The Last to Know (14 page)

Still no reply.

After a moment’s hesitation, she reaches out and gingerly turns the knob, half-expecting to find the door locked. It isn’t.

She opens it halfway and pokes her head inside.

The desk lamp is on.

Owen is seated there, his head buried in his arms. For an instant Margaret thinks he’s asleep.

Then she sees his shoulders heave and hears a slight sound: his muffled sobbing.

She urgently wants to go to him, to gather him into her arms and cradle his head against her breast. She longs to comfort him; to be the one who takes his pain away.

Poised in the doorway, she watches him. Then, gathering her courage, she puts one sensible navy blue flat over the threshold.

There’s a sound behind her, a footstep, and then a soft gasp.

“Owen! You poor thing! Are you crying?”

Bess swoops past Margaret into the room. She hurries over to the desk and puts her arms around her son-in-law. “I know just how you feel, Owen,” she sobs. “Oh, God, I know, I know. . . .”

Owen lifts his head, his face a mask of anguish. “This is a nightmare, Bess,” he chokes out, his voice raw. “What am I going to do?”

For a moment, Margaret watches, incredulous, as her brother-in-law cries in her mother’s arms.

Then she spins on her heel and storms away, fury churning with the pain in her gut.

T
asha raises the shade on the bedroom window facing the street just in time to see Ben Leiberman pulling out of the driveway in his black BMW. That reminds her—she should call his office today and schedule Max for his first-year checkup next month.

As if he’s aware she’s thinking of him, Max babbles loudly on the floor behind her. She turns, sees that he’s chewing on one of Joel’s loafers, and scoops him up.

“Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba? Is that what you said, Maxie? What does that mean? Oh, wait, I know. It means, how about some real breakfast instead of this yucky leather?” She pries the shoe out of his hands. He screams in protest when she tosses it in the general direction of the closet. “No, Max, that’s disgusting.”

She struggles to hang on to his squirming little body as she raises the shades on the other windows. Then she eyes the rumpled bed. If she puts Max down now so that she can make it, he’ll get into something else. She sighs. She’ll leave the bed for later.

Right now she has to go down and find the washing machine booklet so that she can check out the troubleshooting chart. She can’t go another day without doing the laundry.

“Bye, guys,” Joel’s voice calls up from the front hall downstairs, over the distant strains of the closing music to
Sesame Street
, which Hunter is watching down in the family room.

Tasha hasn’t spoken to Joel all morning. After a restless night, she got up and took a shower before the alarm. When she came out, Max was crying in his crib. She was changing him while Joel showered and feeding him downstairs while Joel got dressed. By the time he was heading downstairs to make coffee, Tasha was trying to drag a sleepy Hunter out of bed. Meanwhile, of course, Victoria had bounded awake and instantly into action, causing one disruption after another as Tasha tried to help Hunter get dressed and find something to bring for show-and-tell.

Tasha decides to ignore his casual “Bye, guys,” irritated that he’s apparently going to act as though nothing happened between them last night. How typical of Joel. Anything to avoid an argument.

“Wait, Daddy!”

Uh-oh. Tasha hears running footsteps in the hall. It’s Victoria, who has been ordered to play with her Kelly Doll in her room while Tasha combs her still-damp hair and throws on the same pair of jeans she wore yesterday.

“Daddy! Wait! Don’t go! I want a kiss!”

“Careful on the stairs, Victoria!” Tasha rushes out of the bedroom just in time to see Victoria almost pitch forward on the top step. Her chubby little hand grabs the banister just in time and she steadies herself.

Tasha’s eyes meet Joel’s. He’s at the bottom of the steps, looking up.

For a split second, they exchange a glance of mutual parental relief that Victoria wasn’t hurt. Then Joel’s gaze flits away.

“Come on down, Tori,” he says, arms outstretched.

“Joel, come up and get her. She’s not supposed to go down the steps herself.”

“She’s fine. Come on, Tori, Daddy’s going to miss his train.”

“No, Victoria, don’t rush,” Tasha says, juggling the baby to her other hip and catching up with her daughter midway down the flight. She reaches down to take Victoria’s hand. “Hold on to Mommy, sweetheart. Careful. Slow down.”

Joel looks at his watch.

The gesture says it all.

Renewed anger sparks in Tasha.

