The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D (26 page)
Read The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D Online
Authors: Nichole Bernier
As Christmas neared, Elizabeth was consumed with juggling holiday shopping and the demands of freelance work. The playgroup had become a cohesive unit, a bona fide group of if not close friends, at least very good acquaintances, and Elizabeth felt part of a group for the first time in years. The women came together for playdates every Wednesday morning and helped in a pinch, watching one another’s children for cumbersome errands and doctor’s appointments.
Once when she was up against a design deadline and had no luck with sitters, Elizabeth asked Brittain to watch Jonah.
Brittain hesitated before saying yes. “Oh, for work,” she said kind of coolly. I don’t know if it was that she forgot that I worked, or if being asked for work made her feel like a nanny, but I should have known better. The few times I’ve brought up my job it’s been a conversation killer, and I end up feeling it’s something that sets me apart
.
At the end of the month the playgroup had a gift exchange, a Yankee swap of inexpensive presents given and regifted. It was intended as a gag, but Elizabeth found the playgroup women were in earnest.
At the end, Kate was stuck with the schmaltziest gift, a cloisonné “I Love Mom” necklace Leslie brought—though Leslie probably liked it, she’s that kind of precious. Kate put it on and struck a princessy pose and you could see it dawn on Leslie that she was being made fun of. And I thought Oh man here it comes, there’s gonna be no way to stitch up that yawning hurt. But Kate noticed in time thank God, and said we should all get them, they’ll be like the friendship bracelets of the playgroup. I like Kate, but she skates a little close to
the edge. She’s only been here a few weeks and I wish there were some way I could give her a silent signal. Careful (ear tug), that won’t fly here
.
Kate’s face went hot. Elizabeth was right; she was never as aware as she should be of the way her comments were taken. She thought of the letter she’d received years ago from the viewer critical of her flippancy on the cable show. All these years, it was still jammed in the back of her top drawer at home.
Give her a few toddlers underfoot and see if she can “make it happen” then. Not everything is as simple as it seems
. Chiding and ominous, a voice from the future. There were difficulties that went unseen, and it was dangerous to make assumptions.
Jonah’s first birthday came and went. Elizabeth brought him to the aquarium in the morning and Dave flew home that night just in time for cake. Jonah mashed icing in his face and hair, screaming with glee, and fell asleep in a hiccuppy tantrum of too much sugar and too much attention.
March 21, 1997
Kate watched Jonah so I could get to the dentist for a cavity. Chris is in Europe for some hotel thing and Dave doesn’t get back until Monday, so she invited me to stay for dinner. She whipped up these crusty little homemade pot pies and poured us wine, and we had a civilized meal while Jonah and James screamed and pitched their bottles on the floor.
She has something to say about everything, an encyclopedia of current events. It’s like she’s doing a monologue, all worked up about the future of cloned animals in the food supply while she’s standing at the counter prepping the little pie pans. “James and Jonah could be drinking milk from cloned cows in five years”—her hair swings under her chin while she rolls the dough—“and all that genetically screwed-up milk could send them into puberty at age eight or something.” CNN was on in the background on her kitchen TV and none of it was news
to her, from the terrorism in Tel Aviv to the discovery that much of the art in French museums had been stolen by Nazis. She had some choice words for the French and the international art establishment, and I drooled Pinot Noir through novocaine lips and tried to sound smart. She groused about Chris’s travel, mentioned some of the cool places she’d been able to go “back in the day.” Ko Samui. Goa. I’ve never even heard of Goa. I nodded and wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to commiserate about husbands traveling or chime in about cool places we’d been. I told her that while we were dating, Dave surprised me with tickets to one of his tournaments in Hawaii. That’s nice, she said, and looked at me like I’d said Gary, Indiana.
I’m between projects for the agency so I’ve started painting Jonah’s room, a jungle theme. Moved him into our room so I can work on it at night. When I bring him in each morning to see the new animals he points with such force—this! that!—that his finger goes double-jointed.
Round two at Bay Hill today, and Dave came in just behind Payne Stewart, about two-thirds of the way up in the pack. Called a few minutes ago: “At this rate we’ll be able to redo the kitchen this summer.”
July 3, 1997
My kitchen renovation has become the topic of choice at playgroup. We talk about refrigerators and ranges and tile backsplashes, and I am so bored I could scream. They’d be horrified if they knew I didn’t care. So would Dave, who thought it was the birthday present of the century when he presented the brochures tied in a bow. It isn’t that I don’t care about the kitchen. I care about having it DONE so I don’t have to talk about it anymore. Oddly, the fact that Dave “gave” me a renovation—and that we’re looking at luxury ranges and other appliance ridiculousness—seems to have elevated us in social status. When his golf ranking wasn’t as high, his work was treated like a trade compared to the corporate husbands, as if he might be able to repair their toilets in a pinch. But the other day Brittain referred to him as a “professional athlete.” I almost choked on my coffee.
Then Leslie brought up the Stamford town-house fire, which was probably the only thing worse than talking about my kitchen. Everyone who hadn’t seen the news last night had to hear about the mother home alone with her kids, the baby dropped out the window who fell short of being caught, the interview with the poor husband who’d been at work, all in awful detail. I was a wreck watching it last night—pregnancy hormones make me react all out of proportion. Dave climbed into bed with me and to cheer me up put on the wedding video his golf buddies made. It used to make me too sad to watch; by the end of the night gravity was working against me in the tight dress and I couldn’t quite pass as the virginal bride. Who knows when we actually lost the baby; during the honeymoon? Maybe even that night. But watching the video this time I felt sad instead for the person I was, no idea what was coming, thinking I’d gotten all my ducks in a row. Believing that such a thing was possible.
