The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters (11 page)

“It looks like diarrhea pancakes!” cried Sadie.

“Sadie, you don’t have permission to be disgusting, either,” snapped Perri. “And what is that thing in your hair?”

“A Mad-Eye Moody eye patch. Want to see?” Sadie secured the band around her forehead so it covered one eye.

“Very amusing, but you know you’re not allowed to wear costumes to school,” said Perri.

“I want pancake,” said Noah, attempting to climb out of his high chair, his arms flailing.

“Noah, sit down!”

“Hey, Mommy, is there any butter?” asked Mike, the Sports section open on his iPad.

“I don’t know. Have you looked in the fridge?” Perri shot back.

Mike gave her a wary look and grimaced. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of her chaise longue this morning,” he said.

“Excuse me?” said Perri, wondering when she’d started to actively dislike her husband, as opposed to merely tolerate him.

Mike sighed, stood up, and, with what appeared to be Sisyphus-like effort, ambled over to the fridge.

“Lovely pancakes, Perri,” Bob said. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” said Perri, who also couldn’t help but notice, and lament, the morsel of pancake stuck to her father’s beard. It would probably be there for days, she thought despairingly. To Perri’s knowledge, Bob hadn’t taken a single bath since he’d moved in two weeks ago. The towel she’d put out for him was still folded in a perfect square on the dresser. “Meanwhile, have you taken your pills yet?” she asked him.

Bob waggled his head and sighed. “If it hadn’t been for those godforsaken pills, Carol would be on her way to school right now.” Perri couldn’t begin to fathom what made her parents’ marriage tick—and keep ticking. But they were clearly still in love, almost nauseatingly so. “I blame myself entirely,” he went on.

“Stop, Dad,” said Perri. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault—except maybe for that moron driver. Here’s a glass of water.” She walked over to the table and set a glass down next to his plate. “Take your pills.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” said Bob. Then he turned to
Mike, and said, “Is there any way I could hitch a ride with you to the hospital today?” It was Mike’s “big day” to babysit.

“It’s a little tricky because I got the Noah-Man all day,” he answered. “But let me see. He’s got his Music for Aardvarks class down on Larchmont Avenue at eleven. I guess we could detour to Yonkers on the way over, say around ten thirty?”

“Since when is Noah doing a music class?” asked Perri, pleasantly surprised.

Mike flexed his pectorals and arched his back, a self-contented smile to match. “Since Superdad here signed him up for one.”

“I see,” said Perri, noting that Mike had been making a little more effort lately with the kids—and that she should probably give him credit for it. (Why did she have such trouble praising the things he did
right?!
)

“Well, it sounds like an excellent plan,” declared Bob. “Says an appreciative father-in-law.”

In his own way, Bob was trying to be a model father too, Perri thought. A model houseguest, as well. And he was. He always thanked her for meals. He spent most of the day in the den, reading physics journals. He even played the occasional chess game with Aiden. But he rarely took off his old vinyl bedroom slippers. And he seemed incapable of making a sandwich himself, or washing the sink after he brushed his teeth. That wasn’t really the issue, of course: Perri’s resentment went far deeper. Rationally, she knew that, in raising her and her sisters, her parents had gotten the big things right: they’d been both doting on a personal level and encouraging of education and achievement—Carol perhaps to a fault.

Perri’s lingering anger was based on her memory of her parents having been so relaxed about the small stuff—about
curfews and clean hands, smoking and sunscreen. In their laxness on these and other counts, they’d been highly negligent, Perri thought. How could Bob in particular, a scientist who studied radiation, not have devoted more of his energies to protecting his children from UVA (and B) rays?! Every morning, Perri looked at the indelible sun spots on her cheeks and forehead—she refused to call them “freckles,” a misleading euphemism if there ever was one—and felt simmering rage at him and Carol for having failed to preserve what little beauty she could claim. Never mind the melanoma risk.

Perri also suspected that her parents, who had never really disciplined any of them, preferring to look the other way when faced with their antisocial behavior, were responsible both for Gus’s emotional instability and for Olympia’s inability to sustain a romantic relationship. Bob and Carol had never set limits. So her sisters had never learned that they couldn’t do exactly what they pleased at the moment that it pleased them. That Perri hadn’t fallen prey to the same impulses was, to her mind, the result of a strong personality that, even as a child, had allowed her to monitor and even police her own behavior. She also firmly believed that she’d grown up amid a disgraceful level of dirt and sloth, her parents having placed history and science before personal hygiene or clean bathrooms in the hierarchy of importance.