“Just go, Joel,” she snaps.

He looks up in surprise.

“I know you’re in a hurry, so go.”

“Mommy, no! I want to kiss Daddy!” Victoria protests, wrenching her hand out of Tasha’s grasp. She launches herself forward and her foot misses a step.

Joel reaches out and catches her.

For a minute, there is silence.

“Don’t ever do that again, Tori,” Joel says, holding her close in his arms. “Mommy’s right. You can get hurt on the stairs.”

“I wanted to hug you, Daddy. I never get to see you anymore.”

Tasha waits to see a flicker of guilt in his face. It’s there, but not for long.

“I know, Tori,” Joel says. “But Daddy’s very busy at work lately. I’d be here if I could. You know that.”

Would you?
Tasha wonders, watching him plant a kiss on his daughter’s cheek.

“Bye, Max,” he says, reaching up to pat the baby’s head.

Again his gaze meets Tasha’s. She thinks fleetingly of the old days, when he used to kiss her every time he walked out of—or into—the house.

“I already told Hunter good-bye. He’s watching
Sesame Street
.”

She nods.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

“Okay.”

He turns to go.

“Joel,” Tasha says, remembering something.

“Yeah?” He doesn’t turn to face her again.

“Your mother called yesterday. Your parents are coming over on Saturday,” she tells his back.

“Okay,” is all he says before he walks out the front door, closing it firmly behind him.

Tasha glares after him.

“Mommy!” Hunter’s voice calls from the next room. Hearing him, Victoria takes off in that direction.

Tasha follows, with Max balanced on her hip. “What’s wrong, Hunter?”

“This stupid lady has been talking for hours!”

He gestures at the television set, where a smiling PBS woman is soliciting pledges for their fund-raising drive. Tasha hates when they do this. Instead of a minute or two in between programs, there’s a big break—long enough for the kids to lose interest and drift away.

What kind of mother are you?
she asks herself, realizing what she’s thinking. She never wanted to be one of those people who rely on their TV to keep their kids occupied. But today she just doesn’t have the patience to deal with them. All she wants is for them to be distracted so she can sort through her thoughts.

“Mommy! I don’t want to watch this lady,” Victoria says shrilly. “I want to watch
The Big Comfy Couch!
Put it on!”

“I can’t put it on, Victoria. It’s not a video. I can’t just make it appear. You’ll have to wait.”

“I want
The Big Comfy Couch
to be on now!”

“Believe me, so do I,” Tasha tells her.

The phone rings.

Ignoring Victoria’s whining, Tasha plunks Max into his Exersaucer and grabs the receiver.

“What are you doing?” Rachel asks.

“Cursing PBS,” Tasha replies, going into the kitchen.

“Oh, I know. They’re doing that fund-raising thing again. Mara’s all pissed off that
The Big Comfy Couch
isn’t on yet.”

“So is Victoria.” Tasha wedges the receiver between her shoulder and ear and pours herself a cup of coffee from the pot Joel made. It splashes on her sleeve.

That reminds her. The washing machine. She needs to do something about it today.

“Did you see the paper?”

“No, why?”

“Jane Kendall’s still missing.”

Tasha bites her lip. Jane Kendall. Somehow, she’d almost forgotten.

“Do the police have any idea what could have happened to her?” she asks Rachel.

“Nothing new. But I got all creeped out when I was outside getting the paper this morning. I felt like whoever got Jane Kendall was hiding in the bushes, watching me.”

“Yeah, or maybe it was just Mr. Martin again,” Tasha says, rolling her eyes. She knows Rachel’s convinced that the kindly old retiree is some sort of pervert. That’s the thing about Rachel—she’s a typical New Yorker, skeptical of everything and everyone.

“If it was, then he was lurking in the junipers this time, because I didn’t see any sign of him.”

The image of Mr. Martin as a Peeping Tom is just too ludicrous. Tasha laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Rachel asks.

“Never mind. So what are you doing today?”

“I was supposed to have a facial and manicure, but now I don’t have anyone to watch the kids while I go. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on them for about an hour this afternoon.”

Vaguely irked by Rachel’s life of leisure, Tasha hesitates, then decides she might as well say yes. Mara can keep Victoria company, and Max always loves to see Noah. If she can get them all busy with toys in the family room, maybe she can even wash the kitchen floor. “What time do you want to drop them off?” she asks Rachel.

