Nothing to Lose

CHAPTER ONE

I first heard about Anita when I was in the bathroom. I remember that day in perfect detail. It was early in the season. The trees had just started to fill out, the azaleas had dots of new buds and the tulips stood tall in full bloom. Also, the sparrows' eggs that nested in my attic window had hatched, their high vibrato cries carrying throughout our upstairs hall like a siren.

I had gotten up early to the sound of a fight. The argument was about clothes or hair ties or jewelry or something. It was the same every morning. I passed their closed bathroom door on tiptoes. By the time the girls came down for breakfast, I had made their lunches for school — the brown bags lined the kitchen counter like proper paper soldiers. Andy, my youngest, wandered into the kitchen with his hand deep inside his boxer shorts, eliciting groans of disgust from his sisters. The pace increased as the preparations for school came to a frenzied peak. I took a package of meat out of the freezer and put it in the microwave, set on defrost. I kept one eye on the percolator, willing the red light to illuminate.

Later, after everyone left, I poured my second cup of coffee. The second cup was the one that did the trick. The first cup was just the primer. I savored the coffee and glanced at the newspaper. It was my favorite time of day. I sat for a long few minutes watching the automatic sprinkler spew a fine cloud of water over the lawn. I prepared the meat for dinner, cleaned up the kitchen, and finally wandered into the bathroom.

The white princess phone on the vanity jingled. Good morning, I answered pleasantly.

It's me. Jack's voice was sharp above the crackle of the usual static of the cellular phone.

What’s up? I turned to watch my surprised expression in the mirror. I rolled my eyes and pulled one side of my pale mouth downward. I mean, what's the occasion? I changed my voice to a sultry purr. You’ve only been gone ten minutes. Don't tell me you miss me already. I tilted my head and lifted my chin, watching the effect and hoping to look sexy. I looked spastic. You could have had me when you were here, you know. I’d hoped you would wake me the good way this morning.

Roxanne, listen. I forgot to tell you. The expert is in town to review the materials for my case, he said. We need a lot of time. I could take him out for a bite downtown, or bring him home for dinner. He was all business.

I watched in silence as my reflection returned to its normal sagging self and sank down onto the toilet seat. So much for sexy, I thought.

Is this a crank call? I asked.

I'd rather eat home. Will that work out for you?

I don't know, I said. Is this a Jehovah's witness, or a regular one?

Jack laughed. You're in a funny mood today, his voice was warm now. What do you have planned?

Oh just the usual, I teased. I have my massage at nine, then the hairdresser and manicurist come at ten. Pavarotti invited me for lunch, and then he's taking me on his private jet to Italy for a tour of the opera house, La Scala. You know how I love Italy.

Bring home some ravioli, Jack said. And some Chianti.

Anything else? My voice was laced with suggestion.

Do you think you could pick up my shirts? he said. I forgot to drive by there last night. I'm out of white shirts.

What? I sucked in my breath. A lawyer without a white shirt! I wasn't joking any more. Real life had just pushed its way into my morning. I was not happy.

Thanks, Rox, he said, his voice fading. I'm losing you. I'm losing the signal! I'll see you tonight.

The phone went dead. I rolled my lower lip down and scowled at myself in the mirror. Pick up the shirts at the cleaners! I curled up one side of my nose and sneered. When had our lives become so ordinary, I asked my distorted image, where's all the excitement? The thrill? It wasn't at the cleaners, that was for sure.

The phone rang. Yes?

I heard someone exhale. It was Lauren, smoking.

Hi, it's me, she said. Did you see the news this morning?

No, I said, stepping out of my nightgown and looking at my profile, full-length. I gasped.

What's wrong?

Something is hanging down over the backs of my legs! I yelled. I peered at myself, gripping the phone with my chin. Oh, Lord. It's my rear end. It's headed towards the equator.

Lauren exhaled. I think you should turn on the news.

I don't like the news, I said, still staring at my behind in the mirror.

Turn it on Roxanne. Her voice stern.

Why? I asked, turning away from the mirror. Is something wrong?

Only that Anita is in trouble, she said.

