White Elephant Read online

  “They’re jealous of us, huh, Nick?” Kaye said. “For having nice stuff?”

  Nick said they must be, but in fact he didn’t think they were. Up here people seemed to think it was classier to live in a crumbling old house than a new one. Who knew why? If Willard Park was all about families, as it claimed to be, they should have seen that his house was family oriented, with its multiple family rooms and hot tub. Those little houses made everyone want to go outside instead of staying in. What good was a house that made you want to leave it?

  Kaye wanted to move back to South Carolina, but no one was exactly begging him to build down there anymore. So he’d violated a few building codes. He hadn’t killed anyone, for God’s sake, but he was persona non grata anyway.

  They were going to throw a party in a few weeks—Nick’s idea—to give Kaye something fun to think about. He was inviting a bunch of business contacts so he could write the whole thing off.

  Rex jumped off the couch and barked in the direction of the Millers’ house, where Ted Miller sat on the porch in the dark. Rex had been at it all night. It was a different bark, an edgier bark, from the one he used for the Millers’ funny-looking little dog; it was a bark that said, “I’m no pussycat.”

  Ted had been out there since early evening. Nick could just make out the shape of him by the moonlight, hunched over in his chair. “Quiet, Rex,” he said, but Rex whined to be let out.

  “All right,” Nick opened the door, then went out himself. It was still hot out even though it was nearly eleven. He threw a tennis ball into the yard and Rex ran off to get it.

  “Evening,” Nick called to Ted. It would have been weird not to say anything: the guy was sitting there staring at him. But Ted just glared back. He was creepier than the brother, if you asked Nick. Nick threw the ball a couple more times, but he felt kind of stupid doing it with this guy watching him. Nick whistled for Rex and headed back toward the house.

  Nick turned to face Ted before he opened the door. “They were my trees.”

  “One was mine.”

  “I just cut down the half on my land.” It was a vertical cut. He’d meant it as a joke, really, a slice off the side, a little showing off for Allison—Mrs. Miller, he thought with a private smile—only the saw had moved so fast.

  “We planted it for Jillian.” Ted shook his head disapprovingly, looking just like Nick’s father when Nick showed him his report card. This is the best you could do? Nick went back inside, Rex at his heels.

  “Good dog. Good puppy!” he said, rubbing Rex’s back vigorously when they were safely ensconced on the couch again. Rex wagged his tail and smiled.

  He didn’t know they’d planted it for their kid. Christ. How could he have known that? He’d just wanted to clear the property, give the place a little more light, maybe entice a buyer. The house was going to be a stunner—indoor pool, sauna, you name it: anything the new owner wanted. He was leaving it unfinished so the buyer could customize—or so he told people. The truth was, he didn’t have the money to complete it.

  The place was coming in way over budget. If he didn’t sell it soon, the bank would come after him. His other properties in town would be next, a couple of tear-downs he’d snatched up at good prices.

  He’d been an idiot to buy the excavator. It was just a mini excavator, but that didn’t make it cheap. The trouble was, he’d fallen in love with it. It was little and round and clean and yellow. How could any red-blooded male resist? He thought it would pay for itself, but now it was just another chain around his neck.

  The whole thing had seemed like such a no-brainer a couple years back: buy up the crummy old houses in Willard Park, which no one who could afford the land would possibly want to live in—or so he thought—and build new houses, fresh houses, houses with modern amenities like central air. Some of the little shacks in town still had window units, for God’s sake! He imagined great rooms instead of splintery porches, home gyms where paneled rec rooms now moldered.

  His vision went further. He pictured an expanded shopping district, a real business zone complete with cafés and boutiques and a promenade by the creek. A thriving Willard Park downtown would bring in income so the town could show those monthly movies in a real movie theater instead of on a screen in the town hall basement. They could hand out trophies to the little kids on the soccer team instead of ribbons, and have the potlucks catered.

