Mark Costello - Big If

“Keep your shirt on,” Peta said.

Peta was driving to meet Lauren Czollat their second showing of the day when she got the call from Li’l People Montessori. The headmistress said that Jens had shown up around noon, barged into Kai’s classroom, dragged him out to his car, breaching several rules of Li’l People, all of which were spelled out quite clearly in a letter to the parents, the headmistress pointed out. Peta apologized, soothing the headmistress (the woman had connections to the admissions people at all of the best private schools in the county and could make or break Kai, come kindergarten time — she was nobody to fuck with, Peta knew).

Peta said, “I’m sorry. My husband’s been — sick.”

“Sick parents are not allowed in school,” the headmistress said. “Children pass these germs around.”

“It’s not a germ-type sick,” said Peta. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Peta called the house. The voice mail picked up, Peta’s rich-as-toffee phone voice playing back at her: You have reached the Asplund-Boyle residence. If you are a pollster, please press one for our opinions, and do not call back; if you are a human being, please press two and leave a message. Have a great day. ’Bye!

Peta was tempted to press one, thinking that a roll call of all the things she believed might be calming or confirming, but the sound of her own voice was good enough. She called again and again, knowing that Jens would eventually pick up.

He answered on the fourth call.

“Jens,” said Peta, trying to sound like the impressive woman on the voice mail. “Did you go to Kai’s school today?”

“I don’t like that school,” said Jens. “They practically tackled me. I have a right to see my kid. That headmistress is a psychopath, I’m telling you.”

“Where is Kai now?”

“I took the day off. I was driving. I went by the old house and I thought, well, it’s a nice day, and I felt like seeing Kai. You’d think the headmistress was president of Harvard from the way she carries on about her rules. Christ, it’s not even a school. It’s a pre -school.”

Peta drove along a beach road. She saw Lauren’s silver Jeep parked on the shoulder up ahead. Peta counted to three, another trick to calm herself. “Tell me where Kai is now, Jens.”

“He’s in his bedroom. He’s having a time-out.”

“I’d like to speak to him.”

“I think he’s asleep,” said Jens. “I haven’t heard him moving in awhile.”

Peta and Lauren Czoll stood on a blasted dunefacing the Atlantic. Behind them, on the landside of the dune, a stately Greek Revival home was sheltered in the pines.

“Asking one-point-six,” yelled Peta to the wind. “Three acres to the road. Walk-in humidor. Semiprivate bridle paths. Gazebo with an indoor-outdoor disco ball.”

The facts didn’t go together. She could feel the wind inside her mouth as she talked. She stopped talking.

“So bleak,” Lauren said. “So beautiful. I could watch the gales roll in.”

Peta tried to rally. “It’s perfect for you, Lauren. It’s just what you described under hypnosis. Let’s make an offer, darling. They’ll take one-point-five, I’m sure, so let’s offer one-point-two and see what happens.”

Saw grass swirled around their knees.

Lauren bit her lip. “No,” she said, “it isn’t right at all.”

In that moment, Peta Boyle, mother, wife, and Realtrix, finally snapped. She started up the path. The path wound through the grass, down stone steps into the quiet of the pines. Lauren hurried after her.

“Maybe you’re not ready,” Peta said.

“Not ready?” Lauren said. “What are you saying?”

“You can’t just go on looking forever, Lauren. I have other clients and new responsibilities and I’m not sure we’re making headway here.”

The wind seemed to chase them, whipping Peta’s coat.

“Maybe I’ve failed you as a broker,” Peta said.

“No,” said Lauren. “No.”

“Or maybe you’re not ready. There’s no shame in that.”

“I’m so ready I could scream,” Lauren screamed. “It’s just that I get nervous when you talk about the closing. It sounds so final, like the closing of the casket.” She grabbed Peta by the elbow and jumped in front of her. “Are you leaving me? Is that what you’re saying?”

Peta shook her off. “We’ll always have the memories, Lauren. Now get out of my way before I knock you on your ass.”

There was a little struggle on the path, Peta pushing past, Lauren holding her. Then Lauren went limp in Peta’s arms, and Peta saw the other Lauren Czoll in full fragile glory, not the cashmere bitch, but the codependent six-year-old within.

“Sometimes,” Lauren sobbed, “I think you’re the only one who really cares. Jerzy doesn’t listen, and all our friends just pretend to like me because of Jerzy’s money. I guess I’m scared that if I go to closing, we’ll drift apart, you and I. You’ve become more than a broker to me, Peta. You’ve become my best friend in the world.”

Lauren grabbed her in a hug. Peta stood there, being hugged.

The surf crashed in the distance.

Peta said, “I see.”

Leaving the big luncheon at the steak house in Pinardville,the VP and his entourage started for the mountain towns. It was early afternoon and the clouds were moving in. They had covered eight events since dawn: the VP’s morning jog/photo op, a carefully “impromptu” drop-in at McDonald’s (the VP eating Egg McMuffin like An Ordinary Guy surrounded by a crowd of journalists), three cold ropelines outside crumbling mills in central Manchester, a quick visit to a Hooksett kindergarten (the VP reading to the kids as the cameras whirred), a tour of the shop floor of a fiber-optics firm (the VP nodding in a hard hat as the cameras whirred), and finally the luncheon in Pinardville with the New Hampshire State Association of Police Chiefs.

Heading east, they came to Severance, a pretty lakeshore village (a photo op with trees, apparently — they were collecting the Sierra Club endorsement). In Severance, Vi and Tashmo were detached for special duty, Gretchen’s orders. Gretchen told them to report forthwith to Boone Saxon at Threat Assessment’s local outpost, a few miles down the highway from the lake. Vi and Tashmo, glad to be excused if only for an hour, borrowed a sedan and set off to meet the threatmen.

Vi drove and Tashmo rode. They were passing malls and bowladromes and home improvement superstores. Boone Saxon and his trainee agents tracked local known, potential, or suspected threats from a shabby rented office on the second floor of the Bank New Hampshire building. The building had two floors, drive-through teller windows, a night deposit slot, three glassed-in cash machines, and a parking lot with shrubbery and about ten spaces. Vi parked by the cash machines. She was crossing the lot with Tashmo when Peta Boyle called.

Vi walked and talked to Peta on the cell. The two women exchanged pleasantries, the usual: how are you, where are you, how is Jens, and Kai is fine. Peta was in Portsmouth, calling from her car. Vi hadn’t talked to her sister-in-law in many months and hadn’t seen her since the visit after Hinman. Vi knew that Peta had a point in calling — Peta, unlike Jens, always had a point. At first, Vi thought that something was wrong, that somebody was sick or hurt, but Peta assured her that it wasn’t so.

“Really,” Peta said. “Everything is A-Okay, we’re chugging right along!”