“Actually, I thought maybe you could come over here. I have to be there at one, which is Noah’s nap time. You’d only have to watch Mara, really. Noah will sleep through.”

“All right,” Tasha says reluctantly. There goes her clean kitchen floor. She glances down and sees dried spatters of spilled milk on the linoleum where she’s standing. She’s definitely got to wash the floor before her in-laws come on Saturday.

“Great,” Rachel says. “You’re such a great friend, Tasha. Anytime I can return the favor, just ask.”

“I definitely will,” Tasha tells her. She really could use an hour or two to herself sometime. Like . . . now.

“Ouch—Mommy!” Victoria screams suddenly from the next room.

“Hey, cut it out! . . . Mommy! She’s hitting me!” Hunter yells.

“Uh-oh, gotta run,” Tasha wearily tells Rachel. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“K
aren?”

“Ben!” Karen says, relieved to hear his voice on the other end of the line. “Thanks for calling back.”

“No problem. What’s wrong with Taylor?”

“Vomiting and diarrhea.”

Ben asks her a series of questions about how much formula the baby’s had since last night, whether her diapers are wet, and how she’s been acting.

“She’s sleeping right now,” Karen tells him. “She’s exhausted. She was up all night.”

“Which means you were, too,” Ben says sympathetically.

“Right.” He’s such a sweet guy. Not for the first time, Karen wonders what ever drew him to Rachel. Beyond her looks, that is.

The more she thinks about her friend today, the more irritated she becomes with the way Rachel thinks the world revolves around herself and her problems.

“Listen, Karen, keep her hydrated with Pedialyte and don’t force her to eat. If she’s not better by the end of the day, bring her in and I’ll take a look at her.”

“How late are you there?”

“Late. I have office hours tonight, and I’m meeting with expectant parents after that. So call if you need me. I’ll be here.”

“Thanks, Ben,” Karen hangs up and goes back to the living room, where Taylor is asleep in her playpen. The television drones in the background. Karen had turned on
Sesame Street
for her daughter. Taylor always smiles when she sees Elmo. She didn’t today.

Karen turns off the television, abruptly curtailing the announcer’s cheerful description of gifts that can be yours if you pledge a donation to PBS.

She stands by the playpen, staring down at her tiny daughter, noticing that she looks pale. Worried, she pulls a white knit blanket up around the baby’s shoulders.

“Was that the doctor?”

Karen looks up to see Tom standing in the doorway behind her. He’s wearing his work-at-home uniform: faded jeans and a big Rutgers sweatshirt.

That was where they met, in college. He was a sophomore and she was a senior. She had surprisingly much in common with him from the start, despite the two-year age gap and the fact that he was a mild-mannered WASP from Connecticut. They were engaged two years later, while she was in the midst of getting her master’s in education, and married two years after that.

They waited to start a family, though, until both their careers were well established. To her dismay, when they finally decided they were ready, it took longer for her to conceive than she had expected. So long that she was about to consult a fertility expert when she finally found herself pregnant.

“What did he say?” Tom asks, coming to stand beside her and staring down at their daughter.

Karen recaps the conversation with Ben.

“Pedialyte? Do we have that in the house?”

Karen shakes her head. This is the first time Taylor has been really sick, aside from her trouble with breast milk months ago.

“Want me to go to the store?” Tom asks, eyeing her flannel pajamas.

She can tell he’s reluctant to break away from his work for that long. He told her earlier he’s buried in paperwork today.

“No, it’s okay,” she tells him. “I’ll go later, after I’ve taken a shower and gotten dressed.”

“What if she wakes up in the meantime? Shouldn’t we have some of that stuff on hand to give her as soon as she does?”

“I’ll call Tasha,” Karen decides, crossing to the phone. With three kids, Tasha is often her source of borrowed baby items. “She probably has some. Maybe she can drop it off when she drives Hunter to school. She should be leaving any minute.”

“L
et’s go that way,” Lily says, pausing on the corner of Townsend Avenue and North Street. With her enormous navy book bag seeming to weigh down her slender shoulders, her stylishly oversize jeans brushing the sidewalk at her heels, and her short red hair fashionably rumpled, she looks even younger than she is.