“Maybe this is a wake-up call. Do I want to write thank-you notes for the rest of my life? What kind of job is that for a college graduate with a major in English literature and a minor in French?”
“You’re not quitting! What kind of wifey, old-school plan is that?”
“This might be the Fates knocking on my door, saying, ‘Okay, we got you back to Everton, and according to our plan, you met Nick. But he’ll still be there when you come home at night’—Right? That’s not an overreach, is it?—‘but is there something more meaningful out there? Can’t the kids on scholarship write their own thank-you letters, for Chrissake? Think about it, Faith.’?”
“You’re not quitting, and I’m telling Dickenson, ‘Frankel is not a factor because this thing—us—started when we were equals, coworkers, housemates.” At long last, a smile. “What we do in the privacy of our home has no bearing on our job performance at Everton Country Day unless you count the occasional feel I cop in the privacy of our office.”
“Bravo,” I said. “Now go over there right now and accept the offer.”
Finally on his feet, he gave his scarf a swashbuckling toss, and said, “Here goes.”
By the time he returned, I’d looked at the Everton Country Day job listings. There I’d discovered an opening—its five lines in red, indicating Need you yesterday—for a teacher of English in the middle school, for which I was, at least on paper, marginally qualified.
39
Good Try, Though
A WEEK HAD PASSED without any forward motion on what I was calling—inaccurately, but in homage to Nancy Drew—the Mystery of the 99 Steps. I phoned Brian Dolan and told him that I’d Googled “search warrants good for how long?” and discovered they were not for an indefinite amount of time.
He wasn’t impressed. “We had your verbal consent for our return visits,” he said. “Good try, though.”
“I just want my house back. I want to stop thinking about what might have gone on here.”
Was that an exasperated sigh I heard? “Can I give you a little advice?” he asked.
I could hardly say no.
“You’re too worked up over this. In the great scheme of things, we were underfoot for two, two and a half days.”
“Maybe true. But there’s the emotional side of it—the creepiness, living in a house that was a murder site—and don’t give me ‘alleged.’?”
“Ages ago.”
“Then why is there a whole website called DiedintheHouse.com if such a thing rolled off people’s backs? Not to mention the pragmatic side of it. How will I ever unload such a property?”
“We’ll be in touch,” he said.
At 5:45 p.m. that same day, I was the first one home, so why was my back door ajar? I carefully opened it to observe not the likeliest of visitors, my mother, but Anna Lavoie, dressed impeccably in a gray twinset, pearls, and pleated skirt, at my stove, heating water in my tea kettle.
I considering running for my life, or at least jumping back into my car, locking the doors, and calling 911, but I didn’t want to leave her to burn down my house. When I called her name, she didn’t startle or turn around.
I moved closer, switched on the overhead light, and switched off the burner with a snap. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Who let you in? This isn’t your house anymore.”
“Then why do I have a key if I don’t live here?”
“I bought it fair and square from your daughter who, I understood, had power of attorney.”
When that appeared to give her pause, I said, “I’m calling her right now. She’ll tell you.” It took a bit of scrolling to find the Maui daughter’s number on my phone while at the same time keeping my eye on my intruder. Reaching only Theresa Tindle’s cheery outgoing message, I rattled off, none too calmly, “This is Faith Frankel. Your mother is in my kitchen on Turpentine Lane. She thinks she still owns it. She let herself in with a key, which you apparently failed to collect. Call me immediately. This is no joke.”
Mrs. Lavoie was listening, her disapproval visible. “Frankel?” she asked. “Are you Jewish?”
I said yes I was Jewish; what does that have to do—
“That proves it,” she said.
“Proves what?”
“That you don’t own this house. I wouldn’t have sold it to Jewish people.”
I said, “It’s bad enough that you trespassed, but you have the nerve to stand here in my own kitchen and insult me?”
A back-and-forth ensued over the words trespassed and my kitchen. Luckily, the phone rang. It wasn’t the daughter calling me in record time, but Nick from his car. Did I need anything, because he’d be passing the market— “Nick! Mrs. Lavoie is here. I’m home. I found her in the house! She thinks she still owns it!”
“Call 911,” he said, “and I’m not kidding.”
I told him to come straight home, to forget the market, and please stay on the line in case she tried anything.
“Who was that?” Mrs. Lavoie asked.
“My boyfriend. He’ll be here in a minute. And he’s big.”
“Is he Jewish, too?”
I said, “Do you know how ignorant you sound?”
“Is he?”
“He happens to be Catholic.”
“I used to be Catholic. I gave it up after I confessed some things the priest didn’t like.” She shook her head. “Didn’t like one bit.”
Because she was standing in front of our butcher-block knife holder, I asked her to move away from the counter.
“I will if you get me the paperwork.”
I said, “First of all, you’re in no position to be negotiating with me. And second, I’m not leaving you alone.”
I heard Nick’s car screech into the driveway. I said, “That’s my boyfriend, and he’s not happy about your being here.”
“I hate men,” she said. “I never saw the point.”
Was this my fact-finding opportunity? “What about Joseph?” I asked. “Did you hate him?”
“Joseph? Who told you about him?”
“You did. You told me he looked like Harry Belafonte.”
“I want you to leave,” she said.
“And you had babies with him, didn’t you?”
“I was too old to have babies! I’d already gone through the change. How could I have babies?”
“Twin girls,” I said. “Jeannette and her sister. You saw the photos! In fact, you snatched them.”