  Didn’t Ted and Lucy and the other old granola heads see? He wanted what they wanted: a comfortable, livable town near the city, somewhere beautiful, somewhere safe. But it was never going to happen if his houses didn’t sell. He threw the remote. It bumped off the front of a speaker and landed on the floor with a clatter. He was stuck watching an aging blonde with big teeth trying to sell a diamond necklace.

  He felt an urge to apologize to Ted for killing his kid’s tree. He tried to think of what to say. “Hey, dude, I’m sorry for cutting . . .” “You know, pal, I didn’t intend . . .” Words were so fraught. Anything that might be construed as an admission might bring on a lawsuit—he’d been there before. So was it better to say nothing? To just feel like crap? He smacked his hand on the couch in frustration, startling Rex. “Hey, bud. I’m sorry.” Nick scratched the dog’s chin, right where he liked it, making Rex close his eyes and lean his face into Nick’s hand. He heard feet on the stairs. “Hey, Lindy-ba-bindy.” His fellow night owl.

  “You missed my game.”

  “I’m sorry, Chicken Little.”

  “You never come. You go to all of Jakey’s games.”

  “Not true,” Nick said, though it wouldn’t do any good. She still hadn’t forgiven them for knocking her off her single-child throne.

  “I scored both our points.”

  “You’re pretty good for a girl.” He smiled, shielding his face, ready to be pummeled with a pillow.

  She pinched his arm instead.

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  “I’m going to get one of those necklaces for Mom.” He nodded toward the screen.

  “That’s crap, Daddy. Can’t you tell?”

  “Get the remote, will you, Lin?”

  “You get it.”

  “Come on. I’m an old man.”

  “Don’t say you’re old, Daddy.” She nestled next to him on the side Rex wasn’t occupying, resting her head on his arm.

  The clock ticked its way into the next day as they stared at the changing images, their skin flickering blue, the specter of Ted Miller fading like a miasma into the night sky.

  4

  SEPTEMBER 30

  The new family was moving into a Carlin model Sears home circa 1918, a sweet two-bedroom bungalow with a porch and a second-floor balcony. Allison, at her desk in her attic office, studied the catalog page on her computer. In the drawing, the house—which originally sold for $1,172—was perfection itself, with two hanging plants on the porch and well-tended flowers lining the curving path. Now, a hundred years later, it admittedly needed some work, but it was still a precious little home.

  Their own house, built in 1910, was so old that Sears hadn’t even started naming the models yet. It was similarly small, tiny even, for a family of three, with just two bedrooms. A previous owner had turned the attic into a somewhat usable space, but there was still barely room for her desk and a futon; it was too cold in winter and too hot in summer. But Allison didn’t mind. A sense of home and community: that was what mattered—not whether you had a second bathroom. She and Ted were in agreement about that.

  Allison printed a copy of the Carlin catalog page. She planned to take it to the new family this morning along with a write-up of the history of Willard Park and a loaf of Lucy’s banana bread—a little welcome kit. She started humming “You Can’t Get a Man with a Gun,” one of the few Annie Get Your Gun numbers they could choreograph without a leading man. Valeria’s husband, Phil, usually played the male lead, with Valeria as the leading lady, but with the two of them living in Paris, the town theater comp
any threatened to fall apart. The director, Rainier, who had moved to Willard Park from Austria a few years ago, talked about hiring an actor to play Frank. Allison laughed the first time he mentioned the idea, but it was starting to seem like the best option. Allison had to wonder why she was even doing the show this year.

  She opened the little window above her desk and looked down on Ted, sitting in the yard beside the forlorn little maple with his bagel and coffee. There was little hope for the maple’s survival according to the tree guy, but Ted still sat beside it the way he had sat at Terrance’s bedside when Terrance had pneumonia that time.

  She called down to him, “Hey.”

  Ted lifted his hand in a halfhearted wave.

  The seedling sat on a little stump, nearby. She and Jillian had bought it with the hope that he would transfer his affections, but the tiny maple sat in its pot, unplanted. “Plant the new one,” she urged.

  He shrugged.

