Mad River Road Page 6

  “Don’t ‘Hi there, how are you?’ me. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Jamie wondered if Cynthia had a surveillance camera in her apartment, that even now she was watching Brad’s fingers gently outlining the contours of her nipples beneath her blue blouse.

  “Todd just phoned to tell me he had an angry call from Lorraine Starkey, that she told him all about that little stunt you pulled.…”

  “It wasn’t a stunt.”

  “You quit your job without so much as a word? You didn’t give notice? You didn’t offer any explanations.…”

  Brad’s fingers disappeared underneath her blouse. Jamie moaned audibly.

  “What was that? Did you just moan?”

  Jamie grabbed Brad’s hands to still them, and in so doing, dropped the phone.

  “Jamie?” Cynthia called from her lap. “What’s going on there?”

  “Sorry. I dropped the phone.”

  There was a slight pause. “Is somebody there?”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  Brad leaned forward, resting his chin on Jamie’s shoulder and monitoring the conversation.

  “Are you all right?” Cynthia asked. “You’re not having some sort of breakdown, are you?”

  “I really hated that job, Cynthia.”

  “You can’t keep doing this, you know.”

  “I can get another job.”

  “I’m not talking about that. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “You can’t keep fucking up.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Just call Mrs. Starkey and tell her you’re sorry.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because I’m not sorry.”

  “Okay, look,” Cynthia said. “Obviously this isn’t the best time to be discussing this. We’ll talk about it when you get here.”

  “What do you mean, when I get there?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?”

  “What?”

  “This is great,” Brad said, a small chuckle escaping his mouth.

  “What was that?” Cynthia demanded.

  “What was what?”

  “Are you laughing?”

  “Of course I’m not laughing.”

  “Because this isn’t funny.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Then what time are you coming over? And don’t you dare tell me you forgot and made other plans.”

  Brad began nodding his head up and down. “You’ve made other plans,” he whispered in her ear.

  “What did you say?” Cynthia asked.

  “I’m sorry, Cyn. I have made other plans,” Jamie said.

  “You can’t do that to me,” her sister protested. “You said you were gonna come over and we’d go through Mom’s things. You promised.”

  “We’ll do it another time. Tomorrow …”

  Brad shook his head. “You’re busy tomorrow,” he said.

  “What?” Cynthia asked.

  “Not tomorrow. Sorry. Tomorrow’s no good.”

  “And not Sunday either,” Brad said.

  “This weekend’s just not good for me,” Jamie said.

  “Well, when is good for you? We can’t keep putting it off forever.”

  Why can’t we? Jamie wondered. Why the rush to dispose of Mom’s things? It’s not like she was going anywhere. Jamie leaned her cheek against Brad’s, felt his morning stubble rough against her skin. “Look, I think I’m going to go away for a few days,” she said suddenly, feeling Brad’s smile stretch across his face. “Maybe for a week.”

  “What? What are you talking about? What do you mean you’re going away? Where are you going? What are you talking about?” Cynthia questioned angrily.

  “I just need a break.”

  “A break?”

  “Not for long. A week. Maybe two,” she added as Brad held up the middle and index fingers of his right hand.

  “This is unbelievable. When did you decide this?”

  “I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  “Call me when you grow up,” Cynthia said before slamming down the phone.

  Brad was instantly on his feet. “Way to go, Jamie.”

  “She’s really pissed.”

  “To hell with her.” Brad grabbed her hands, twirled her around the living room. “Come on, Jamie-girl. Time’s a wasting. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  “But where are we going? Do we have any plan at all?”

  “Of course we have a plan. We’ll head north. Maybe stop for a few nights in Ohio.”

  “Ohio? What’s in Ohio?”

  “My son. Wait till you see him, Jamie. You’re gonna love him. Come on. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

  Second thoughts were exactly what she was having. Everything was moving so fast. Too fast. She’d already committed one impulsive act today. Was she actually considering driving off into the sunset with some guy she’d just met? In her car, no less! She needed to take a deep breath, calm down, think things through.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Brad said, kissing her gently on the lips.

