The following Monday she shook Milo awake after she finished in the bathroom. He replied with his customary, “Ten more minutes.” It didn't worry her; he always dressed in a flash anyway.
In the kitchen she gathered the hero sandwiches she'd made the night before and placed them in insulated soft nylon lunch bags, along with fresh bagels and nonleak thermos bottles filled with juice. She dropped dollops of cream cheese into small plastic containers. Just because they had moved into their house didn't mean they should stop the money-saving habits they'd developed while amassing their down payment. That unpleasant surprise they received at the closing was an excellent impetus for trying to conserve cash. Besides, Camille made lunch for herself and Reuben every day.
Dawn's efforts to cut back made her feel a lot less apprehensive about meeting their obligations. Carrying breakfast and lunch four days out of five saved a small fortune, but to keep from feeling deprived they agreed to allow themselves one day each week to buy meals out.
Before she and Milo left the house they both stopped in Zachary's room. “Zach, can you hear me?” Milo asked. When the sleepy boy nodded, he said, “Your mom and I are leaving now. We'll call and make sure you're up, and you call the cell if there's any problem. After you walk Stormy and you're ready to leave for school, all you have to do is make sure the latch is on the door.” During Milo's week off he had driven Zach to the local pound, and they came home with a bulldog Zach promptly named Stormy. “Do you remember how to do it?”
“I'll hear it click,” Zachary mumbled.
“That's right, son.” Milo rubbed his shoulder, and Dawn bent to kiss his cheek.
“I don't like this,” Milo muttered as they left the house. “He's just turned ten. He's too young to be left alone in the middle of the damn night.”
“It's not really the middle of the night, Milo. Zach gets up at seven. That's less than two hours from now. And Stormy is in the house with him. She'll bark like crazy if anyone shows up.” Dawn felt reassured by her own words, even if she did feel that Stormy was the ugliest creature she'd ever laid eyes on. “He'll be fine.”
Milo grunted in response.
She proudly introduced Milo to all their fellow commuters, and to Veronica Lee on the return trip. Norman Lee, who worked Thursday through Sunday, and Veronica, who worked Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, took the first bus out in the morning, which left at 3:45 AM, to allow them to work ten hours a day.
Milo promptly fell asleep, waking up just as the bus rolled into Port Authority. Dawn affectionately covered the back of his hand with her palm. The one week head start she had had made her feel like a pro, but her husband looked like he ought to still be at home in bed. “You all right?” she asked as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Yeah, I'm okay. This commute is going to be murder.”
“You'll get used to it. It's a routine, just like anything else.”
“I don't know, Dawn,” he said, reaching for his lunch bag. “I just don't know.”
Chapter 16
The Currys
September 2002
C
amille promptly picked up the receiver when her buzzer sounded, praying her boss wouldn't want anything urgent twenty-five minutes before quitting time. She liked to rush out at the stroke of 5:00 to make sure she caught her bus. “Yes, Mr. Stephens.”
“Camille, please come in.”
She rolled her eyes. Her boss knew she left work promptly to make sure she got to Port Authority before 5:35. He'd already made her miss it once with a last-minute urgent assignment. By the time she got to Port Authority the last bus of the day, the 6:20, had just departed. Not only did she have to sleep on her father's couch in Inwood, but she had to buy a new outfit to wear to work the next day. Thank God she managed to find something on sale. She hated the thought of spending forty dollars she really couldn't afford, but at her office employee wardrobe held high importance. An account executive whose wife had left him began showing up for work in shirts that looked like he'd slept in them, and not long after he lost his job. Even secretaries were expected to wear suits or at least tailored separates. If she showed up wearing the same outfit on consecutive days, the gossip would have her living on skid row.
She enjoyed her work in the fast-paced environment of marketing, and George Stephens was as good a boss as any.
Notebook and pen in hand, she entered his office. “Here I am.”
“You won't have to write anything down. Have a seat.”