In any case, it was time to go. “Okay, that’s it. Everyone in the car,” she declared. “Right now. It’s already seven forty. Aiden, did you remember your cleats?”

He didn’t answer.

“Aiden, I’m talking to you!” Sometimes, Perri felt as if she were talking to the wall.

“What?” he said.

“We need to go.”

“I’m not finished with breakfast.” His mouth still full, Aiden dug his fork back into Lake Syrup.

“Take a last bite and
come on!
” The child loved to eat in ways that made Perri nervous.

“And, Sadie, you, too. Get your coat on
right now.
”

“Aiden’s got syrup on his chin.”

“Do not.”

“Do so.”

“You two,
enough!!
” As Perri literally shoved her children out the door, she wondered when she’d turned into a shrieking battle-ax. That had never been the plan.

Even on her “city days,” and even with Mike at home, Perri made a point of dropping her two older kids at school before she left for work. She enjoyed seeing them run up the steps and disappear through the double doors.
Occupied for the next six and a half hours, at least.
This was the primary thought that went through her head. Had an earlier generation of parents spent so much time worrying that their children would be bored? Perri had no idea if either Sadie or Aiden actually
liked
school. As many children did, they typically answered “Fine” to the question “How was school?” and “Nothing” to the question “What did you do today?” But neither seemed reluctant to get out of the car, at least. And on occasion, one would excitedly attest to some possibly fantastical development such as “Guess what? Our gym teacher has bird flu!” (Sadie) or “Porter Smith’s dad got arrested for
tax elation
” (Aiden).

That morning, after school drop-off, Perri returned to the house to collect her briefcase. She found Noah standing two
feet from the TV, his eyes enormous. Mike was sprawled on the sofa behind him, singing along to the opening credits in a rich baritone: “Yoouuurrr backyard friends, the backyaaaardigaaaannnnns. In the place where we belong, where we’ll probably sing a song…” It was cute, sort of. Except not quite. A familiar rush of irritation and impatience replaced Perri’s earlier happiness over the music class news. For the eight hours a week that Mike performed childcare, why couldn’t he sit on the floor and play with blocks, or show Noah a map of the world, or even bounce a ball his way? It was a competitive world. Chinese kids Noah’s age were probably already adding fractions! Perri experienced a familiar rush of fear as well—that her family was falling hopelessly behind in the race to the top.

It was more than that, too.

When Perri was young, the Hellinger family hadn’t even owned a TV set. Carol, who considered television to be a scourge on humanity, hadn’t purchased one until the mid-90s after her three daughters had left for college and ostensibly only to watch
Great Performances
on PBS, whereupon Bob had gotten hooked on the vintage police drama,
Hawaii Five-O.
And yet, Perri didn’t remember feeling deprived—maybe because she and her sisters had been too busy building dollhouse furniture out of matchsticks (Perri), conducting “science experiments” with baking soda and toothpaste (Gus), and painting scenery for Greek tragedies (Pia), which the three of them would then perform in togas made of their own twin sheets fastened over the shoulder with safety pins.

It wasn’t until sixth grade that Perri had realized what she’d been missing—and how unusual her upbringing was. After she confused the animated TV show and its eponymous dog,
Scooby-Doo, for a candy bar, her classmates had laughed—and Perri had experienced deep feelings of shame and alienation. When she became a mother herself, she’d been determined that her own kids should avoid a similar fate. But at the same time, she’d secretly suspected that Carol was right and that creativity blossomed in inverse proportion to the amount of screen time allowed. In what was Perri’s greatest and (arguably) only rebellion against the Hellinger family, aggressive normalcy had ultimately won out. She’d relented on morning cartoons, and then relented on video games. And yet…

Perri lifted the remote off the coffee table and hit the power button. The screen fluttered into darkness.

“Ttttttttt Vvvvvvvvvv!” wailed Noah.

“Sweetie poo,” said Perri, lifting him into her arms. “Mommy doesn’t want your brain turning to mush.”

