What It Was Like (22 page)

After a while, almost without my intention, my driving took me back to the town of Oakhurst, all quiet for the night. And like a penny nail to a magnet, I was drawn slowly back to the Princes' neighborhood. All the streets were super silent. There were no cars on the roads or in the driveways. Except for porch lights and the occasional soft light behind a heavy drape, everything was closed up for the night. I felt a slight spark of hope: maybe Max was asleep now. Maybe there would be a light on in one of the upstairs bedrooms around the back of the Princes' brick fortress – the light in Rachel's bedroom. She said that she wasn't sleeping well lately. I wonder if she did take some of Eleanor's sleeping pills. I wished she didn't talk about killing her mother; that was allowing Eleanor's poison to enter her heart. But maybe she was still awake, waiting for me. Maybe right that moment she was looking out her window, expecting me to come back.

I slowed down as I turned the corner onto Buckingham Terrace. I figured that the best strategy would be to park around the corner from the Princes' house and approach the cul-de-sac on foot. That way my car would not be visible from the Princes' house.
Stealth
and
darkness
would be my friends. Just as I started to look for a place to park in the shadows of one of the big, sheltering trees, far away from one of the few streetlights, my eye caught sight of something in my rearview mirror: It was a police car! With a row of lights across the top!

My heart jumped, my foot pumped, and I sped ahead. I nervously checked the car that was now right behind me.
Wait a second
, I told myself,
that's
not
a police car
. It was a red-and-white car from some private security company, some rent-a-cop; not a real policeman. He was probably just cruising the neighborhood, checking on one of his customers' houses. Still, he scared the you-know-what out of me and I panicked, thinking that if this guy was around, what other security company cars could be driving around? And what about the regular Oakhurst police? And if they're
that
paranoid in this neighborhood – and maybe they should be – maybe I should get out of there. I hit the gas and sped out of the Princes' super-safe neighborhood, losing the rent-a-cop behind me.

And so I went home without ever going back to her house that night, scared again, like a frightened little dog. Very brave, very loyal. My parents were asleep when I got home, and the house was freezing. My father – “Heat-ler” – kept it so cold in the winter that we all had to wear sweaters inside. By nighttime, my room upstairs was like a meat locker. So I undressed as quickly as I could and scrambled into bed, under four blankets. I wound up tossing in my bed most of the night, feeling stupid and frustrated. I must have slept, but I don't remember exactly when. What I remember was planning: planning how to break the grounding of Rachel. At least how to get a message to her. I finally fell asleep after tormenting my brain almost until dawn, trying unsuccessfully to remember fat Nanci from Lord & Taylor's last name. If I could get to her, maybe she could get to Rachel, and we could devise something, some way to get around this ridiculous grounding. She had to live;
we
had to live. I couldn't let them get away with destroying the best thing I had going in my life. I could picture that Nanci's face, her clothes, her large roundish body, her Dingo boots, even her giant purse with all the fringe; I just couldn't for the life of me remember her last name. Of course, first thing in the morning while I was brushing my teeth, looking at my red, wrinkled eyelids, it snapped instantly into my mind:
Jerome
.

≁

So the next day, instead of reading Aristotle and churning out the two papers I had due, I drove over to the Oakhurst Public Library and dove into the local telephone directory that they had by the pay phone in the lobby. I found three listings for “Jerome” in the white pages and instantly I knew which one probably belonged to Nanci's family. Only one street address had one of those fake-British names that they used in Rachel's neighborhood. I wrote down all three addresses and cross-referenced them against the big street map of the Town of Oakhurst (Incorporated in 1836) on the lobby wall. Sure enough, one of the Jerome addresses was right around the corner from Rachel. I smiled: now I was getting someplace.

I drove over to the address that was nearest Rachel's. I prowled slowly and quietly through the winding streets, so as not to attract attention. My shabby Ford didn't really belong there. When I got to the streets with the fake-British names, I went even slower. There was always a chance that Eleanor or Herb might be driving around. Of course I had every right to drive on these public roads, but still, I didn't want to be seen. My mind flashed back to that ridiculous argument that the Doggies had about which super-power would be the best to possess. I remember thinking that invisibility would be my preferred power. I was right; I wished that I were invisible right then. What if Eleanor couldn't see me? Or Herb the Sleaze? Or Manny, if he was around. If I were invisible, I could walk right into the Princes' house, right through that shiny black door, and right up to Rachel's bedroom. I'd never even seen her room, but I imagined that it must be beautiful: a princess' boudoir, all soft and frilly and inviting. I could walk right up there and –

But if I were invisible, then my body might not have any substance. Then I wouldn't be able to feel or touch her.

Maybe I had better rethink this invisibility thing again.

≁

I parked and approached the first Jerome house on my list. This had to be the one. It was even bigger than the Princes' house. Only this one wasn't brick. This was a giant fake-French chateau made of pseudo-limestone. OK, maybe it was real limestone; only it all looked fake, this mini-Versailles on the south shore of Long Island.