Apprehension filled her belly. She'd been called in to the boss's office at 4:30 on a Friday. Could she be about to lose her job? How could that be? George had always been satisfied with her work, or at least he claimed to be. She'd worked here longer than he had, staying on after her old boss went to a competitor. She'd only worked for George a little over a year. Maybe he wanted to bring in his own secretary?
No, she decided. He couldn't be giving her the ax, not with that big Jimmy Carter grin on his face. If anything, maybe he'd accepted a better position and he wanted her to be the first to know of his impending departure. And she'd be left to break in a new boss. Ugh. Just what she needed, another idiosyncrasy-plagued personality to cope with. And would this one like or dislike the use of serial commas in his documents? How would he want his coffee, black or with sugar? And, most important of all, would he be understanding of her schedule or would she be relegated to going home on the 6:05 from now on? A half an hour extra was a big deal with a workday as long as hers.
“Is something wrong?” she asked tentatively.
“Camille, I'm being promoted.”
“You are! To what?”
“They made me a director. I'll be moving upstairs.”
To the thirty-sixth floor with the senior management, she knew. The department had been buzzing about what management would do to fill in the vacancy resulting from the retirement of one of the vice presidents and the subsequent placement of one of the directors into that position. So ol' George had been made a director. She wished
she
could move up in the organization, but there was no place for her to go, not with just a high school diploma.
But this was no time to think about herself. “Oh, how wonderful for you!” she exclaimed, effectively masking the sadness she felt. “It looks like I'll have to begin work with a new manager.” She sighed. “It's happened before. Just when I get used to someone's personality and habits they move on.”
“Not this time, Camille. I'd like you to come along.”
Her mouth fell open for a second, then formed a somewhat bashful smile. “Me? Working up on thirty-six?”
“Why not? You're bright and efficient. Why shouldn't you be up there?” He smiled at her warmly. “It would mean a salary increase for you, too, if you accept.”
A salary increase?
If
she accepted? Was he crazy?
“I accept.”
“The executive level, huh? Well, I guess all that money you spent on your suits will pay off after all,” Reuben said with a broad grin when she told him the good news.
“He said he's going to try to get me 15 percent, to bring me in line with what the other secretaries on that floor are getting.”
“That sounds good, Camille, but don't go redoing our budget yet. Wait until you know for sure what you'll get.”
“I think it's a reasonable request. I'm sure
he's
getting at least 15 percent.”
“Yes, but he's a director. You're just a secretary.”
She could only shrug at that. She wished she'd become more than just a secretary, but no one had stressed the importance of a college education to her. Her high school guidance counselor had mentioned career options like beauty school or fast food management. Even her own mother, who had died of an abdominal aneurysm when Camille was nineteen, used to tell her to choose a husband carefully, as if that would solve all her problems. The negative comments from Reuben's relatives when they announced they were building a house had roots in jealousy of Aunt Mary's bequest, but her own family had accepted and even embraced the status quo. Her father, stepmother, and brother had no expectations from life, content to know they'd never go hungry and would always have a roof over their headsâa rented roof. She'd never be able to convince them that upward mobility wasn't a sin.
She ended up enrolling in a secretarial school after she had gotten her first job as a receptionist, knowing that unless she did something she'd be greeting clients until she got old and gray. She'd been impressed with Reuben's associate degree when she first met him at a downtown club when she was twenty-two, but now she knew that two years of college meant nothing in today's tough job market. Mitchell and Shayla would both get bachelor's degrees, and maybe even master's. Just let some white guidance counselor try to steer Shayla toward doing nails or Mitchell toward working at McDonald's, like they'd done to her. She'd tell them in an instant that they were full of shit, that her kids
were
college material. Now that she was thirty-five instead of sixteen, she had a pretty good idea that her counselor had made recommendations along ethnic lines, steering white students toward college and black and Hispanic students to trade schools. She never claimed to be the brightest bulb in the class, but she was certainly smart enough to go to college and earn a degree.
Look at that Dan Quayle. The man had the brains of a bag of hair extensions, he'd managed to get a law degree and become vice president of the United States, a heartbeat away from the most powerful job in the entire world. But he was white and wealthy. Dawn bet no guidance counselor had tried to get
him
to flip hamburgers while he learned the fast food business. The old double standard at work again. People like Britney Spears and Barbra Streisand could spell their first names different from the standard and be considered unique, while when a black person does that, people say they can't spell.