  What was she worried about? she wondered, tossing aside any pesky concerns. “Where in Ohio?” she asked him.

  “Dayton,” he told her, flashing that wondrous grin. “A street called Mad River Road.”

  FOUR

  The two-story wood house at 131 Mad River Road was like all the other houses on the street: old and slightly shabby. Its gray paint was peeling, and the once-white shutters framing the four front windows were stained and tilted at a variety of precarious angles. The shutters outside the bedroom windows were in particularly bad shape, caked with years of accumulated debris, and barely hanging on. Just like me, Emma thought, breathing in the crisp morning air and reluctantly pushing her long legs up the six crumbling front steps. She stopped on the tiny porch before the torn screen door. Beyond the screen door was another door, this one solid and painted black, although the color was faded and the surface scratched. Across the threshold was more peeling, more crumbling, more fading. The old house had definitely seen better days. Emma shrugged. Who hadn’t? Besides, what did she expect for the kind of rent she was paying?

  Several years ago the street had been bought up by developers with the idea of tearing down the existing houses and erecting a row of pricey townhomes. Gentrification, they called it. Except that someone on the city council had objected, and the project had stalled, mired in a seemingly endless ball of sticky red tape. In the meantime, the developers, reluctant to give up on their investment and hoping to reach a satisfactory accord with the powers-that-be in the near future, had decided to rent out the houses on a monthly basis. The result was that Mad River Road had become something of a haven for women in a state of flux, women whose pasts were murky, whose futures were uncertain, and whose presents were on hold. Not surprisingly, these included a large number of single mothers and their offspring. When Emma and her young son had arrived in town looking for an inexpensive apartment in a safe neighborhood, preferably one within walking distance of an elementary school, the real estate agent had thought for only half a second before directing her to Mad River Road. True, the houses were in less than stellar condition, and you could be booted out with only two months’ notice, but the inhabitants of the street had worked hard at sprucing up their surroundings, planting flowers in the front gardens and painting the exteriors of the houses a variety of interesting pastels. Besides, where else could you find a two-bedroom home in the city for this kind of money? “It’s a charming little house,” the realtor had pronounced. “Lots of potential.”

  The potential for a fresh start, Emma remembered thinking. Except that potential cost money, Emma thought, and she was going through what little cash she’d managed to hide from her ex-husband at a speed she hadn’t imagined. Soon there’d be nothing left.

  She tucked shoulder-length dark hair behind
her right ear, listening to the sound of birds in the nearby trees, and wondering absently, What kind of birds, what kind of trees? She should know these things. She should know what kinds of birds—robins, blue jays, cardinals?—serenaded her in the mornings as she walked her son to school. She should know the types of trees—maple, oak, elm?—that lined both sides of the long street and threw deep shadows across her small patch of front lawn. She should know stuff like that. Just as she should know the names of the flowers—peonies, posies, pansies?—that old Mrs. Discala had recently planted along the sidewalk in front of her house. Emma fished her house key out of the side pocket of her jeans, pulled open the screen door, and unlocked the next. Both squealed loudly in protest. Probably need oil, she thought, wondering fleetingly, What kind of oil? Animal, mineral, vegetable?

  Inside, the house was stuffy, but Emma dismissed the idea of opening a window. In truth, the temperature suited her mood, which was lethargic and verging on depressed. Today was supposed to be the day she went out looking for a job, but her son hadn’t slept well last night—another nightmare—which meant, of course, that she hadn’t slept well either, and she doubted the bags under her normally vibrant blue eyes would make a good impression on a prospective employer. Her eyes had always been her best and most striking feature. They were large and oval and dominated an otherwise blandly pretty face. Besides, she hadn’t really decided what kind of job she was looking for. “I’ll look later,” she told the morning paper, still lying on the light hardwood floor inside the front door.

