If I’d thought anything about Heather and Viktor’s marriage, it was that they were less likely than the rest of us to experience marital tension because they had a much higher income than most of us. I’m not saying that money buys happiness, of course not, but what it can do is alleviate certain stresses. You can farm out the cleaning, cooking, and even child care. Of course, if I’d stayed at the law firm, we could have had all those things, but I didn’t trust anyone else to take proper care of my kids. Eric’s teaching salary wasn’t a lot for a family of five to live on, but we pinched pennies and never hired anyone to do a job we could do ourselves, or sometimes we put off things like updating our kitchen or replacing our aging minivan. What could people like Heather and Viktor, who had more than enough money to pay for all of their living expenses, possibly have to feel stressed about?
“Who knows what was going on at the party,” I said to Julie. “It was late and everybody was drinking. You said yourself you walked in on them. If they seem fine, they probably are.”
“But what about what Alison saw—” Julie started.
“It was a small bruise, for God’s sake,” I interrupted her. “It’s a big leap to conclude that Heather must be a battered spouse. For an IT consultant, Alison has an overactive imagination.”
I know that sounds harsh, but there was just something about Alison’s personality that could sometimes rub me the wrong way. What irritated me about her? This is where I am ashamed of myself, because it was nothing more than her needing attention. Alison wanted company, following us around with a big-eyed eagerness that reminded me of my father’s golden retriever.
Cookie sat at my father’s feet every night as he read the paper in his leather wingback chair. He went straight there every evening when he came home from his law office, sinking back like a turtle pulling into its shell, only leaving his paper when my mother called everyone to the supper table. I wanted his attention, desperately wanted him to notice me, but I’d be damned if I’d wait, like that big dog at his feet, staying for the occasional moments when he’d lean down and rub one of her long, silky ears. The poor creature was content with these scraps of affection. It’s one reason I’ve always been a cat person.
It wasn’t Alison’s fault that she reminded me of Cookie, with her shaggy blond hair and soft retriever eyes. She had that same eager look. Sometimes I imagined that I could see a tail wagging when Julie laughed at something Alison said. I know that Julie laughed sometimes just to please Alison, because that’s the way Julie was—lightness and laughter, a person without a mean bone in her fit body.
I don’t mean to sound so short-tempered about Alison, because I truly enjoyed her friendship, too; she was nice and generous and very smart, far smarter than her puppy-dog behavior initially led me to believe. Truthfully, I think part of what annoyed me about Alison was that she thought she and Julie had more in common because they’d both chosen to keep their careers while raising their kids and I hadn’t.
It’s not that I was ashamed of being a SAHM. I was proud of it. I loved being home with my kids and I placed great value on my time with them—but I felt defensive about having to justify my choice.
That’s why I was initially happy when Heather joined us. It made me feel like I didn’t have to apologize for choosing my kids over my career. Although if people asked Heather what she did, sometimes she’d say, “Nothing,” which I really disliked. Being a mother is not nothing—not at all. Granted, it’s not like being a model, which was Heather’s past life, or even a lawyer, IT consultant, or real-estate agent. You can’t put “Mom” on your résumé—but it’s not nothing.
But maybe that’s the way Viktor treated it? Treated her? I’d never seen any signs of that, but I could certainly find out. Daniel and Sam had been given roles in the school’s fall play and I was one of the parent volunteers. “I have to drop off Daniel’s costume,” I said to Julie. “I’ll see if I notice anything.”
Heather’s house was much larger than the rest of ours. It sat high on the hill in an area called Sewickley Heights, which I sometimes referred to as Puck Palisades because of the Penguins players who owned grand homes there.
There were large stone pillars on either side of the drive up to Heather’s house, and the mansion itself was also stone, an imposing, Victorian-looking structure that, combined with the circular driveway, reminded me of British period dramas. I always half expected to see a butler come out to greet me. Instead, it was Heather who opened the large, arched wooden door, giving me a languid wave as I stepped out of the car and reached in to the backseat to fetch Daniel’s costume.
“Thanks for bringing it.” Heather greeted me with a quick peck against the cheek. She looked amazing, but then she always did, even in an old pair of jeans and a slouchy sweater over a T-shirt. An outfit like that would make me look frumpy and even shorter, but on her it was the epitome of casual chic. “Come on in and have something to drink,” she said, leading the way through the front hall and into the massive eat-in kitchen with its high-end white cabinets and huge unbroken slabs of Carrara marble. While I draped Daniel’s costume over a chair back, Heather opened the door of the enormous side-by-side stainless-steel refrigerator and practically disappeared inside it. “Which would you prefer,” she said, lifting something off the door.
“Anything white,” I answered, before I saw that what she held was not a bottle of wine but of sparkling, flavored water.
“I’ve got plain, too, if you’d prefer it?”
“No, no this is fine,” I said, although I’ve got to admit that I was a bit disappointed. It would have been much easier to have this conversation if both of us had a pleasant buzz.
She poured two glasses and sat down across from me at the kitchen island. “Thanks again for making Daniel’s costume—you’re so clever. I’m not crafty like that—Daniel should have you for a mother.”
“No, no, you’re a wonderful mom—he gets so much from you.”
We went on like this for two minutes. It’s the standard female friends drill—no, you’re wonderful; no, you!—that can drive people outside the circle a bit crazy.
When she mentioned that Viktor was working late, I took the opening. “Those long hours must be super stressful,” I said.
“Mmm,” she said, which was decidedly noncommittal.
“I get annoyed when Eric’s job cuts into our home life. For instance, when he has to spend the weekend grading. We argue about it sometimes.”
“That’s too bad,” she said, but then one of the cleaners came into the kitchen and that was the end of the conversation. At Heather’s suggestion, we carried our glasses out of the kitchen and into her formal living room. I thought how nice it must be to have someone to do the dirty work for you, to not have to spend countless hours fighting a losing battle against the perpetual untidiness of a house with children.
“Do you trust them?” I whispered to Heather, both of us turning at the noise as one of the women pushed a vacuum down the hall and into the dining room. Even though I knew she couldn’t hear me, I still whispered, uncomfortable with the classism clearly on display. There were the two of us sitting with our drinks, doing nothing, the very definition of the idle rich, while behind us a small bevy of worker bees combed through the house putting things in order.
“No,” Heather said. “I think they like to listen in on my conversations.”