With complete confidence – I was doing nothing wrong – I walked up to the front door, painted a perfect glossy white, and rang the bell. As I waited, I looked around at the neighborhood, the wide lawns cut close as winter was approaching, the perfect hedges and the bare trees, one humungous house after another, and absolutely no people. Why wasn't anyone out on a Saturday morning?

The door opened and I turned around. It was a nurse in a white uniform – no, it was a maid. A black maid in a starched white uniform who was looking at me with dark, suspicious eyes.

“Yes?” she said, putting her hand on the doorjamb, blocking my way in.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is Nanci home?”

I waited an eternal, hopeful moment as she looked me up and down.

Finally, she said sarcastically, “And who should I say's calling?” She could hardly get out the words.

“Just tell her Rachel Prince's friend,” I said brightly. “She'll know.”

She snorted and said, “Wait here,” closing the door flat in my face.

I didn't care. I smiled. I had found the right Jerome.

≁

Five minutes later, I was inside Nanci Jerome's enormous, echoey house, following her rather large behind in jeans and her flopping moccasins up the winding staircase to her room.

“Thank you, Pauline!” she shouted to the maid in white who was disappearing someplace into the vast downstairs beyond the marbled foyer.

“Welcome!” she drawled back and was gone.

Nanci's room was big and pretty dark, with a high ceiling and tightly closed heavy satin drapes. There were posters (Janis Joplin and the Dylan one with the curly, colorful hair) on the walls and lots of taped-up pencil and ink drawings. She was burning incense, two sticks in a glass of sand, and had one small, yellow table lamp with a fringed, satin shade lit on the end table next to her rumpled bed. In the corner was one of those big slanted drawing tables, with cans of colored pencils at the top, and a swivel high chair in front. It was still daytime, but it could have been midnight in Nanci's room.

“Eleanor and Manny Prince's marriage was basically a nightmare,” said Nanci, tucking her short brown hair behind her ear. “Always was. And from what I can see, their divorce isn't doing much better. Manny is basically a brute, a Neanderthal who made a little money. My parents at least have the good sense to be old and away a lot.” I couldn't help but notice Nanci's heavy asthmatic breathing between phrases, like sometimes she was eating the air.

“I guess it's good they got divorced,” I said.

“It's tough on Rachel, either way,” she replied, sitting back on her bed, which made the mattress sink.

“The only child of two psycho parents who fight constantly?” I said, finding a place to sit down – a desk chair that looked pretty solid. “Not a good situation.”

“Unless she can work some kind of
divide
-and-
conquer
.”

“Work both ends against the middle,” I assented.

“Whatever
that
means.”

“Whatever it is, it sounds good and aggressive.”

She laughed, “You really hate them, don't you?”

“Why shouldn't I? All they do is make Rachel miserable. It's as if they enjoy it.”

“People do odd things in the name of love.”

I wondered what exactly she meant by that. She was obviously telling herself a private joke. I let it pass.

I complimented her on her drawings, which hung all over the walls – squiggly, obsessively detailed drawings of odd people and tilted scenery. I was polite enough to ask her about going to Pratt where she was a painting major, before I asked her for my favor. I wasn't exactly insincere in my flattery, but I knew what I was there for.

“Of course, I'll call Rachel for you,” she said. “Try to break through the Great Wall of Eleanor? I'm glad to do it:
someone
should be happy in this diseased, little world.”

“Great!” I said, ignoring the cynicism in her sentiment. “We're lucky you can get through to Eleanor.”

“I am completely fluent in ‘grown-up,'” she replied, reaching for the yellow Princess phone on her night table. I didn't say that it was because she was shaped like one, but that's what I couldn't help thinking.

“I even play canasta,” she added dryly, starting to dial. “That's assuming they'll let Rachel come to the phone. I don't know why Rachel doesn't get her own phone back.”

“Her
own
phone?” I asked, instantly liking that idea.

“She used to have a phone of her own,” Nanci said as she dialed. “But Hell-eanor took it away.”

“Why?”

“Because she could,” replied Nanci, and before I could say anything, someone answered on the other end.

“Hello, Eleanor?” said Nanci in a bright perky voice, totally different from the way she was just talking. “It's Nanci! Is Rache' there?”

She waited for a moment, with her eyebrows raised, wagging her head, listening hopefully.

“OK, I understand,” she said. “But I just need to talk to her for a minute. It's pretty important.”

She winced a little, listening to Eleanor's response.

“I see . . . I understand,” said Nanci. “It's just something
really
important I need to discuss with her about
school
. . . . Now.” I liked the way she was playing Eleanor.

Nanci waited some more, listening to Eleanor on the other end, nodding patiently, while I tried to read her face.

“Great!” Nanci said, giving me a twisted thumbs-up. “I'll wait right here.”

Taking the phone away from her ear and covering it with her free hand, she whispered, “She bought it.”

“You're fantastic!” I whispered as she shushed me.

“Hello, Rachel?” she said carefully. “I have someone here who would like to speak to you.”