  Allison had been upset about the tree, too, but it had been four weeks since its demise. Time to move on already. She suspected he was depressed, which might explain why they hadn’t had sex for so long. She’d been monitoring the situation closely for the past month, after her somewhat shocking realization that they had not made love since midsummer. She Googled “How to jazz up your marriage” and, after eliminating some of the more absurd suggestions—“Come to bed in high heels” and “Greet him at the door naked with a rose between your teeth”—had come up with a viable list.

  She’d executed her attack over the subsequent weeks, starting with wine with dinner, which he’d declined, reminding her it was a “school night.” A sexy text a few days later had been ignored; when she asked him about it, he blushed and said he thought Siri had bungled her words. A tongue in the ear the following weekend led to a giggling fit. Last night she slipped her hand under the covers to give him a surprise hand job, but his penis lay on his leg like an overcooked asparagus, unresponsive, after which she burst into tears.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, as if he had been in the other room during the failed hand job.

  “We haven’t had sex for over two months.”

  He laughed. “That’s not true.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “You’re keeping track?”

  “I started to. Yes.”

  “Great,” he said, his tone a little bitter.

  She rolled onto her back, not sure if she wanted to scream or pummel him. Weren’t men supposed to want sex all the time? What was wrong with him? Or, more frighteningly, what was wrong with her? “Are you still attracted to me?”

  “Yes. Of course I am.”

  “Not ‘of course.’ I can’t even remember the last time you kissed me.”

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  “Not like that.” She leaned in to kiss him properly, but it was like kissing a paper plate.

  He patted her hair. “It’s just, I’m not feeling it.”

  “‘Not feeling it.’ Terrific.”

  “It’s not a permanent condition or anything.”

  “Can we talk about it?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. It’ll pass,” he said, and he turned his back toward her.

  They’d fallen asleep that way.

  She opened the slide show of the photos she had for her book so far, hoping for the energetic boost the project usually gave her, but the pictures looked ordinary this morning—the shot of the town hall, washed out; the mailbox shaped like a cow, blurry. Even Lucy’s scarecrow sagged. Discouraged, she exited the file and opened her e-mail. Oh good, one from [email protected]. She hadn’t heard from her in over a week. She smiled, readying herself for the laugh that Valeria never failed to provide.

  “Just back from Venice. Opera, gondola ride, bought a gorgeous glass sculpture in Murano. Reservations for Christmas in Barcelona—estoy tan feliz!”

  Allison wanted to ask what she should do about their sad sex life, but not wanting to bring down the mood, instead wrote, “Wow! You go!” and enthused about Italy and Spain. She preferred Valeria’s e-mails about petty civil servants and nasty shopkeepers, to be honest. Bad friend, she chided herself. Bad, bad friend. She ran her fingers over the keys, making them clatter like hail, then closed the lid of her laptop, escaping. The sight of Ted in the yard was enough to make her snap. “Plant it already!”

  He looked up, surprised.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” Just what? “Resume your vigil.”

  “It’s not a vigil, Allison.”

  “Whatever,” she said, sounding just like Jillian in a mood.

  She made her way down the narrow stairs. Jillian was downstairs on the couch, reading, Candy lying on the rug beside her, belly up. “Want to take a walk, Jillie?”

  “Nnnn.” Jillian turned a page.

  “We could stop by Lucy’s for a snack.” The ultimate treat, the jump-up-and-down “Thank you, Mama!” thrill of Jillian’s childhood.

  Jillian looked at her, a studiously patient expression on her face—one that Allison recognized, having doled it out herself so often. “I’m reading.”

  Allison, who wanted a hug, but would have settled for a smile, nodded. She finally understood why some people had a second set of children when their first were nearly grown. She grabbed Candy’s leash and made kissing sounds. Candy rolled onto her feet and followed her out the door.

  “Good dog! Yes you are!” She rubbed Candy’s muzzle until the dog whipped her entire backside back and forth with joy. Allison bent down to hug her. Candy—flea bitten, collarless—had followed Jillian home from school a few years before. Neglected hamsters and scrawny cats, too, had found a home with the Millers over the years. Allison was a soft touch; it was just her nature.

