Once she had two or three possibilities, Zoë would call her editors at Vanity Fair or the New York Chronicle. Sometimes she met the editors in their offices, and if she was lucky and her last piece had been well-received, she got taken out to lunch. But meal or no meal, one of her ideas was always picked up, and presto, she had a new assignment.
But with all the distractions of finding Maya a new school and moving out of the city, Zoë hadn’t managed to come up with anything promising to run past her editors. And since she was living in the middle of nowhere, it was unlikely that she was going to draw any inspiration from taking a walk.
Zoë glanced at the time on her computer. Almost eleven in the morning. Exactly five minutes after she’d sat down in the first place. If time continued to move this slowly in the country, she’d still be forty-two while all of her city friends were turning fifty.
At the moment, this did not seem like sufficient consolation. The cat jumped up and walked across her keyboard, and Zoë shooed him off and returned to staring at the computer. Z is for Zoë who died of ennui.
Crap. Zoë got up from the computer and looked in the refrigerator for inspiration. She shoved the frozen bagel into the toaster, feeling disgusted. Which was ridiculous. So Arcadia didn’t have decent bagels. Back in the eighties, she’d been forced to eat dog at an Indonesian feast day so as not to offend her hosts.
The toaster pinged, but the fake bagel seemed to have dissolved into the hot metal. Zoë extracted it in pieces, staring out her window at the pretty, empty landscape of grass and trees. She could hear the persistent percussive sound of a woodpecker, and the honking of migrating geese, and all Zoë could think was, I miss hydraulic drills and cops shouting through megaphones and I want to go home. She dialed Bronwyn’s number.
“I can’t stand it,” she said, in lieu of a greeting. “I’ve lost my life and my mind.”
“I’m guessing you finished your article.”
“I have no ideas anymore.”
“You always say that right before you get the next idea. Hey, guess what I was doing when you called?”
Zoë opened a box of Maya’s Cocoa Krispies. “Checking Petfinder?”
“There are these two dogs advertised, Dwaine and Eddie, that were found tied to a gate with their mouths taped shut. One’s blind, he needs the other to lead him around.”
Zoë shoved a handful of cereal into her mouth. “Yeah, just what you need, a dog with a Seeing Eye dog. What’s really going on?”
“I don’t think the twins are getting into preschool. The school we thought was our safety said that Byron displayed signs of emotional immaturity.”
Zoë wondered how they’d figured out which twin was Byron. “He’s not even two yet, what else would he display?”
Bronwyn gave a broken hiccup of a laugh. “It’s just gotten so ridiculously competitive. You have to have some kind of precocious wonder child, and be the kind of mother who spends all her free time chairing fund-raisers and volunteering to help the teacher grade papers. I hate to say it, but you were smart to get out when you did. I bet your school doesn’t expect all the moms to jump through hoops.”
“You know what the real problem is? It’s all this staying at home that’s killing us,” said Zoë, closing up the box of cereal before she was tempted to eat more.
“Us as in women of our generation, or us as in you and me?”
“Both. If women went back to work earlier, they wouldn’t keep turning preschools into mini–corporate takeovers. But on a personal level, back when you were practicing law and I was on staff at Newsweek, we were too busy to notice when we were depressed.”
“Bullshit,” said Bronwyn. “I was miserable because Feingold and Bright was like a dysfunctional family, and you spent all your time fretting that you were missing out on being with Maya. Which was why you quit, remember?”
Of course, that was back in the good old days, when she’d been exhausted and guilty because Maya had wanted to play with her all day long. Zoë reopened the box of Cocoa Krispies. “So I didn’t appreciate it then. But looking back at it now, it was a bit like college. Everyone indulging in a little intellectual competition, a little free-floating flirtation, and a lot of frenzied collaboration.” Zoë ate another handful of crispy, overly sweetened rice.
“So what are you saying—there’s no flirtation in the country? What happened, did the Republicans ban it?”
