A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

“Not here,” Claire said. “Let’s get something better.”

They took off their skates, put their regular shoes on, and went up the path toward Fifth Avenue. Over the hills and through the woods. Jody could barely walk. It was going to hurt later, really hurt. The effect of the virus was evident. Her vision was uneven, her heart was skipping awkwardly; but she’d rather drop dead than leave the Roths now.

“Why’re the ducks all crowded into that one part?” Jake asked when they passed the pond. It was almost dark and would’ve been creepy if they weren’t all together.

“The rest of the pond is frozen,” Claire said.

“Why don’t they go somewhere else for the winter, like Aunt Shirley?” he asked.

“Because it’s their home.”

On Fifth Avenue the streetlights glowed orange, and Jody remembered the night shoot with Harry on this very corner. She remembered Carol Heberton going into the fountain fifteen times. A lifetime ago. Sam put his hand up for a cab. “I love this,” Claire said, wrapping her arm around Jody. “Isn’t it great?”

It was. The ache that began at the base of Jody’s skull and went full-length through her heart and lungs to the bleeding blister on her little toe, was real. It was active, reeking of health and physicality, and she was thankful for it — for being reminded of family, and how inescapably full of life children were.

They went to Serendipity, drank vats of hot chocolate. And when the waitress asked what Jody wanted to eat, she nodded in Claire’s direction and said, “I’ll have whatever she’s having.” When the chili arrived, she realized she didn’t even like chili; then she looked at Claire stirring the sour cream around, adding extra onions, and dug in. For chili, it was actually quite good. Past the point of thinking for herself, past the point of tension, she was filled with the intoxicating satisfaction that comes with being thoroughly spent. But her happiness, the height and buoyancy of it, frightened her. It was as though she’d been forcing herself to sit by the side of the pool, not daring to dip her toes in, and suddenly she was taking the steps to the high dive two at a time, running the length of the board, and hurling herself off the end.

“Are you okay?” Claire asked.

Jody nodded.

“What are you thinking?”

Jody shrugged. “Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

Jody shrugged again. She was stoned on relief. The worst part was over.

“What did you do to your hair?” Claire said, reaching over and running her fingers through it.

“Brushed it,” Jody said.

“You’d look great in earrings. Are your ears pierced?”

“Have been since I was twelve. Spencer Gifts, Montgomery Mall — shot straight through the lobe with one of those guns.”

“I never noticed. I’ll have to remember that. We’ll get you some really nice earrings.”

Jody shrugged and watched Adam dissecting onion rings while Jake and Sam wordlessly wolfed down enormous hamburgers.

In the cab on the way home — warm, full, pressed against Adam and Claire — Jody nearly fell asleep.

“Why don’t you come to the apartment?” Claire whispered. “You can sleep over if you want.”

Jody shook her head. “I have to go home,” she said. “I’m so tired, you wouldn’t believe. I wonder where my key is.” She worked her hand into her pocket. “Hope I didn’t lose it.”

“You really should give me a duplicate,” Claire said. “Just in case.”

“Found it,” Jody said, producing the key.

“Well, maybe you can come over tomorrow.”

The cab pulled over to the curb and a horn blared behind them as the Roths slowly piled out and they all said their goodbyes. Sam tried to hand Jody a ten, but she waved the money away and pulled the door shut. “Perry and West Fourth,” she told the driver, and the cab pulled away. Jody took a deep breath. There was absolutely nothing left; everything had been spilled, drained, sucked dry. All she could think about was how great the Roths were, and how much she wanted a hot shower, warm blankets, and a big, fluffy pillow.

I n the middle of a warm week in March, prematurely pressed into a heat wave that brought the flowers out early and left people damning both the summer to come and the winter that had never quite arrived, Claire found the house she wanted.

At ten a.m., strapped into a minivan en route to a house the real estate agent couldn’t really describe, didn’t have a picture of, but just knew Claire would love, she saw what she’d been looking for. Marked with a yellow FOR SALE sign and set back across a long lawn was a small, plain farmhouse, white with green shutters and a porch that wrapped three-quarters of the way around.

“Stop,” Claire said. “You’re passing it.”

“Oh, you don’t want that,” the agent said. “Besides, it’s under contract. I’ll have to remind someone to take care of that sign.”

“Stop,” Claire insisted, and the agent tapped the brakes, shifted into reverse, and backed up. Like a garbage truck, the car made an alarming beep-beeping warning sound.

“I know this house very well,” she said. “I showed it a thousand times before they found a buyer. It’s too small. Four bedrooms, only one’s decent-sized. No place to put a live-in. Two and a half baths — most of my clients want three or three and a half minimum. It looks like the place where my grandmother grew up. And all that grass — no one wants so much grass with such a small house. Bushes, a few evergreens, some flower beds, yes — but lawn mowing, who needs it? And you can be sure whoever would live here wouldn’t have a gardener.”

How about two strong boys and a husband, Claire thought, all of whom could stand to do a little work.

“Could we go in?” Claire asked, releasing her seat belt, and lifting the door lock like an animal opening its own cage. The agent followed her onto the front porch, where Claire stood with her nose pressed to the

“I don’t have the key,” the agent said flatly.

“When was it built?” Claire asked.

“Had to be the 1940s. No one would’ve done something like this in the fifties.”

Claire pressed her nose against the windowpane. The living room had a fireplace, a long mantel, wooden floors. To the right was a staircase with a thick wooden banister.

“Standard layout,” the agent said. “Kitchen’s a horrible aqua green, appliances and everything — it’s like being inside a Jacques Cousteau nightmare. Basement’s unfinished. One of the bathrooms needs a lot of work.”

To Claire it gave off the timeless image of family and home. Four bedrooms was two more than they already had. She pulled out her camera and took a few shots. “What are they getting?” she asked.

“Confidential,” the agent said, tapping her toe on the porch with every click of the shutter. “I’ll wait in the car,” she finally said.

Claire walked around the house, full circle, snapping the whole way round. She wanted the whole picture, soup to nuts. Finished, she got back into the car, turned to the agent, and said, “Now show me what you wanted me to see.”

Later, all Claire could remember about the other house, the one that was supposed to be just right for her, was a huge stained-glass window in the living room that filtered the morning light so that it landed like a pool of blood on the floor, and the agent asking over and over again why she wasn’t taking any photos.

“You’ll let me know,” Claire had said when they got back to the agent’s office, “if the deal falls through.” She shook the woman’s hand.

Back in the city, Claire left the car in the garage and went across the street to the one-hour photo shop. She dropped off the film, tucked the claim slip into her pocket, and hurried off to her office. Waiting for Bea, she thought about the house so intently that she imagined she could hear guests coming up to the front door and calling, “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”