With Friends Like These: A Novel (38 page)

At first glance the cozy space looked exactly as I remembered. The double bed was tidily made with yellow chintz linens, which I’d selected to complement the apple green walls, although an aqua corduroy reading pillow now squatted on the bed like Buddha. The framed poster from the New York City Ballet that had hung in my first apartment remained on the wall, but the photograph of Prospect Park had been swapped for a calendar featuring tranquil mountains, its words in an exotic alphabet.

I walked to the dresser and, hands shaking, slid open every drawer, taking pains not to disrupt Jamyang’s precision. Bras and panties, plain as paper, were neatly folded next to socks and leggings. Her sweaters and T-shirts were arranged by color, all muted shades of blue, gray, and green, not a stripe or a print breaking the monotony. I looked into the closet. A
black dress in a silky synthetic hung limply next to black pants and a down coat, its modest price tag still attached. The shelf above was empty except for a small bag from Sephora.

I stepped back into the hall. The drone of the furnace was the only sound I heard. I told myself to get a grip, to stop. I couldn’t. A demon Chloe inhaled deeply and returned for a second look.

I gasped. Inside the shopping bag, wrapped in red tissue that I scrupulously unfolded, was an unopened bottle of a scent—
my scent
, the only one I ever wore, Xander’s favorite, Romance. Every morning I allowed myself two spritzes, with one more before bed.

Could Jamyang have bought the eau de toilette for herself? Not at sixty dollars a tiny bottle. Had Xander bought it for her? Why not give her my underwear? I wanted to rip the tissue paper to shreds, but I forced myself to replace it exactly as it had been, and turned back to the bedroom.

Stop!
I heard Autumn order. I ignored her. On the bedside table was a snapshot of Dash, Xander, and me. The picture had been taken last month. I’d printed out images to send to my parents but discarded this one, since on closer examination I realized my eyes were closed. I resembled a corpse. Xander, however, looked especially handsome, as did Dash. Jamyang must have fished the photo out of the garbage. She’d placed it in a small silvery frame, next to a stack of three books. An English dictionary was on top of a paperback I could recognize from four feet away, a preachy self-help tract about raising three-year-olds. The book beneath it was brown leather and well-worn. A Bible, most likely. I’d assumed Jamyang was a Buddhist. I walked to the table for a closer look.

It was my childhood favorite, and not just any library copy, but one of the few volumes in Xander’s literary tabernacle that belonged to me:
Jane Eyre
, its pages dry and cover worn, yet worth thousands, a present from Xander for our second anniversary. It was the most thoughtful gift I’d ever received.

I stood still and pictured Jamyang struggling with the English, but nonetheless identifying—as I once had—with the wisp of a governess
whose unadorned beauty, hard work, and blunt nature had beguiled the Byronic hero. I wondered if the Byronic hero of Thornfield Manor, Brooklyn Heights branch, knew the book was here. More to the point, I wondered if the Byronic hero had recommended the book to the impoverished waif who was yet another skeleton in one of his many closets. I wondered if he had delivered it personally, to this room. I wondered if he had tarried, trifled with her affection. If her heart had heaved. I felt as if I’d swallowed a cat and its tail was sticking out of my throat, choking me. I collapsed on the bed and flipped rapidly through the book to look for clues—a love note or a revealing bookmark, perhaps—but
Jane
, that mouse, yielded no secrets.

With guilt matched by my anger, I returned
Jane
to her hiding place beneath the other books and opened the table’s drawer. I didn’t know what I was looking for—birth control pills, a letter in Xander’s handwriting, tickets to Venice? The drawer was empty except for a black leather diary. The entries were, to me, unreadable.

With a deep sense of shame, I saw myself as the madwoman in my own attic, dumber than those teenagers who gain fourteen pounds, get a bellyache, go to the bathroom expecting to poop, and walk out with an infant, never once suspecting they’re pregnant. In my effort to reinvent a better Chloe, had I missed the Big One?

I thought I’d made progress. Recently I’d been proud of myself, ripping pages from magazines when I liked the way the clothes were put together, each morning cobbling together the looks from garments hanging in my closet, often with excellent results. I had never once bought myself jewelry, but when I took Arthur shopping for Jules’ ring, I spotted a brooch—a lizard!—and not only bought it but haggled down the price. On the bulletin board above my desk, I’d copied a list I’d found of ways to become happier and had adopted them as my sixfold mantra.

1. Act the way you want to feel
   .
   

2. Play fair
   .
   

3. Stop keeping score
   .
   

4. Identify the problem
   .
   

5. Remember there is only love
   .
   

6. Do what ought to be done
   .
   

Do what ought to be done! I would. As Jane herself said, laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation. I smoothed the wrinkles on the bed and darted out of the room and up two flights of stairs. Jamyang might be a silent wren to my ditzy canary, but at least canaries can sing. Panting, I pushed open the French doors to Mr. Rochester’s inner sanctum and inhaled the woodsy scent of tobacco smoke, his library the only place where the master smoked a pipe. On the shelves, the books stood still as toy soldiers, defying me to snoop. But I did. I did!

Aside from the gap in the Brontë section, nothing seemed amiss. The brass-studded green leather wing chair sat as thronelike as ever, the tapestry ottoman a disciple at its foot. On the table was Xander’s silver magnifying glass, crystal paperweights, and a book of matches from a restaurant we’d eaten at the previous winter.