“Well, there’s a little flirtation. A hint of it. But only of the nonviable, pro-gun-younger-man-with-a-ponytail variety. But the real problem is, my mind has died. I have no more ideas for stories because I’m out of the loop.” Zoë began to eat a stray Cocoa Krispy that had clung to her wrist, than realized with horror that it had legs.
“Zoë? What’s wrong?”
“I have a tick on my arm. A bloodsucking, disease-spreading tick. Have I mentioned that I hate the country?” She pinched the tick between two nails, hoping it wouldn’t slip out and attach itself somewhere else.
“If you’re going to whine, I’m heading back to Petfinder,” Bronwyn warned her. “What about local stories? I bet there’s something going on right under your nose that you can use. You know small towns—somebody’s always shtupping the mayor’s wife or building a shopping mall on a sacred tribal burying ground. Hey, are you peeing?”
“No, I’m washing tick off my hands.” Zoë turned off the kitchen tap. “Anyway, it’s a nice idea, but the best I can come up with here is a lesbian liquor store owner who likes taxidermy and a controversial proposal to build some shops on a completely empty field.”
“Zoë Goren,” said Bronwyn in a stern voice, “you know very well that until you’ve gone digging for bodies, everything looks like an empty field.”
Zoë was suddenly reminded that before her friend had become a frazzled stay-at-home mother of twins, she’d been a damn fine lawyer. “You’re probably right,” she said. “There’s bound to be something rotten there somewhere. But I can’t get excited about it. Maybe there’s a rare species of skunk that’s going to lose its breeding ground. Maybe old Farmer Johnson is the last of a dying breed, and when he moves to Miami, a vital part of rural America dies. But what’s that got to do with me?”
“You cared a lot when those nesting red-tailed hawks were getting evicted from their perch by the building’s co-op board. And I remember you writing a hell of an article when that old Jewish deli went out of business.”
“It’s not the same. I don’t have an emotional stake in the local flora and fauna. I’m just passing through here. This isn’t my beat. These aren’t my stories.”
Bronwyn sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, then. Oh, shoot, that’s the twins waking up. Listen, I’ll call you back later.”
Zoë hung up the phone, felt something tickling the back of her neck, and pulled off another tick. Ugh. Cursing the country, Zoë scratched her head, checking for any other unwanted visitors. Maybe Bronwyn was right. Maybe there was a story buried in the field development proposal, no pun intended. Mack had said his sister was fielding an offer for her horse farm. Should she call Mack and ask him for more background? She didn’t want to always be bothering him. Maybe she should she try Frances and Gretchen from the liquor store. Just as Zoë was about to pick up the phone, however, it rang.
“Mrs. Goren?”
“Ms.”
The woman on the other line paused. “Is this the mother of Maya Goren?” She had a distinct New York accent, and Zoë wondered if she were the school receptionist.
“Yes, is everything all right?”
“Everything’s just fine,” she said, giving the last word two syllables. “I’m Kiki Armstrong, calling on behalf of the PTA. We hadn’t heard back from you about the new parents’ cocktail party tonight, and wanted to know if you’d be attending.”
“There’s a cocktail party tonight?”
“Yes,” said Kiki, still speaking at Brooklyn volume. “It’s at my house at seven-thirty tonight. Didn’t you get the invitation we mai
led you?”
Belatedly, it occurred to Zoë that she hadn’t checked the mailbox at the end of the driveway. She’d seen mailboxes used in the movies and on TV, but she’d never actually had one herself—in the city, her mail had been delivered to her door.
“I guess it didn’t get here yet,” she said, embarrassed to admit that she hadn’t even looked.
“Well, we do hope you can make it,” said Kiki, warmly. “We think it’s important for the parents of new students to feel like they’re part of the school community.”
“Well, I’ll do whatever I can to make it,” said Zoë, thinking that this was exactly what she needed. She’d been very involved with Maya’s old school, working on the school newspaper and talking to various classes about her experiences in developing countries and going along on school trips. If she got busy volunteering with the Mackinley PTA, she’d feel less isolated from her daughter and her surroundings. “Can you give me the address and directions?”
“Of course,” said Kiki. “It’s Twenty-nine Foxfield Lane. Just take Route Eighty-two North past the Morningdale Highland Cattle Farm. We’re up the dirt path to your right.”