  She crossed the small foyer that divided the house into two uninteresting halves, the living room to the left only marginally bigger than the dining room on the right, the kitchen behind the dining room barely big enough to accommodate the round white table and two folding chairs she’d picked up at a secondhand shop, along with most of the other furniture. An oddly shaped brown sofa that had probably been some designer’s idea of modern took up most of the living room. It sat against the front window next to a surprisingly comfortable beige-and-green armchair, a small set of white stacking tables in between. The dining room consisted of four gray plastic chairs grouped around a square, medium-size table, the table completely covered by a floral tablecloth Emma had bought to hide its deeply scarred surface. The walls throughout the house were dull white, the floors bare and crying for carpets. Still, there was something about the idea of putting down carpets that smacked too much of permanence. How could she think of planting roots, of settling down, of moving ahead when she was always looking over her shoulder? No, it was still too early. Maybe one day …“Okay,” Emma said. “Enough of that.” She mounted the steep set of stairs to the second floor, each step a reminder that one day was pretty much the same as the next on Mad River Road.

  Emma entered her bedroom and threw herself across her unmade double bed, wondering why anyone would name a street Mad River Road when the river in question was miles away. Rumor had it there used to be a tributary somewhere nearby, but that it had dried up long ago. Why the name Mad River anyway? What had made the river so Mad? Had it seemed angry, wild, uncontrollable? And could the same adjective be used to describe the street’s inhabitants? Another one of life’s unsolved mysteries, Emma decided, closing her eyes. She had more pressing things to worry about.

  Her son, to name one. She had to do something about his nightmares. They were occurring with increasing frequency of late, and it was taking her longer and longer to calm him down. As it was, he insisted on sleeping with the overhead light on and playing his radio all night. Not only that, but a series of nonsensical bedtime rituals was occupying more and more of his time: he brushed his teeth for thirty seconds, using exactly fifteen strokes for the top row, followed by another fifteen for the bottom; he then rinsed out his mouth, starting on the left side and moving to the right, before spitting into the sink three times; he touched the wooden baseboard of his narrow bed twice before he climbed under the covers, then reached behind him to tap the wall above his head. No action could be left out or modified in any way without, he feared, the most dire of consequences. Her son was afraid of everything, Emma realized, groaning out loud and wondering if he’d always been so fearful and just hadn’t shown it.

  True, the last year hadn’t been easy for him. Hell, it hadn’t been easy on either of them. They’d moved three times, and Dylan still didn’t understand why they’d had to leave home in the first place, abandoning everything that was familiar and comfortable: his nana, his room, his friends, his toys. He was always asking where his father was, and if anyone was looking after him. He didn’t like their new names, even after she explained she’d named him after a character from her once-favorite TV show, Beverly Hills 90210. And Emma was the name Rachel had given her baby on Friends, she’d told him, and didn’t he agree it suited her much better than her old name? He had to be very careful, she reminded him regularly, not to slip up and use his old name around strangers. It was important, she’d cautioned him repeatedly, although she didn’t say why. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth about his father. He was way too young to understand. Maybe if they had to move again, she’d let him choose his own name.

  Emma flipped from her back onto her side and opened her eyes to stare out the front window. Delicate wisps of cloud floated across a blue, untroubled sky. A tree branch, newly furnished with leaves, blew toward the glass. It was cool for May. The outside air smelled damp. It carried the threat of rain, which she hated. Emma took the weather very personally, which she knew was stupid. Still, did it have to be so damn unpleasant so much of the time? She’d grown up in a place of warmth and sunshine. Maybe one day she’d be able to go back.

  In the meantime, she was stuck here on Mad River Road. Another month, and school would be over. What would she do with Dylan then? Even if she had the money to send him to camp, she doubted he’d go. And she couldn’t very well take him with her to work for two months. So how could she even think of getting a job? Maybe she could convince old Mrs. Discala to babysit. Dylan liked her. He said she reminded him of his nana.

