpose, squatting down to gather the pins. If Dolly—Sonja—didn't want me to know her identity, why'd she insinuate herself into Starr's and my life? To maybe, somehow, reconnect with Leo? I sigh. Who knows?

Crazy. All those years Liv's lived next door, all the times I'd seen her grandmother come and go, and I'd never suspected—

Oh, for heaven's sake. Am I slow or what? Liv and Mickey getting that apartment wasn't some random occurrence. And all that about my not being able to sell the house as long as the original tenants wanted to stay…

I go over to Dolly's machine and finish off the rolled hem, then remove the chiffon panel from the machine. My head is spinning. Now that Dolly knows I know, will she eventually tell me more?

Or will I even ever see her again?

I suddenly can't quite catch my breath. What if she never comes back, and I'm left with all these bridesmaids' dresses to finish on my own?

Sorry. That just sort of slipped out.

As do a couple of tears. Okay, maybe I don't know all the particulars—or any of the particulars, when you get right down to it—but I knew Leo. And Dolly might be a bit eccentric (who isn't?), but she's sweet and generous and kind. I can see why my grandfather fell in love with her. Especially as sweet and generous and kind were never qualities I associated with my grandmother. God, how awful it must have been for Dolly
to have heard about my grandfather's death without even being able to talk to anybody about it. Or even react. It's all so romantic and tragic, I can't stand it—

“Ellie?”

I grab a tissue to wipe my cheeks, then look up to see a glowing Jennifer standing at the foot of the stairs, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand. “I finished Chapter One!”

Ohmigod. Jennifer.

She'll be thrilled to bits to hear this news, doncha think?

 

“I see,” my sister says when I finally tell her that night, after I put Starr to bed. We're in her room, me cross-legged on the bed eating an apple (yes, I do occasionally eat G-rated food), her twisted around in the chair in front of the old desk where she's set up the laptop she bought after she sold off a tennis bracelet.

“That's it?” I say when nothing else seems to be forthcoming. I'd expected ranting, raving. Foaming at the mouth, at the very least. Instead, I'm facing a picture of total calm.

Creepy.

Jen frowns. “What am I supposed to say? Am I happy about her working for you? No. Is this important relative to the mess my own life is in right now? Again, no.”

Ah. Once again, it's All About Jen. Have to hand it to her, though—she sure knows how to prioritize.

I take a bite of my apple. “We don't know for sure that either of them were actually unfaithful.”

“Tell me you're not that naive.”

“There's a difference between naiveté and accusing someone without proof.”

Jen gets up, grabbing her ever-present bottle of Evian and joining me on the bed, where she piles pillows behind her back and settles against the old maple headboard, legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles. Her toenails, peeking out from beneath the hems of a pair of raw silk drawstring
pants, are a brilliant rose color, reminding me of how long it's been since I painted mine. She takes a swig of her water, screwing the top back on before saying, “Do you think I'm self-involved?”

Uh-huh. This from a woman who, in less than five seconds, for no discernible reason, switched the subject from Dolly and my grandfather to herself.

“What is this, a trick question?”

The old Jennifer would have probably scratched my eyes out. The new Jennifer, however, simply smiles wryly. “Let me rephrase that. If I told you I've been thinking about why I am the way I am, would you listen?”

“As long as you didn't expect immediate absolution, sure, why not? Could be amusing.”

She takes another sip of water, her eyes fixed on my face. “You're not perfect, either, you know.”

“No arguments there. But at least I never acted like I was.”

After a moment, my sister rises and crosses to the open window, removing the screen. For a second I think, ohmigod, she's going to jump, only to realize, since she'd just land in the grassy side yard two stories below, she'd be doing well to get a broken ankle. Which would hurt. And I can't see Jennifer willingly inflicting pain on her own person. Then she fishes a package of cigarettes out of her purse, putting up one hand when I let out a squawk.

“Don't worry, I'm not going to sully your airspace.” She lights up, settling her rear end on the window ledge, dangling the cigarette outside. Somewhere a pigeon is coughing. “I know, I know. I've gotta quit.”

“Did I say anything?”

“You don't have to. Nonsmokers have it stamped on their foreheads. And I actually had, for a few months. Then my life went to hell in a handbasket.” One shoulder hitches as she takes a drag. “What can I tell you? Backsliding happens.” Her eyes
scan the room. “You have any idea how much I used to hate this house?”

“You didn't exactly keep it a secret,” I say, munching and feeling very virtuous. About the apple, I mean.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Although…I always thought it was
me
you hated. Not the house.”