Zoë wrote this down on a scrap of paper. This was perfect. She’d been feeling left out now that Maya did all her homework at school, and the truth was, she probably had too much free time on her hands, always a disincentive to working well. Here was a chance to meet some people who might actually be in her idiom. According to the head of admissions, a lot of the school parents had originally come from Manhattan, and like her, a lot of them had moved only because they’d wanted their children to attend the Mackinley School. “This sounds great,” Zoë said. “Anything I can bring?”
“Oh, no.” Kiki gave a little gurgle of a laugh. “Just come and mingle.”
Zoë hung up the phone, already wondering what she should wear. A moment later, she realized that she needed a ride and a babysitter. And once again, the only person she could think of to ask was Mack.
“I’m sorry, Zoë, but I can’t.”
“Any way I can get you to change your plans?” Transferring the phone to her other ear, Zoë scooped her cat up in her arms and cradled him like a baby. As Mack paused on the other end of the line, she resisted the urge to beg and wheedle. The problem was, she’d done a damn good job of convincing herself that she had to attend this party, both for Maya’s sake and her own. She needed to have a network of friends here, or wind up one of those crazy ladies who talk to their cats. As soon as she thought this, Claudius narrowed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against her chin.
“I would if I could, but the fire chief had to go to his daughter’s wedding. I promised I’d be around in case we had an emergency.”
“Damn.” Zoë pushed her glasses up her nose. “Well, it’s not like I had a babysitter, anyway.” Ugh, that really sounded like whining. Very attractive. Mack was on standby to save lives and she was whining about missing a cocktail party.
“Let me think,” said Mack. “My sister could probably sit for Maya, if we can figure out someone else to drive you.” He seemed to hesitate, then added, “Want me to ask Rudy?”
“Not if he’s going to leave me stranded there.”
“Maybe I’d better not. I think you might have upset him with that whole ‘we are apes’ argument,” Mack admitted. “Say, here’s an idea. How about old Pete Grell? He’s the other driving instructor I used to work with, and he’d be happy to earn a little extra. Not so sure about his night vision, though. You have to take a lot of back roads?”
“No, according to my directions, it’s a main road, then a dirt driveway.”
“Pete should be fine, then. Just don’t let him fall asleep at the wheel.”
“You’re not exactly filling me with confidence in his abilities, Mack.”
“So learn to drive already.”
“I didn’t say I was gaining any confidence in my abilities.”
Mack didn’t laugh. “I can fix that,” he said, as if she were a car with a faulty transmission.
“I’m not looking to be fixed,” she replied.
Fourteen
W hen the call came in, Mack had just been explaining to the new EMT something they didn’t teach in school—that in a small town, you often wound up treating folks who were your friends and neighbors, which meant you had to cultivate excellent tunnel vision. You might get a 911 call and discover that big Bert down on Main Street had come within inches of opening up his femoral artery while shaving off all his pubic hair. You might find out that your old high school history professor hadn’t gotten the lesson that it’s a bad idea to mix pills and alcohol. Or, saddest of all, you might learn that whatever you did to treat the youngest Andersen child, she was still going to die before spring. Whatever you discovered in the course of treating folks, you treated them with dignity and compassion while you were providing medical care, and you never told a living soul what you knew.
But there were times, Mack thought, when you really ought to get a medal for service above and beyond the call of duty: the Acting-as-If-This-Weren’t-the-Asshole-Screwing-Your-Ex badge of honor.
“I’m fine, I tell you,” said Jim Moroney, struggling to get up from Jess’s lap. His fat stomach bulged up over his Devil Dog boxer shorts. Mack knelt beside him, trying to take his pulse.
“Well? Nothing’s wrong, right?”
“It’s a little fast,” said Mack, “but not abnormally so.”
“I told you it was a false alarm. Heartburn, not heart attack.”
“But Jim,” Jess said, “you said your chest hurt.”