I turned on the lamp, sat down at the desk, and surveyed the objects on its surface: a closed laptop, a letter opener engraved with the name of his firm, a cherry box holding sheaves of monogrammed stationery, and a pewter mug—a gift from Tom Wells in thanks for being his best man. That no work seemed to have been done here in months didn’t surprise me, given the hours my husband—
my
husband—was keeping at his office.

The large file drawers, where Xander kept our financial records, were locked, darn it, but the desk’s pencil drawer slid open, only to reveal mundane supplies—a stapler, tape, and stamps that were now two cents short for a standard letter. It would serve Xander right if his mail got returned! I checked the wire wastebasket. Empty.

Beneath the desk was the printer. I crouched down for a look. Sitting
in its tray was a piece of printed paper. I pulled it out and read it once, twice, then a third time. The words were in English, though at first they made no sense. I read it once more.

I returned the paper to the printer. Who was this man I was married to? I didn’t know him at all.

  
Quincy

Mom and I were driving to Montana like we did every August, our station wagon cutting through fields that God had colored to match my goldenrod crayon. I was thinking about how my grandparents would kick off my days on the farm with the smell of sizzling bacon, and move on to chicken feeding, pony rides, and pineapple upside-down cake. We’d end up every evening on the front porch, Gramps pointing out the Milky Way in a black satin sky, Grammy knitting in the dark
.

My eyes were shut tight, drifting in the sepia of memory, when Fanny started to lick my face. I realized it was time to shake off my dream and attend to my new ritual. Every morning I’d been gluing a star on my calendar to celebrate that Jubilee and I had gotten through another night. I was reaching for the stars when Horton called.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said. “You get my fax?” Apartment listings, which he’d started sending again a week ago, had been piling up unread.

“Haven’t had a chance yet.”

“Too busy, are we?”

I’d used Dr. Frumkes’ required rest as an excuse to retire from life. Jake and I had been getting by on takeout and had cycled through every cuisine twice—Chinese, Thai, Japanese, Mexican, Vietnamese, Turkish, and Italian—and were debating Ethiopian. But now that Maizie had signed off on her manuscript, I was restless. I supposed this was a positive sign. I’d seen the doctor, and she’d given me a green light to go out for up to two hours each day as long as I was “sensible.” Is there a day in my life when I haven’t been?

“I promise I’ll read the fax and call you back.”

“The listings from a few days ago already have bids,” he said. “It’s still a hot market. Today’s apartment should not be missed. It’s in an outstanding family-friendly building.”

“You do realize the familyless may sue if they hear you talking that way?” I’d read that a listing advertised as “walking distance” from anywhere offended people in wheelchairs and “near churches and synagogues” caused atheists to initiate a class-action suit.

“Excuse me, but we’re talking a classic six on Riverside Drive, with a recently renovated kitchen, a bike room, and a locked storage bin.”

This was a reason to cheer. We city folk have been known to arm-wrestle over the highly coveted basement space required to warehouse sleds, camp trunks, and leaves for the dining room table. “Tell me more,” I said, feeling a squeak of curiosity.

“Motivated owners—the husband lost his job,” Horton added, a bounce in his voice.

Poor guy. Not only had his income and identity evaporated, he’d become a reason for a broker to dance a jig.

“This one won’t last,” Horton added.

“Isn’t that slogan engraved on your business card?”

“Go ahead, blow me off. Raise your baby in a shoebox—see if I care. Better yet, move after the tot’s born. You can pack between the two a.m. and four a.m. feedings.”

“Fine,” I said, clutching the fax in my hand. “I’ll look at it.” I had no reason not to humor Horton, who other than Jake was the person I’d
been speaking to most often. Talia had visited—twice—and while Chloe called every few days, she preferred to talk on Facebook, where she’d “joined the cultural conversation.” Jules and I weren’t speaking at all.

The building was only two blocks away. I swaddled myself in winter wool, knowing that the closer I got to the river, the chillier it would be. I spotted Horton, dressed in dark green, planted by the entrance like a topiary. When he saw me, he tipped his fedora and proclaimed, “You’re going to love it.”

As I shambled through the marble hallway, I hoped that I would. I was feeling just optimistic enough to imagine I might get excited about a new home for the Blues.

The elevator took us to the tenth floor. Horton rang the bell and, hearing no reply, turned a key. A narrow foyer opened to a sparsely filled living room whose copies of
Architectural Digest
, cowhide rugs, and rattan sticks diffusing a potent grapefruit scent all screamed “staged.” Through French doors I took in a Stickley dining set that matched the one my mom had inherited from her parents. It was hibernating in her house in Minneapolis, which I’d rented out fully furnished. I hoped the tenants were taking care of the table as I caught a fleeting image of Jake feeding a baby in a high chair pulled up to its side. As quickly as it came, I blinked away the fantasy, turned, and saw Horton pointing to a limestone mantel. “Check the fireplace,” he gloated. “It works.”

I bent down to evaluate three birch logs on the grate. I got up and asked, “Where’s the kitchen?”

“Follow me.” I obeyed as Horton pushed open a swinging door. He hadn’t lied. Everything was spanking new—granite, stainless steel, or startlingly white. I’d have felt comfortable having surgery there. “Uh-huh,” I said as he pointed out one state-of-the-art appliance after the next.
Remind me why I need a warming drawer
, I said to myself.

“Come see the maid’s room,” he said. We squeezed into a space slightly larger than a Honda. “It could work for a child.”