  Nina Strauss sped by in her BMW, a car so heavy and luxurious it seemed not to notice Willard Park’s many speed bumps. She had places to go, people to see, her driving said. Nina had moved to town not long after Allison and Ted did, when both she and Allison were pregnant. Allison had thought their simultaneous pregnancies might inspire a friendship, but Nina worked day and night. Rumor had it that she’d suffered through her early labor pains at the conference table at the realty office, loath to leave in the middle of a closing, and had driven herself to the hospital as soon as the signatures were secured.

  Candy was on high alert as they approached the Coxes’, her tail and nose high. Rex ran up and down in a straight line parallel to the sidewalk, as far as the invisible fence would allow. He leaped in the air, a jagged, maniacal look on his face when he saw Candy. Candy darted onto the lawn. The dogs tumbled over and under each other, bared their teeth, and bit at each other’s furry legs and jaws. Then Rex started to hump Candy. Vacant, not dissatisfied, looks clouded both dogs’ eyes.

  Kaye, sitting on the porch with a magazine, shook a manicured finger. “No, no, Rexie!” she called to no noticeable effect.

  “Maybe you should get him neutered,” Allison said.

  “Nick’s kind of sensitive about that . . . Hey, Nicky!” she called.

  Nick came out and whistled with two fingers in his mouth. Rex ran over and lay at his feet like an odalisque. “You’ve got to woo them, fella. Don’t you know?” He flashed a smile.

  Kaye gave him a girly smack on the chest. He grabbed her wrist and pretended he was going to twist her arm. Allison, feeling as though she’d just climbed in between them in bed, yanked Candy’s leash and walked on, her face hot.

  Oh! It was all Valeria’s fault. She’d found a way to fight back at the ennui, escaping to Europe, leaving Allison behind to circle the streets of suburbia with a husband who was more passionate about a tree than he was about his wife.

  SUZANNE FELT LIKE A TRAFFIC COP IN THE MIDDLE OF A BUSY INTERSECTION, pointing and waving the movers to the different rooms of the new house. Living room. Dining room. Two bedrooms. Unfinished basement. The bathroom. That was it. She was more like Snow White than a traffic cop, come to think of it, in her tiny cottage with her two resident f
airy-tale dwarves—one of whom was jogging down to the hardware store to make copies of the house key. Why did he need to do it now, in the middle of moving day?

  The dwarfier of the dwarves appeared in an inside-out striped Polo shirt and plaid shorts. “I counted seventy-three boxes, Mommy, and the man with the mustache is named Juan and you spell it with a J, and he’s from Guadalajara, and that’s spelled with a G, and he doesn’t have a green card but he wants one. Can I make him one, Mommy? A green card? I’m hungry. Let’s get sushi.” Adam bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, a pixie with unbrushed, curly hair.

  Suzanne handed him a dollar from her purse. “After lunch we’re going to go to Lucy’s, just you and me. What do you think you can buy with that? Do you think it’s enough for a cookie?”

  He shoved the money into his pocket like a man stowing his wallet. “I’m going to save it for when Grammy comes.”

  Suzanne kneeled so they could be eye to eye. “Grammy’s not coming.”

  “Yes she is.”

  “To visit. Grammy will visit.”

  “Grammy will live with us. She’ll sleep next to me. We planned it, Mommy.”

  For a moment Suzanne let herself imagine her mother moving in, sleeping next to Adam, as the two had covertly plotted, 24/7: I think you deserve a puppy, too, but Mommy’s the boss; and I always think it’s best if the mother doesn’t work, if it’s not a necessity, but maybe I’m old fashioned! and It’s a wonder he doesn’t come down with pneumonia wearing those thin pajamas, but you’re the mother, you know best. Point, aim, fire, repeat; her mother was a sharpshooter who pretended she’d never handled a rifle.

  “Mommy,” Adam said, no doubt alarmed by the expression on Suzanne’s face.