“I said it felt funny,” Moroney countered. “I didn’t ask you to call for a fucking ambulance. And he’s the last guy on earth I trust to take care of me in a crisis. I mean, Jesus, Jess.”
She looked at Mack entreatingly over Moroney’s head. “He said his chest hurt,” she insisted. “And he was out of breath.” She was wearing a man’s T-shirt, and her blond hair was disheveled.
Mack focused on Moroney again, trying not to think of what they’d been doing immediately before the onset of symptoms. “Can you describe what you’re feeling right now? Any discomfort in or around the chest area?”
“I got a little short of breath,” Moroney replied, sounding irritated. His graying crew cut, grown about an inch too long, was sticking up in a way that made him look as if he’d had a shock. “Which was pretty damn normal, under the circumstances. And my stomach was upset. We’d just had a big steak at O’Flannigan’s in Poughkeepsie.”
“Nausea can sometimes be a symptom of a heart problem,” Mack said. “So let’s just check this out a little further. Are you experiencing any sensation of pressure? Pain in either arm?”
“I’m not having a goddamn heart attack,” bellowed Moroney, but of course, this was what many heart attack patients insisted, right up until they keeled over. Moroney was flushed but not sweating, and despite all his protests, he was no longer trying to get up from Jess’s lap. Mack concentrated on taking his former boss’s blood pressure. He glanced around Moroney’s room—the immense bed, the massive flat-screen television, the state-of-the-art exercise bike—trying to figure out the easiest path to the front door. He nodded at the junior EMT, an earnest young cop named Danny Boyle. “Go get the stretcher,” he instructed Danny.
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Moroney said, and then, as if to punctuate his decision, he barked, “Ow.”
Mack looked at him sharply. “What?”
Jim’s ruddy face had gone pale, and his eyes were wide. “Hah,” he said, sounding surprised. “I…uh…” he sounded winded. “Pain.”
“Oh, God, Jim, I knew you shouldn’t have taken that Viagra,” wailed Jess.
Okay, so there was a possibility of a cardiac event brought on by a drug. Removing the oxygen from his kit, Mack made his voice very even and sure. “Don’t worry, Jim, I’m going to make you more comfortable,” he said, fitting the nonrebreather mask over the older man’s face. “That’s oxygen, it’ll help. J
im, do you have a history of cardiac problems? You got nitroglycerin?”
“No,” said Jim, sounding thoroughly frightened now. Right on time, Danny arrived with the stretcher, and Mack stopped thinking anything that didn’t have to do with getting his patient to the ER, because this was real now, an emergency, and the clock was ticking down the moments of the golden hour, that precious optimal period between onset of medical crisis and surgical treatment.
“All right, Danny, you get in the back and I’ll drive.”
Danny cleared his throat. “Mack, maybe you ought to sit with him. Driving fast I can do, but this other stuff…” He shrugged, his classically Irish face wearing an almost comical expression of dismay. Mack stifled a groan and went into the back of the ambulance with Jim while Jess, still semi-hysterical, drove behind.
“You,” Moroney panted behind the oxygen mask, “must love this.”
“Just lie back and take it easy,” said Mack, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around Moroney’s thick arm. “Deep, slow breaths. Try not to talk.”
“Ha,” said Moroney, the word coming out in a dry wheeze. “You will.”
Not really paying attention, Mack said, “Let me get your pressure, Jim,” and checked the older man’s numbers. Too high, Mack thought as he removed the cuff, and one look at Moroney’s red face and clenched jaw said his attitude wasn’t helping matters. What was the man so wound up about? After a moment, he put it together: Moroney thought he was going to be spreading funny Viagra stories around town. “Jim, you have to try to relax. If you’re worried about me telling someone about this call, then forget about it. I signed an oath of confidentiality, Jim. It comes with the job.”
“Ha. You tell on me,” Moroney grunted, then paused, “I tell on you.”
“There you go, then, no need to fret,” Mack said composedly, having absolutely no idea what the man was going on about. He called the hospital and briefed them about his patient’s condition, then walked back over to the stretcher, where Moroney was still busy converting fear into anger. “You doing okay, Jim? We’re almost there.”