  This was all her fault, Emma thought, sleep tugging at her eyes. She was the reason her son was so fearful. If she didn’t do something soon, they’d both go crazy. Mad River Road indeed.

  She drifted into a state that was half torpor, half sleep, fantasy mingling with reality as strange images, together with actual events, began to flit in and around her consciousness. One minute she was frantically packing her bags and fleeing her home, the next minute she was diving into a turbulent stream. Familiar faces lined an unfamiliar shore, calling out to her in a variety of names, vying for her attention. They were throwing sticks and stomping their feet. Some were banging their fists against the heavy air, as if trying to beat down a door.

  Someone’s at the door, Emma realized as the banging grew louder. Who? she wondered, almost afraid to move. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and it wasn’t like any of her neighbors to just drop in uninvited. She hadn’t exactly solicited anyone’s friendship in the months since she’d taken up residence on Mad River Road, shunning the initial overtures of other single mothers on the street. It was better that way. No point in forming attachments, in getting involved in other people’s lives, when her own life was so tenuous and fraught, when a surprise phone call or an unexpected encounter could once again cause her to flee into the night. Was it really so surprising this attitude had filtered down to her son? His teacher, Ms. Kensit, regularly bemoaned Dylan’s lack of friends. Was it Ms. Kensit who was knocking on her door? Was she here to tell Emma something terrible had happened to her son? That someone had come to spirit him away?

  Emma bolted up in bed, trying to shake off the terror that was rapidly enveloping her, but it clung to her like a stubborn cold.

  Had he found them?

  She checked her watch as she pushed herself off the bed and into the upstairs hall. She’d been asleep almost half an hour. Was it possible that in that half hour, in those thirty minutes when her defenses were down, her
world had been once again, and forever, altered? All without her knowledge, and most certainly without her consent? “I do not agree to this,” she said as she inched her way down the stairs, her fingers pressing into the wall for support, leaving the sweaty imprint of her fear on the flat, white paint. “I do not accept this.” Taking a deep breath and holding it tightly in her lungs, Emma pulled open the front door and stared through the screen. I’ll kill you if I have to, she was thinking, staring at the uniformed stranger. I’ll kill you before I let you take my son away from me.

  “Parcel,” a young man with a wide space between his two front teeth announced nonchalantly. “It wouldn’t fit through the slot.” Emma pushed open the screen door as the man, whom Emma now realized was the postman, handed her a large stuffed envelope along with her regular mail, then turned on his heel and skipped down the front steps to the sidewalk. She quickly closed the door and tore open the padded envelope, pulling out what appeared to be a very long letter, neatly typed and double-spaced. From whom? she wondered, the cloak of fear returning to drape itself across her shoulders as she flipped to the final page. But instead of a signature, there were two words—THE END. “What’s going on here?” she asked, returning to the first page. The letter began:

  Dear Ms. Rogers,

  Thank you so much for the opportunity to read your short story, “Last Woman Standing.” While we found the story to be entertaining and well written, we don’t think it is quite right for the readers of Women’s Own. We wish you the best of luck in placing this piece with another magazine, and hope you will think of us in the future.

  Sincerely …

  What the hell is this? Emma wondered, understanding in that moment that the postman had delivered the envelope to the wrong address. In fact, all the mail belonged to somebody else. To one Ms. Lily Rogers of 113 Mad River Road. 113, not 131. Emma knew who Lily Rogers was. She lived at the far end of the street, nine houses down, and waved to Emma whenever she saw her. Several times she’d tried to start a conversation, but Emma had always brushed her off and rushed away. “Wait a minute,” Emma called out now, pushing open both sets of doors and searching the street for the misguided mail carrier. But he’d already turned the corner and disappeared down the next street, and she wasn’t about to go chasing after him. She’d return Lily Rogers’s mail to her this afternoon when she went to pick up her son at school. There was no rush. No one was in a big hurry to be rejected.