What kind of trouble?

Turn on your set. Lauren sounded profoundly calm. She always sounded in complete control, even when the world was collapsing around her. That's one of the things I liked about her.

I did.

What do you think? I could hear her lighting another cigarette. It was a dead giveaway — she only chain-smoked when things were really bad.

I looked at my television screen. I kept my voice flat even as the itch of excitement crept across my chest. I think that they could have found a more flattering picture of Anita. I didn't dare blink. On the screen my friend and neighbor was led into an industrial building, flanked on either side by uniformed policemen. What's going on?

I don't know yet, Lauren said, puffing furiously. But I don't think there is any reason to panic. Her voice was tight, as if something was closing around her throat. There's probably a reasonable explanation — her words faded into a whisper. The itch of excitement was turning into a rash of fear. Fast.

Lauren recovered. We should carry on like it's a normal day.

Normal? I practically yelled. What are you talking about? It's not normal for me to hear that someone I know has been arrested. Then I recalled her words. Why would we panic?

That's my other line, she said abruptly. I'll call you later.

Wait! It was too late. She had hung up. I turned the TV volume up, and caught the last few seconds of the report. Anita was being brought in for questioning. The camera panned the massive industrial building. Over the doorway, the words Federal Bureau of Investigation were etched into the marble.

Confused, I turned the set off and sank down onto the toilet seat. What was Anita being questioned about? I tried to think, but no thoughts came. The creases deepened between my eyebrows until my face hurt. The silence closed in around me.

I shook my head to clear it. If Anita were here, she would say, This is not constructive. Get up and get moving. Her manner would be firm. Decide what needs to be done and then get off your ass and do it. So I got off my sagging ass and stepped into the shower. I tried to ignore the rumbling in my intestines. The phone rang again, and I shut off the water and reached for the receiver.

Hello? I hurriedly rubbed myself dry.

Hi, Rox, it's Bonnie, she whispered into the phone. I pressed the receiver to my ear. Suzy just called me in a panic, Bonnie said. Anita was arrested?

She was brought in for questioning, I corrected her impatiently. Anyway, it was probably a mistake.

She didn't say anything.

I waited, and watched the water pooling at my feet. I'd better go. I twisted the thick towel around my hair.

I hadn't even finished dressing when the phone rang yet again.

What! I yelled into the receiver.

What the hell kind of greeting is that? Kate Drummond yelled back. I liked Kate. She had humor, wit, and a true way with words.

Sorry, but I'm half in and half out of a sweater here, I explained.

What's going on with Anita? Kate launched right in without any small talk.

I only know what I heard on television, I said. You know how accurate the news is, I added. We don't even know if it's true.

Wait till Mister hears this one! Kate said. Ever since seeing The Color Purple Kate called her husband Mister. His real name was Ronald. Can you picture his face when he hears that his golf buddy has a major crime figure for a wife?

She's not a crime figure! Jesus!

Okay, okay. She laughed and changed the subject. I didn't hear her words as I went to the kitchen. I was busy wondering what the Federal Bureau of Investigation was doing with Anita Shining.

I knew Suzy would call. I picked up the phone on the first ring.

Oh my God. Oh my God! Her voice was shrill.

Take it easy, Suzy. I pictured her lovely red hair swirling in front of her eyes as she swung her head. Her breathing was fast. I reached over and switched on the small television on the kitchen counter. The morning news program was on to another story. Something about a disgruntled employee in an office-building opening fire on people as they disembarked from the elevators.

Oh my God. What's happening? Oh my God. Suzy Merrifield loved to overreact and she loved gossip. She was also superficial and dim, but she was part of our social group so I usually tried to be nice.

Suzy, for God's sake stop. Get a hold of yourself, I said as kindly as I could. She could really bring out the worst in people; that was her true gift. That and being physically gorgeous.

I didn't want her to know how worried I was, so I lowered my tone and spoke smoothly.

Just calm down, I said. I don't know what's going on. I only just heard about it. Why are you getting so upset?

Why? The sarcasm in her voice was heavy. I'm upset because my close friend has been arrested.

