They had all left their shoes right by the tub, as though bare feet were somehow unnerving.
Balanced between the cool March lake air and the warm foaming tub water, between social situation and a meeting of strangers, alcohol, food, and the southern woman’s gift for small talk held the evening together: recipes, husbands, pets. Inevitably, the talk turned to children: Therese’s twins, a boy and a girl, Kim’s two girls, Nina’s grandchildren.
“I don’t have kids,” Suze said.
“Well, of course you don’t,” Pauletta said.
“What’s with the ‘Oh, of course’?”
Pauletta adjusted the gold cross hanging between her breasts, splashed idly at the water foaming by her leg and said nothing.
“I don’t have kids, either,” Christie said.
“Nope,” said Nina, “but you will. I can tell.” Perhaps it was just the confidential, you’re-one-of-us tone, but I thought I detected a slight slur.
“How do you mean?”
“With some people you can just tell these things. Some people you can’t. So how ’bout you, Aud. You got kids?”
“Not as such, no.”
Pauletta flipped her ponytail from one shoulder to the other. “The hell does that mean?”
“It means I don’t want to talk about it.”
Everyone in the tub closed up slightly, like water lilies preparing to shut for the night, and smiled extra hard. Suze and Kim looked away, as though not wanting to be associated with such a blunt breach of the social code.
“So,” Nina said, “where you come from they don’t talk about their kids?”
Where you come from. Planet Different.
Therese stood up. “It’s getting cold out here, don’t you think?” No one admitted what she thought. She stepped out of the tub and slipped her shoes on. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we all went in and ate some of the lovely food we’ve brought.”
One by one they began to climb out, and I noticed how each one, before even picking up a towel, put her shoes on.
Nina stayed in the tub. I didn’t think she felt confident of getting out without falling down. When we were the only ones left on the deck, I took a towel from the pile, shook it out, and carried it over to her. I held out my hand.
“Haul yourself up on this,” I said.
She reached for my hand but instead of pulling herself up she pulled me close. “I gave a daughter up for adoption once, too,” she said sadly. “She’d be about your age. I think about her. I wonder what she’s doing, if she’s all right. I wonder if she keeps herself safe. It’s so hard to keep kids safe in this world.”
"Yes,” I said. "Come on, now. Let’s get to the kitchen before the food’s all gone. I’ll help you. Wrap this around your shoulders. Sit here. That’s right. I’ll get your shoes. Okay now? Good.”
Once she was standing she was fine, but just in case, I stayed close as we walked through the living room to the guest room where her clothes were.
“So. Your daughter. Why did you give her away?”
“It was before I was married. I thought she’d have a better life. But now I don’t know. How can I know? I just hope her adoptive mother was kind.”
“What would you want from an adoptive mother—who, what kind of person would you want for her?”
“Someone kind but stern. Kids like boundaries, you know? I learned that too late for my two… my two that I kept.” Her face crumpled.
“Hey,” I said. “You have grandchildren, though, yes?”
“I do. Four of ’em. And, trust me, they’re being brought up right.”
"Brought up right.” I nodded. “So tell me more about your vision of the perfect mother.”
“Perfect?” She looked muddled. “Nobody said anything about perfect. No such thing. But who I imagine for my little Katie, my little Katie’s mom, she has no… issues, you know? Nothing to take out on Katie. No money worries, no problems with health or other members of the family being weird. Normal. Good, strong values. And consistent. She’s consistent. Oh, thank you.” She took the cardigan I’d held out. “And kind. Did I say that?”
“You did.” We sat quietly on the edge of the bed, then I stood. “You ready for some food now?”
She nodded. “I think you should teach us about kids,” she said. “You should teach us how to keep them safe.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
IN THE KITCHEN—there were four varieties of beans, but Therese had provided a ham—Nina worked hard to include me in conversation. “So that ‘bam, pow’ stuff in the first class—you like comics?”
“I’m not very familiar with them.”
“My son, Jason, used to bring home comics and I’d say, Read a real book! And he’d say, This is a real book, Mom! And he gave me a couple. And, you know what? They were pretty good.”
Everyone looked at her blankly.
Therese stepped into hostess mode. “Isn’t this lovely potato salad? Kim, can I have the recipe?”
“Sure. I’ll e-mail it.”
“We could set up a chat group,” Nina said. “Everyone should give me their e-mail address.”
“What about Sandra?” Katherine said. Then, “Wonder where she is?”
No one said anything. No one was willing to say it.
NINE
WHEN I WOKE, MY JAWS ACHED WITH TENSION. WHAT LITTLE SLEEP I’D HAD WAS filled with dreams of paintings and cold, empty chairs.
According to Gary, Karenna Beauchamps Corning lived in Capitol Hill. The address turned out to be one of those high-priced, high-security condo buildings that went up five years ago and would probably come down in ten: all marble facing on porous concrete and inferior-grade re-bar. Morning sun gilded the polished steel letters (lowercase, Helvetica) that spelled out the name of the building: press. Press what? I rang her buzzer. No response. I got back in the car and phoned. Nothing. I watched for a while.
A man with a very small white dog headed for the main door. I got out of the car, pretending to talk on the phone, feeling in my pockets for a non-existent key.
“—goddamn it, Jack,” I snapped into the phone. “I promised Harris we’d have those projections by tomorrow noon and we’ll goddamn well have them by tomorrow noon. Am I making myself—Hold on one sec.” The man was opening the door. I swapped the phone to my other ear, felt in my trouser pocket. “Yeah,” I said, “yeah. Are you listening, we’ve— Hold on.” I swapped sides again, felt in my other pocket. Spared a harassed glance at the man and his dog. He obligingly held the door open for me. “No, Jack. No. Absolutely not. Tomorrow. Look—” I swapped the phone one more time. “Thanks,” I said in an undertone to the man, waved him ahead when he looked as though he was about to hold the elevator door for me. The dog cocked its head at me. “Tomorrow is the absolute—” The elevator door dinged shut. I put the phone away.
I took the stairs down to the parking basement. The slot marked 809 was empty. The oil spot wasn’t fresh. I walked up to the eighth floor. The air in the stairwell felt thick and unused.
The door was good quality. Pine stained to look like oak, but solid. Heavy brass fittings. One simple mortise lock. I pulled on latex gloves.
I was out of practice. It took three minutes to open. I listened. No beeping: no alarm. Or maybe a very, very expensive alarm. Given the lock, I doubted it.