Then Brittain had to go for the coup de grâce. “Yes yes, so terrible, those poor people, the mother found curled around her two-year-old in the closet.” Kate was sitting near the window and didn’t seem to be listening, but when I caught a look at her face I saw that she was crying and working very hard not to show it. She scooped James up and mumbled something about Regan’s cat and her damn allergies, and apologized that she had to leave, and then she was gone
.
September 4, 1997
A man came to the door this afternoon wearing a black suit and white button-down shirt and blue tie. When he flashed a badge, I opened the door. He said he was with the FBI and was doing security clearance on one of my neighbors who would be doing high-level government casework, and he was asking background questions of all the neighbors. Could he come in and ask me some questions?
Jonah was in his playpen in the next room. In the city I would never have let someone in, but I’m a mom in the suburbs now. You’re supposed to be trusting and easygoing out here. I wondered what Kate would do, and if he’d been to her house. I asked to see his identification
again. This will only take about five minutes, he said. Is there somewhere we can sit down?
I brought him to the dining room table and he asked me about Roy Ginnis across the street, some kind of lawyer. The agent asked for a glass of water, then asked me all kinds of questions I had no idea the answer to: what are Ginnis’s hobbies; does he come and go at odd hours; does he ever drink a lot at neighborhood events; has he made any visible large purchases lately, any signs of extravagance?
Jonah started crying in his playpen and I got up for a sippy cup. When I came back the guy was standing by the windows and said he was finished. He told me the Secret Service might be paying a visit as well, and left.
When I told Dave about it tonight on the phone he went berserk. He never goes berserk. You did what? You just let him in while you were home alone with the baby? He could have been anyone, could have attacked you, could have been casing the house. Did you ever leave him alone anywhere? I didn’t tell him that I had.
What the hell is wrong with me? This is not what suburban moms do. Smart moms have a family-protecting radar and don’t care about the awkwardness of keeping the door closed in someone’s face. They aren’t letting people in off the street and practically offering them Toll House cookies on doilies.
Why is it so hard for me? I’m always tripped up by what I think is expected of me, trying to act the right way. This should not be brain surgery. Feed child, dress child, cook food, pay bills, and don’t let in utter strangers when you’re home alone
.
On the next page, two clippings were taped inside the notebook, one from a newspaper, one from a magazine.
THE STAMFORD ADVOCATE, September 6, 1997
SOUTHBROOK
—Police are searching for two suspects who broke into a home in Southbrook late Friday night, and tied a pregnant woman to the crib of her 20-month-old son while they robbed the house.
Earlier that day, several neighbors had called the police to report a man going door-to-door and posing as an agent of the FBI. The incidents are believed to be connected, as the victim said one of the suspects resembled a man she’d allowed into her house the previous day, after he flashed what she believed to be a federal badge. Southbrook police declined to name the victim at the request of the family.
Police described the suspect as a 30-year-old white male, about 6 feet tall, accompanied by one or two other men in the robbery. When he had been knocking on doors and posing as an agent he was described as wearing a suit and tie, but at the time of the break-in he wore jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt, the victim reported.
Authorities were alerted shortly before 2 a.m. yesterday, when a 911 call came from the residence. Although the caller was gagged and could not speak, authorities were able to trace the call, and officers arrived at the scene to find the 34-year-old woman in her nightgown bound to her son’s crib with rope and duct tape. She had maneuvered the crib to the other side of the room and kicked over a table to reach a phone and call for help. Electronics and jewelry were among the valuables stolen. The woman and her son were unharmed.
This was not a typical event, according to Southbrook Police Sergeant Edward Gagnon, in terms of the forethought that went into selecting the home and the method of entry based on what the intruders were able to discern about the home’s alarm system while inside earlier in the day.
“Although the theft claimed a significant number of personal effects, the residents were very fortunate not to have been harmed,” he said.
Gagnon said the house might have been targeted because a neighbor, who had also allowed the would-be agent into his home and answered questions about neighbors, said he’d told the man that the victim’s husband traveled often.
GOLF WEEKLY, October 14, 1997
PALM BEACH GARDENS, FLA
.—Dave Martin has announced that he is leaving the PGA Tour and retiring from professional golf, effective immediately. The last tournament he played was September’s Bell Canadian Open, which he had to leave prematurely.
This was the best year of his career, which has included six seasons on the PGA Tour, two years on the Nationwide Tour, and two turns on the Asian Tour.
“Dave Martin has had a great season, and we’re sorry to lose him,” said PGA Tour Commissioner Tim Finchem. “He’s an example of the can-do spirit coming out of the players who work their way up and then back onto the tours.”
Martin has taken a job with Titleist as a consulting director of development, and will be involved in the promotion of new equipment. He takes the position next month.
One month ago, Martin’s home was robbed while his wife, Elizabeth, four months pregnant with their second child, was at home with their son.
Martin says the two events are not connected.
“I had been thinking for some time about leaving the tour, because it just felt incompatible with being the dad of young kids, and this opportunity with Titleist was golden,” Martin explained as he announced his retirement at the Association’s headquarters on Tuesday. “I appreciate the wonderful years I’ve had with the PGA doing what I love to do, and the friendship and guidance of so many great players. But nothing is more important than family.”
“Y
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up to the tee box,” Kate said. At the hole before her were a cavern, a bridge, and a stream, all daunting. The girl walked forward, dragging her putter like a leash without a dog.