Close friend? I had to hold back a vicious chuckle. I quickly thought of something else to say.

Suzy kept a busy, if frivolous, schedule. What have you got planned for today? I asked.

Uhm. Let's see. I'm going to Zena's to have my teeth done, she said, breathless. Then I'll be back home.

I read that bleaching your teeth can ruin the enamel permanently. Did you know that? I said. Is it worth having the whitest teeth if they're all going to chip, flake, and fall out?

Very funny, she said. Then she remembered the reason for her call, and made me swear to contact her with any new gossip about her close friend. I swore, but only because that was the only way to end the conversation.

I examined my teeth in a compact mirror. They were stained. I drank my coffee. There was only one person I wanted to talk to and he was out of the cellular phone service area.

I felt like there was a rock in my stomach. Something cold charged through the arteries and ducts just under my breastbone, making the blood flow unevenly and hurriedly through my chest. I shivered and then raced out of the kitchen like a wild animal fleeing a smoldering pile of dry leaves.

CHAPTER TWO

The Shinings had moved into our elegant suburban neighborhood six years earlier. They bought the biggest house on our street, directly across from mine. The previous owners, the Taylors, had moved to an assisted living facility not far away. We were not sorry when the Sale sign appeared at the end of their driveway. The Taylors were never friendly neighbors. In fact, we only saw them when they had a complaint. Elderly, childless and intolerant, they took offense to street parking, noisy children, garbage can covers on the ground, and outdoor lighting, to name only a few. The only good thing the Taylors contributed to the neighborhood was their expansive yard. The garden was immaculate, thanks to a live-in groundskeeper named Cato.

Cato took his work seriously: every weed was a personal enemy, every bit of gravel a disciplined child. The neighborhood kids tormented him by shuffling the gravel and trampling the garden.

The Shinings came after Cato died. (No one knew what he died of; some said he ate too many of the plants he tended.) It was a Monday, and school had just ended for the year, so all the free kids stood around in the street watching the two huge moving trucks try to maneuver up our small street. Mr. Shining, Robert, as we came to know him, stood in the driveway motioning to the trucks to park in the street. He looked typically suburban in his long print shorts, shirt, and sun visor.

A wide brick arch at the foot of the driveway framed the property. The moving trucks could not fit through the arch, and the faces of the drivers reflected annoyance as they walked each item from the trucks up the long, long driveway to the house. They were parked there so long even the children got bored and left for someone's pool.

A few weeks passed before I went over to introduce myself. As I stood outside the front door, I felt as if I was standing in an Italian plaza. The exterior of the house was stone, tumbled (I believe that's the correct phrase) to look old and worn. My sandal tapped on the marble slab as I waited at the carved wooden door. I jumped when the door jerked open. A very short woman wearing boxer shorts and a man's T-shirt stood in the doorway and dazzled me with a toothy smile.

I'm Anita, she said, reaching out her hand and pulling me inside. Come on in! I'm glad to have company.

She looked forty-five, I thought, my age. Her face was open and attractive, and almost perfectly smooth. No lines. She looked more like a girl with some gray paint streaked through her dark hair. She talked easily as I followed her along a spacious center hall. We've only been here a few weeks, she said, gesturing around. It's quite a mess.

It was.

My husband left this morning for Colorado. He'll be at a dental meeting for three days, so I'm left to deal with this alone. She waved her hand toward the stacks of huge boxes. I turned and looked at the box near my knee. A pile of framed diplomas was stacked perilously high on the box, teetering almost to my waist. I glanced at the top one: Doctor of Psychiatry. I turned, with my eyebrows raised. Anita was across the room. She held up a photograph. Here's my son, David, and daughter, Marti, she said, pointing to the two teenagers featured in the studio shot. They're at camp. I moved toward her and watched as she shuffled through a box of pictures. She pulled out an ornate frame and set it on an end table, handling it with purpose, or reverence. I followed her somber gaze; together, we looked at the painting.