Every now and then Camille toyed with the idea of enrolling in college on a weekend program, but decided she'd waited too long. In five years she'd be forty. Besides, now that she spent so much time going to and from work she really had no time for sitting in a classroom or studying. Reuben did well at the supermarket, and with her raise they'd do fine.
Two weeks later Camille found out that a 10 percent increase had been approved for her. She'd initially been disappointed, having hoped for the 15 percent George had said he'd request for her, but office scuttlebutt had it that the cost-of-living increases being given hovered around 4 percent, so at least she'd gotten two and a half times more than the standard. It just went to show that Reuben had been right; she shouldn't start spending the extra money until she knew exactly what she'd be getting.
One thing for sure, they certainly could use the extra income.
Chapter 17
The Youngs
October 2002
D
awn always felt rejuvenated when the bus reached Mount Pocono, the next-to-last stop of their commute. About half of the remaining commuters got off here.
She looked up curiously as Veronica Lee climbed aboard the bus as soon as the door opened. Veronica usually drove to the station to pick Norman upâlike most transplants from the city, they were a one-car familyâbut simply waved to them from outside as she waited with their two young daughters. Something special had to be happening.
Norman moved to stand behind her at the front of the bus. They made a cute couple, with Veronica so petite and Norman so strapping, although he was more beefy than tall, standing maybe five-ten.
“This will only take a minute,” Norman said to the driver before addressing the remaining riders. “Good news, everybody,” he announced. “Veronica and I have both accepted positions at the Pocono Medical Center. Another two weeks and we won't be joining you for the ride home.”
Applause and wild shouts broke out. Even the bus driver applauded.
“We're going to have a barbecue to celebrate, and you'll all be invited,” Veronica said generously.
The Lees shared congratulatory handshakes with the riders getting off, then moved forward to accept the good wishes of their fellow riders. Dawn and Camille congratulated them, as did Milo and Reuben. “How about stopping by the house tonight for a drink to celebrate?” Camille offered.
“Thanks, Camille,” Veronica said, “but the girls are in the car, and Norman and I need to go over some things. It's sweet of you to invite us. Maybe another time.” She shrugged. “It's hard to get an evening out when you don't have anyone to watch your kids for you.”
“I'm sorry we didn't get to know each other better, Veronica,” Dawn said, feeling a little sad.
Veronica feigned indignation. “This isn't good-bye, Dawn. I hope we'll see each other often. And I certainly expect to see you and Milo at our party.”
Norman pulled at her sleeve. “C'mon, Vee. We don't want to hold up the bus. Everybody wants to get home.”
Dawn beamed. “Thanks, Veronica. We'd love to come, and we're happy to be included, since we're the new kids on the block.”
As the bus pulled out of the station Dawn watched Veronica and Norman walking to their car with their arms around each other. They looked so happy, and why wouldn't they be? No more getting up at three in the morning to get the first bus of the day and getting home after seven at night. Even done just three or four days a week instead of five, it had to feel a little like getting out of jail.
“I wish that was us,” Dawn said wistfully to Milo as they drove home. “Two weeks from now they'll be able to drive a half hour or so to work while we're still getting up to catch that damn bus. And listen to all those retired folks singing show tunes on matinee Wednesdays.”
“I wish it was us, too.”
“Why don't you look and see if you can get a job at that hospital? Everybody needs programmers. Hell, I'll check their Web site myself. They might need someone to run their payroll department.” But even as Dawn spoke she knew the low likelihood of getting a decent position, as she had no previous hospital experience. The most she'd probably be able to get would be a clerical position, and she'd be crazy to take that kind of pay cut. Plus, she wasn't sure she'd want to work a full-time schedule squeezed into three or four days a week.