With an excited grin, Nanci shoved the phone into my hands. I caught it and spoke quickly.

“Hello, honey?” I said. “It's me. Pretend you're talking to Nanci.”

“Hello, Nanci!” Rachel said with a big happy surprise in her voice. “How nice to talk to you!”

“I can't believe the witch actually grounded you.”

“Neither can I,” she said brightly, responding to some nicer, imaginary comment.

“I
really
wanted to see you last night,” I said in a lower, more meaningful voice.

“Me too!” she sounded much too chipper.

“Is she standing right there?” I asked.

“You got it,” she said, relieved that I understood her circumstances.

“Do you think you could ask her for a little privacy?” I said.

I heard her voice a little distance from the phone ask, “Do you think I could have a little privacy, Ma? It's just Nanci!”

I waited a few moments, listening to Rachel breathe, watching Nanci watch me on the phone in her dark room with all the weird drawings.

Rachel came back on. “It's OK, she's gone. We just have a minute.”

“Thank
goodness
! How are you?” I whispered.

“OK, I guess,” she said in a low voice. “But I miss you so much, I can't stand it.”

“How long is this grounding?” I asked. “And what did you do?”

“I didn't do anything! And I don't know how long she's going to keep this up. She's psychotic, and Herb is just making her worse.”

“To hell with Herb!” Just the mention of his name made me flush with anger. “We have to figure out some way to get you out of there!”

“I know!” she said, exasperated that I was stating the obvious.

“Maybe we can – Maybe
Nanci
can help us!”

I took the phone away from my ear and asked/said, “Nanci, you'll help us, won't you?”

Her eyes widened, and she shrugged. “Sure.”

“Great! You're terrific,” I said to Nanci. Then into the phone, “Nanci says she'll help us. So make up some story to get over here. Say that Nanci is having a nervous breakdown or something, and she needs you. Say she's on the verge of suicide!”

“Thanks a bunch,” muttered Nanci sarcastically, reaching for a roll of Life Savers on her night table, revealing a wide wedge of white flesh where her peasant blouse pulled away from her jeans.

“Just get her to let you come over here!” I insisted. “Tell her it's an emergency.”

“I'll try,” she said.

“It
is
an emergency,” I said, and lowered my voice. “I need to see you.”

“I know, baby,” she breathed. “Me too.”

And she hung up the phone.

I stood there with the yellow phone in my hand.

“Well?” asked Nanci.

“I don't know,” I said honestly, handing the phone back to her. “We'll see.”

She hung up the phone with a click and turned to me with a sly look.

“You wanna smoke some hash?” she asked.

≁

I should say right now that, unlike what was implied in the newspapers during my trial, I am
not
a big drug user. Some guys like to brag about how much they've done, how wild they've gotten. That's not me. I confess: I'm a wimp when it comes to drugs, so the two puffs I took from the tiny pipe – blown out of the window of Nanci's bathroom – were enough to knock me for a relative loop.

Walking back into Nanci's bedroom, I felt light-headed and hopeful, suddenly optimistic about my chances of seeing Rachel.

“You spell ‘Nanci' with an ‘i,'” I said. “Why is that?”

“To be unusual,” she said with a straight face as she flopped back onto her bed. “Nobody would notice me if I were just a Nancy-with-a-‘y.'”

I liked her humor: you were never quite sure if she was being funny or not.

“You're great to do this, Nanci,” I said. “Anything to give Rachel a way to get out of there. I don't even know why Eleanor wants her around; all they do is fight.”

“Parents have no idea how to raise kids, for the most part,” Nanci said. “The Princes are especially clueless. But Rachel is so, you know,
pretty
, that she always gets away with things.”

“So, I don't get it,” I said, sitting back on the high swivel chair in front of her art table. “You're all alone in this big house?”

“Pauline is here.”

“Besides her,” I said. “Where are your parents?”

“In Bermuda.”

“Bermuda?” I cackled. “All I know about Bermuda is shorts and onions. What about any brothers or sisters?”

“I have a brother who lives in Connecticut with his family, and my sister lives in Phoenix.”

“
Phoenix
?
 
So, like I said,” I repeated. “You're all alone in this big house. I know: with Pauline –”

“And my parents' checkbook.”

“Wow,” I said. “That sounds kind of . . . ideal.”

“You think so?” she said with a twisted, knowing smile.

The phone rang. We both froze. I felt the impulse to pick it up, but it was Nanci's phone.

“You pick it up,” I said.

Emptying the little hash pipe in the little ashtray next to her bed, Nanci picked up the receiver silently. She put it to her ear and said, “Hello?”

She looked down, listening with concentration. Finally she said, “OK . . . OK . . . I will. I'll tell him.”

And she hung up, in slow motion.

“Well?” I asked, knowing what she was going to say before she said it.

“Forget it,” she said flatly. “She's grounded, period. Eleanor said no. That's it.”

“That's
it
?” I shouted, feeling that swell of anger rise within me.