Anita stood to one side, her dark suit blending into the outdoor foliage. The portrait was set in a wooded area, and sun streamed in through dense leaves like specks of gold and light. On the opposite side, Robert looked proud and somber, with his arm around David. The two men looked very similar, with dark eyes and wide jaws. I recognized Marti, their daughter standing in the center. There was another girl in the portrait, standing next to Anita, with her arm tucked behind Anita's waist. I was about to ask about her when a crash resonated from the direction of the kitchen.

Is everything okay in there? Anita called out, patiently. She tucked the portrait back into a box and waited for a reply. Someone said something from far away, and she smiled at me. I hope that wasn't something I liked, she said, chuckling. She gestured for me to follow.

We stepped down into the living room, crowded with unpacked boxes. The furniture was shrink-wrapped in the plastic protectors provided by and stamped with the name of the moving company. A thick rolled Persian carpet lay alongside one wall. The interior of the house was impressive, with high ceilings and cavernous rooms. The living room had a wide stone fireplace with a broad, smooth hearth in an adobe style that made the huge room seem cozy and warm.

Terrific fireplace, isn't it? She said, interrupting my silent appraisal. She sat on the hearth and took a deep breath. I'm so happy you came over. I'm thoroughly overwhelmed with unpacking and am so glad to have an excuse to stop. She asked me to talk about myself and my family, which I did. Anita listened intently, asking questions and requesting clarifications here and there. She had a way of listening that made you want to talk.

Without interrupting my narrative, Anita motioned toward the kitchen where we came to rest at her glass-top table. When I finally stopped talking, I realized that I had revealed more of myself than I intended. I felt a little exposed.

Anita smiled and said, I am so happy to know you. Her face beamed, and I forgot my insecurity in a flash.

Without taking her eyes off me, she spoke: Hazel dear, bring us some coffee please. She let go of my hand, and leaned back in her chair. I'm exhausted!

Hazel, an aged, heavyset black woman in a maid's uniform, moved around us slowly. We talked about moving and stress and regular things, while Hazel circled, accomplishing nothing at all. Use the china out of the dishwasher, dear. Anita’s voice was kind, like a smooth caress. Hazel has been with me for twenty years. I don't know what I would do without her.

Hazel, boosted by the compliment, produced two steaming cups of coffee and disappeared without serving milk or remembering napkins and spoons.

I liked Anita immensely. I liked the way she chattered without pause, and the way her face shone with enthusiasm. We talked about the neighborhood, stores and local services, and our families. After a while, we sipped our coffee in a comfortable silence — as if we had known each other a long time.

Let me look around for something, Anita said suddenly. She left the kitchen, only to return moments later with a bakery box. She opened it and lifted a coffee cake onto a plate. Bringing it to the table, she whispered, Sometimes Hazel misplaces things. This was in the linen closet.

While we ate the crumbly cake, Anita said, Our old house was quite lovely. We were there many happy years.

Something about her eyes had changed when she looked up from her lap. The skin around them tightened, or maybe it was a shadow that appeared all of a sudden. Something was different, foreboding. I sat silently, waiting for whatever was about to fall.

We lost a child.

She let it sit there like that, alone. I could feel her struggling as her eyes clouded. So that was the unnamed girl in the portrait, I thought as I waited, breathing slowly.

I thought about the girl's face, how she looked just like Anita, her mother. I wondered how Anita survived. She seemed calm, though her face was grim. She had just dropped a bomb on a stranger. It must have been hanging over her the whole time, and then it just poured down on us like a sudden rain.

I'm so sorry, I said, feeling that I should say more but not knowing what.

She was sixteen. Stabbed at a rock concert. There were thousands of kids in the arena, but no one saw it coming. Some gang kids had cross words, and, from what her friends told me, one guy pulled out a long knife and lunged. He stabbed her in the back, and when she turned toward him, he said, 'Serves you right.' She died the next evening. She identified him first, though. He was from her school.

Good Lord, how awful.

Sorry to let it come blurting out like that. She looked into my eyes. I never know how to say it.

I took Anita's hand and held it firmly between my own. "What was her name? I asked.

Melissa.

"All my training in psychiatry and I still feel wildly emotional about it. I shouldn't have told you like that. I guess I did because I feel so, I don't