The Lees
Each week Norman attended the free do-it-yourself workshops at the Home Depot in Stroudsburg, and Veronica and the girls had come along this time. She had already picked up a few things at the Target in the shopping center out front, bought the kids ice cream at the snack bar, and was now enjoying herself as she walked along the aisles of the home improvement store looking at all the modern fixtures. How nice it would be to have a kitchen with nice light-colored cabinets instead of those dreary dark brown cupboards they had now that made the room seem so dim, even in bright sunshine.
When the girls tired of looking at model kitchens and pedestal sinks, Veronica led them to the paint and wallpaper area. They selected a wallpaper runner for the girls' room. Their room was painted lilac, but the floral runner would provide a nice break in the solid walls. Norman had probably learned enough by now to be able to glue it to the wall without it being crooked. He'd really benefited from those free classes. He'd already put in a beautiful new faucet in the kitchen. Today he was learning how to do flooring. Maybe they could tear up that dreadful burnt-orange shag carpet themselves and put down hardwood and area rugs.
Their house, while certainly well-built, comfortable, and up to all codes, needed cosmetic updating to look more twenty-first century. After slashing expenses to the bone to pay down much of their credit card debt, they'd been happy to find a house with three bedrooms for the same money they would have paid for the two-bedroom they initially fell in love with. The house they bought was newer, although it hadn't been modernized, like the first house they wanted. Veronica regretted that it had no fireplacesâher dream of making love to Norman on a bearskin rug went up in smokeâbut she had to agree they would get more use out of a guest bedroom. Plus, she liked the way the house was laid out, with the entire second floor dedicated to the master suite, including a full bath.
As their sales agent had pointed out, the Cape Cod structure had great potential. They'd already done quite a bit with paint, and to get more decorating ideas she went to open houses and model homes. At her suggestion, Norman changed all the doorknobs on the bedroom doors from those old-fashioned knobs that looked like oversized faux diamonds to gracefully curved brass handles. That small step went a long way toward a more modern look.
She just wished they could do the whole house over right away, especially after seeing what Camille and Reuben had done to their place. The Currys had such a lovely home, all modern, with brand-new furniture. She had mentioned it to Norman on the way home from the barbecue, and he remarked that they'd probably bought all those new furnishings on credit. “Remember, misusing our credit almost prevented us from buying a house in the first place. We don't want to use credit anymore unless we absolutely have to,” he reminded her. “In the meantime, our stove might be old, but it cooks food just fine.”
“So how'd it go?” Veronica asked when Norman emerged from the workshop.
“Pretty good. I want to pick up some supplies before we leave. I thought I'd start by tearing up the carpet in the dining room and laying down hardwood.”
“Can you get that done this weekend?”
“If I can't, so what? I'll finish it next week, or the week after that. That's the beauty of doing the work yourself. Not only is the price right, but you can work at your own pace.”
“But we're having a party next weekend, remember? Duane is coming, and so are our sisters.” They hadn't seen any of them since they'd moved. “We want the house to look nice for company, don't we?”
“Lucy and Valerie are family, and Duane might as well be. As far as our guests are concerned, they'll understand that we're working on the house. It's not like we'll have lumber piled up in the middle of the living room, Veronica.”
He had a point, she decided. It would probably look better for them to be in a state of updating than to give the impression of being perennially stuck in a time warp thirty-five years behind the times. Of course, Norman, being a man, didn't care about such things, but she did.
Several other guests danced to the old tune by Stevie Wonder in the Lee's basement, but Dawn sat it out, nursing a Rum and Coke and sneaking peeks at her surroundings.
Camille leaned toward her and whispered, “Are you as surprised as I am?”
Dawn flinched. She hadn't thought anyone would notice her look of disdain, and it embarrassed her to have been noticed, but in truth she
was
surprised. She'd known Veronica and Norman had bought a home in Mount Pocono, but she'd thought it was in a new development, like Arlington Acres. The Lee's home was easily thirty-five years old, maybe even older. The carpets were actually shag, burnt-orange upstairs and multicolored, like confetti, here in the basement. The kitchen appliances clearly dated to the seventies, in that avocado green color so popular at that time. The hall bath was actually done in pinkâpink tiles, pink sink and toilet, pink tub. She felt like she'd died and gone to Graceland.