But the child kept wailing. That was when she noticed the cereal bar—suddenly smeared across the collar of her freshly dry-cleaned silk blouse, mashed strawberries and all. “God damn it!” she cried as she turned back to Mike. “How many times have I asked you
not
to let the kids eat in the living room!” At the ferocity of her upbraiding, Noah cried even harder. Upset to see him upset, Perri felt even more inflamed at her husband. “See what you’ve done now!”

“See what
I’ve
done?” He laughed. “I’m not the one who turned off his favorite show, then yelled at him for eating breakfast.”

In an attempt to control her rage, Perri breathed in and out, both to a count of three. “I’m late—and I have to go change now,” she said finally. She deposited the child on his father’s stomach and walked out.

“Are you trying to make this house an incredibly unpleasant place to live in? Or only a
slightly
unpleasant place?” Mike called after her.

The comment stung, and Perri stopped short. Catching her reflection in the mirror over the console table, she was aghast to discover how puffy and ill-defined her face had become with age. She was beginning to resemble a Yorkshire pudding. And what if Mike was right? What if she’d become unbearable to be around? And if she
had
become unbearable, was it mostly because he’d stopped having sex with her? Or had he stopped having sex with her because she was so unbearable? And had she not had perfectly valid grounds for complaining just now, or was she being too much of a stickler? Should she have cut Mike some slack and let the TV stay on?

Perri changed into a short-sleeve sweater. Then she went back downstairs. She hated leaving for work right after she and Mike had had a fight. But she also knew that she’d have to be the one to apologize. Somehow, despite her doubts and melancholy, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. She had too much pride. And yet, how badly she wished her husband would come to her just then, put his arms around her waist and tell her how lucky he was to have a wife like her. Stalling, she went to collect the mail. She found the usual bills and catalogues waiting in the basket. She must have gotten six catalogues a day. Sometimes Perri felt as if Pottery Barn and J. Crew were personally stalking her. In the Closet sent out only two catalogues per year. Perri felt it made the experience of receiving one special.

She also found a credit card offer addressed to one Ginny Budelaire. Perri recognized the name as that of the previous owner of the house. At the time of the sale, Ginny Budelaire, then in her eighties, had been afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease.
So her grown children had sold the place on her behalf. According to their real estate agent, Ginny had been a chorus girl at Radio City Music Hall back in the 1940s. Later, she’d married an Amtrak executive who’d seen her onstage. It had been hard to connect the story with the figure who Perri had caught a glimpse of during her final walk-through with Mike. To Perri’s recollection, Ginny Budelaire had been a tiny slumped woman with parchment skin, vacant eyes, and a wisp of orange hair. Perri also recalled the rush of joy and pride she’d experienced that afternoon as she and Mike—grown-ups at last!—had made their way through the house, Mike squeezing her hand and Perri squeezing back. As if coconspirators in a secret pact that was finally coming to fruition. How long ago that all seemed now…

It was getting late. Perri had a nine thirty meeting with an investor. She took the envelope into the kitchen with her and, feeling that it was somehow sacrilegious to toss it in the trash, stuck it in her handbag instead. Then she walked back into the living room and gave Noah a kiss good-bye. He’d stopped crying for the moment, if only because the TV was back on. He was also sitting in Mike’s lap. “I’ll be home by six thirty, seven. Thank you for taking my father to the hospital,” she told her husband in a flat and inanimate voice and without making eye contact.

“Sure thing,” he replied faux breezily.

A blur of ranch houses and warehouses, anemic-looking poplars and junked car part lots, greeted Perri’s eyes through the window of her Metro-North car. Finally, the train slowed into Grand Central. Perri slung the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder and stepped out.

Her office in the city was on the thirteenth floor of a generic glass high-rise on Fifth Avenue in the 30s. Her business partner was a woman named LuAnn, who was older and had once worked as an interior decorator. The two shared adjacent offices. They also employed twenty-three people, more than half of them under thirty. One of them was a graphic designer with a handlebar mustache, an extensive collection of skintight jeans and oversized plaid shirts that he wore buttoned to the neck, and a tattoo of a pizza on his left hand. His name was Troy, and he functioned as Perri’s connection to the “next generation.” In the Closet’s chief demographic was thirty-five- to forty-two-year-olds, but Perri and LuAnn were hoping to expand into the collegiate and postcollegiate market with a lower-priced line called ITC.