on. “Judged not guilty?” I brought her back to our topic. “But how?”
She took out butter, garlic, a garlic press. “What do you mean, how? They have a good lawyer. Criminal defense work isn’t about what clients have or have not done. It’s about their right to a zealous defense, a fair trial, and the presumption of innocence.”
I knew better than to comment. Susan would argue legal ethics all night, would spin defensively in emotional somersaults. I thought it best to keep my mouth shut while she showed the girls how to make garlic bread. She fluttered from topic to topic, happily bantering about the joys of fresh garlic in the same breath as the art of jury selection and the luster-building capabilities of her new shampoo.
“You really ought to use some—wash your hair with it before you go out with Stiles.” She opened a cupboard and pulled out a breadbasket.
“Mom, what did Susan say? Who are you going out with?” Molly had an uncanny knack for selective hearing. “I told you. I have a meeting.” “Make yourself look good, Zoe. He’s a hunk.”
“A hunk? Who, Mom?” Molly looked at Emily and they both began to giggle.
“Does your mom have a boyfriend?”
Molly’s eyes widened, “Mom, do you have a boyfriend?”
“Come on, Molly. You’d know if I did.”
Susan smiled. “Your mom’s got a business meeting tonight. Candlelight, soft music, wine, and business.” She took the melted garlic butter off the stove and put it on the table in front of the girls, along with brushes and bread. Immediately, they got to work.
“Speaking of your business meeting,” Susan whispered, “what about the jogger?” “What jogger?”
Susan turned away so the girls wouldn’t hear. “Some jogger found another finger in Washington Square. They think it’s one of the nannies’.”
I went cold.
“And you’ll appreciate this—according to the news, this is the first body part that’s been found.” “What about my finger?”
“What finger? Apparently, that never happened. This just shows you that the news doesn’t mean anything. Reporters read whatever gets put in front of them. They don’t know what’s really going on. The cops aren’t releasing all the facts on this one. And guess who’s in charge of the cops? Your boyfriend.”
I didn’t take the bait. “Maybe,” I breathed, “they held off telling about my finger so people wouldn’t panic.”
“Maybe. But the cops aren’t telling us everything. We’re having a moms’ meeting Thursday night. At gymnastics.”
“What are you whispering about, Mommy? Your boyfriend? Come on, tell me. Who is he?”
“Molly, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Is he that guy who always stares at you?” What was she talking about? “What guy who stares at me?” “You know who. That guy—on our street.” “On our street? You mean Victor? Or the new guy with the Santa Claus—Mr. Woods? Or Charlie?” “Charlie? Charlie’s your boyfriend!” She reeled with laughter. I leaned over and kissed her. It was time to go. “See you later. Be good. I love you.”
“Zoe, wait—take that shampoo.” Susan rushed out of the room. “No, thanks.”
“Yes. Try it. I’ll be right down.”
The girls painted bread with garlic butter. The house was unusually calm. No television, no bickering kids. Where was the chaos, the conflict, the general tumult that typically surrounded Susan? Mozart floated through the house. Dinner was simmering, and the children were happy and organized. There was no trace of turmoil, no sense of danger here. Even grisly news of vanished women, of a finger found in the park, couldn’t shake the pervasive warmth.
I suddenly felt very alone. I went to Molly and stood beside her at the table. A dish towel was tucked into her sweatshirt for protection, but she concentrated, trying not to drip. I smoothed her hair, and she squirmed.
“Stop, Mom. You’ll make me spill.”
“Sorry.”
I took my hand away.
“I won’t be late,” I said. “Have fun. I love you, Mollybear.” “Have fun, too. I love you, too.” Her words were distracted, automatic.
“Remember, she can spend the night, if you want.” Susan was back, handing me a bottle of shampoo.
“I can? Can I sleep over, Mom?” Molly asked, carelessly dripping butter all over the counter. Emily chimed in, begging.
“Please? Please?” They were a duet, a chorus of begging. “Can we have a sleepover?”
Susan’s skin glowed, her house gleamed clean, her children were radiant, and her husband was around somewhere, upstairs. Her home was warm and alive. “It’s fine with us,” she said.
I looked at my daughter. She was happy here, blending in, entirely at home. “Not tonight,” I said. “Another time.”
“Why? Why