“I expected something different,” she admitted, speaking just as quietly. “It's not Arlington Acres, that's for sure.”
“Hey, Vee, we need more ginger ale,” Norman yelled from the foot of the stairs.
Camille laughed. “Norman, I'm sure she can't hear you. I'll go up and tell her.”
“I'll go with you,” Dawn said. “Maybe we can help her with whatever she's doing. I'm sure she can use a hand.”
They walked past a dancing Norman and climbed the stairs, Camille leading the way. They emerged in a corner of the kitchen. “Veronica, Norman says he needs more ginger ale,” she said.
“Can we help you do anything?” Dawn offered.
“Thanks, but I'm just about ready. I wanted to put out the food and punch.” Veronica had lined the white speckled Formica countertops with large, foil-covered lasagna pans, also made of foil. She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a two-liter bottle of ginger ale. “Would one of you mind bringing this downstairs? And tell Norman to let everyone know they can eat.”
“Sure, I'll do it,” Camille said.
She took off down the stairs, bottle in hand.
“What can I do, Veronica?” Dawn offered.
“Can you get the salad dressing out of the fridge?”
“Sure.” Dawn opened the refrigerator, which, like the stove, dishwasher, and range hood, looked ancient. The cold air that instantly chilled her hands told her that, old as it was, it did its job of keeping their food fresh. Several different flavors of salad dressing were on the door. “All of them?”
“Yes, so there'll be something for everybody's taste. Let's see . . . We'll need butter, too, for the rolls, and mustard. It's all in there.”
“Okay, I'll get it.”
“We're going to update the kitchen in a couple of months,” Veronica said suddenly, just as Camille reentered the kitchen after her quick trip to the basement.
Dawn bit her lower lip guiltily. Had Veronica been reading her mind?
Camille's breathing halted for a few seconds. What would make Veronica make a statement like that out of the blue? Surely Dawn hadn't revealed the content of their private conversation when she thought she was alone with Veronica . . . ?
“I can't wait,” Veronica continued. With her petite build and casual attire of T-shirt and jeans, her relaxed hair parted on the side and falling to just above her shoulders in a slight flip, she looked like a high school kid. “This house was built in 1966. We knew it needed modernizing when we bought it, but for us it made sense. The house is solidly builtâthe wiring, plumbing, foundationâand the roof was replaced two years ago. All the appliances work fine, so we can replace them at our convenience. Norman wanted to wait until after we got our transfers, when we wouldn't have to buy bus passes anymore.”
Camille had held her breath as long as she could, and now her shoulders relaxed. There'd been no breach of confidence; Veronica was merely making conversation with Dawn. Maybe she felt she needed to defend this pleasant but old house. Camille doubted Veronica had been a guest at the Young homeâshe had yet to be invited there herselfâbut she'd seen model homes at Arlington Acres and knew how nice and modern they all were. Maybe Veronica even suspected that she and Dawn would privately wrinkle their noses at her house, which, of course, they had.
Camille felt that same twinge of uneasiness she always got when she thought about the larger monthly mortgage payment for the lakefront lot and larger home they'd chosen. Maybe the feeling that their champagne taste would lead to trouble would go away once and for all now that she'd gotten her raise. Like Reuben had said, it would all work out.
She hoped.
“I think that's smart, Veronica,” Dawn was saying. “I wish Milo and I could get good-paying jobs locally.”
“Maybe you will.”
“I doubt it. Besides, I've worked for the same company for so long ever since I finished high school. Part of me would be scared to leave, unless I really felt I had a secure future.” She slowly shook her head. “And who feels secure after 9/11?”
“And that mess at Enron,” Camille added.
“I feel terribly sorry for those people who lost their pensions. And every time the bus pulls into Port Authority, or when I get on the subway, I say a prayer asking to get out of there alive,” Veronica admitted.
“You're lucky you won't have to do it anymore.” Dawn wiped some crumbs off the counter and dropped them in the trash. “Hey, do you guys have to pay for trash collection out here? This isn't a subdivision, is it?”