“Can’t I convince you to stay a little longer? We didn’t get a chance to chat.”
“I’ll be around most of the summer.”
“Well, we have to catch up one-on-one.” She places a cool hand on my forearm. “Before we head off to Provence, you and I must have a drink at the pool and commiserate on being empty nesters. Or celebrate.”
Jo and I pretend that our daughters never had a falling-out junior year. We’ve never spoken of those tumultuous months, or the fact that the vicious social scene at Bethesda–Chevy Chase High School was a big part of why we transferred Rachel midyear. It wasn’t just about grades. It was about how her kids, Eloïse and Van, and their clique, made Rachel’s life miserable.
This feigned ignorance used to anger me, but now I see the wisdom in it. It was a long time ago and if Rachel can move on, so can I.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, not meaning a word of it. I’d rather spend an afternoon hunting for my dog’s errant turds in our overgrown backyard than spend it chatting with Jo. A loud roar emanates from behind the house. “I’d better let you get back to your party!”
But Jo frowns, focused on something behind me. She hikes her skirt up again and marches over to a wooden utility pole, where she rips off a flyer. I pick my way down the sloping lawn, careful not to tumble. The wedge heels, the lack of glasses, the alcohol—all of it adds up to a bad spill waiting to happen.
“So frustrating.” Jo waves the flyer. “I just took one down this morning, and someone came and put it back up.”
In the dusk, I can just make out what is written on the paper that Jo’s holding. I’ve seen ones like it before—a picture of a heart-faced young woman in chunky glasses.
DO YOU KNOW WHO KILLED ME?
“So sad.” I shudder, looking at the sweet face of the girl on the flyer, not much older than Rachel. “This is that nanny who was killed last summer, right?” I don’t add,In your rental house.
“These are all over the neighborhood. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not heartless, but this is a time of celebration.” She waves the flyer in the direction of a yard sign that saysHAPPY GRADUATION!“These kids have worked so hard. It’stheirtime to shine.”
I don’t dare disagree with Jo, to tell her that our kids can survive a few discomfiting flyers in the neighborhood. Nobody really dares to disagree with Jo. It’s easier to just walk away.
TWO
Walk away from Jo is what I do as soon as an arriving guest catches her attention. The street is filled with cars parked on both sides, here for the party no doubt. As I weave between them and the oncoming traffic, I think about the girl on the flyer. The news had described it as a robbery gone wrong, a shooting, and it rocked the neighborhood for several weeks. Shawn and Miguel held a few meetings about starting a neighborhood watch. Kenya organized an event with an officer from the Montgomery County police, who came and gave a safety talk at the community center. When there had been a rash of robberies earlier that year, we all felt that was just the price you paid for living adjacent to a city. But the murder of a young nanny was so startling it set the whole neighborhood on edge.
And then it faded from our collective consciousness. School started up again in the fall. It was Rachel’s senior year and Zach’s second year of college. We all found other things to worry about, and the whole sad affair faded into local lore, even though the perpetrator was never caught.
Someone in the neighborhood, however, has not forgotten.
I am lost in thought, wondering who that might be, when my left foot lands in a divot in the road and I stumble. I catch myself before I fall, embarrassed at my clumsiness. A couple I vaguely recognize, who are just getting out of a parked car, rush over to help.
“Whoopsie daisy!” the man says, chuckling. “That good of a party, huh?”
“Thank you.” I indulge him with a smile but keep walking. The porch lights on my block are just coming on, and as soon as I get home, I leash up Kugel so I can walk him before it gets too dark. Afterward, I can order takeout, and if I get some more work on the yard sale done, terrific. If not, I can binge-watch something and fall asleep in front of the TV. That’s one of the few joys of being all alone in the house.
I sway a little as I head back out with the dog, woozy, but in a nice, early-summer kind of way. That citronelle shot really got me. Too bad I can’t drink like I used to. Another thing no one tells you about perimenopause. Yumi will understand, so I call her to keep me company on my walk.
“Yes, I’m glad I went to Jo’s party, and no, it wasn’t that bad,” I say as soon as she answers. “But you didn’t miss anything.”
Yumi laughs. I can picture my closest friend sitting in a wicker chair on her large screened-in porch where she spends most of her days. Since Yumi became immunocompromised a few years ago, she’s had to stop going to these events. She runs the neighborhood Facebook group, which is her way of staying involved, but she still likes to get the scoop from me.
“Did anyone ask about me?” Yumi asks.
“Everyone. It’s all people were talking about. ‘Where’s Yumi?’” I pause to let Kugel sniff a patch of grass for the third time in one block.
“Ha ha. I was on my back porch, and I saw a pileated woodpecker. So, who was there?” she asks.
“Usual suspects.” I list off who I saw. “Kenya and Shawn are acting like newlyweds, as usual. And Daniel was handing out Jell-O shots.”
“No!”
“There was a life-size cutout of Eloïse, an ice luge, oh, and Jo wants to hang out at the pool with me this summer. Before Provence, of course.”
I stand still a moment, enveloped by the thick night air. I can feel the June humidity press against my skin, or maybe it’s just the buzz from the citronelle shot.