She looks at me for a moment, then shakes her head. “I didn't hate you, Ellie. I was jealous as hell of you.”

I nearly choke on the bite in my mouth. “
Jealous?
Of
me?
Why?”

“Because…I don't know. Because you never seemed to be afraid of anything.”

“You're not serious.”

“No, really. Think back, how you were always the first one to make friends with anyone new in the neighborhood, how you'd stand up to all the Scardinare boys. Even your clothes.” She waves at my outfit, a gauzy man's Indian shirt over a black tube top (that I swear shrunk since last summer) and turquoise paperbag pants. “It takes guts to dress the way you do.”

Or poverty. But she doesn't need to know that.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Yeah, it is. Because ever since you were little, you've never given a damn what anybody else thought.” She shakes her head. “Unlike me, who's
always
worried about what other people would think. Not that it ever did any good, since you were the favorite, anyway.”

Another piece of apple gets lodged in my windpipe. After I cough it up (and let this be a lesson to me: Nobody ever choked on ice cream.), I finally get out, “You are totally nuts, you know that?”

“Oh, Ellie,” Jennifer says on a sigh, “Mom and Dad always looked at me like there'd been a mix-up at the hospital. No mat
ter what I did, I never felt like a real part of the family. Why do you think I cozied up to Nana so much?”

I resist the impulse to point out that Jen might've fit in more if she'd stopped with all the weird shit. And, sorry, the same goes for my grandmother. Although, if I really think about it, it's not all that clear which of us were the “normal” ones, and which were the misfits.

“Okay, so you and Nana were different from the rest of us. But that doesn't mean Mom and Dad didn't love you, for God's sake.”

“Loved me, sure. Because I was theirs. Understood me, no.”

“Is that why you acted like a brat?”

She shrugs, unoffended. “Isn't that why most kids act like brats? To get attention? To compensate for everything they think they don't have?”

“Compensate for what? Because…I got along with the Scardinares? Because I dressed strangely? What?”

“Because you were so damn talented, why else? Jesus, Ellie— I used to look at your sketches and want to scream, wondering why
you
were the brilliant one while I was so totally useless.”

For several seconds, I can't speak. “You
are
nuts. Why do you think I dressed the way I did, acted the way I did? Not because I didn't give a shit, but because I
did.
I've got news for you—it hurt, that our grandmother fawned over you and couldn't've cared less about me. And that I could never figure out why. So the clothes, the attitude…don't you get it? It was all a front! Because I couldn't compete with my beautiful, smart, older sister on her level.”

“Oh, right!” Jen blows her smoke out the window, then lets out a dry laugh. “I was so smart that after four years of college, I'm not qualified to do a goddamn thing. So what did I do? I got married.
That
really worked out, huh?”

Notice how she didn't dispute the
beautiful
part of my observation. But I scramble onto my knees on the bed and say,
“And like my life has? I didn't exactly plan on being a single mother, you know. Especially at twenty-two. And excuse me?
What
talent? No offense, but you don't have a clue what you're talking about.”

She points to
her
outfit, a chic, perfectly coordinated raw silk confection. Dior is my guess. Last year's, but still.

“Okay, so you've got a good eye,” I grudgingly admit. “But that doesn't mean—”

“Oh, and like somebody else designed those dresses in the basement?”

“Those were a fluke.”

“Were not.”

“Were too!”

“Were
not!
Oh, for Christ's sake, what is this—the Who-Fucked-Up-More competition?”

I actually laugh. Then I crawl to the other side of the bed and sit on the edge. “Jen, look—I think it's very nice, if a little bizarre, that you're trying to bolster my ego like this, but nobody exactly encouraged me to pursue a design career. Nobody at FIT…not even Mama.”

After a moment, she turns back to the window. “No surprise there.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I say, even though the words are barely out of my mouth before I know exactly what she means. I hold up one hand. Yet even as I say, “Because she never got her own career off the ground?” something nags at the back of my brain, like a half-remembered dream.

“And did you ever wonder why? She was really talented, El. Don't you remember hearing her sing?”

“Sure,” I say, although I don't really. Not clearly. “So maybe she was trying to protect me, Jen. It's hard, trying to make it in the arts.” But that niggling half thought is still there, just out of reach. “Besides, she never tried to talk me out of a career in fashion, just in design—”

“For God's sake, you were only thirteen when Mom died! Don't you think that's a little early to be making judgment calls about someone's prospects? Besides, you know as well as I do there are a helluva lot less talented designers with very successful careers, because they've got the drive and determination
to
make it!”