Chapter One
“Hello?” I tapped on Kitty Cavanaugh’s red front
door, then lifted the brass knocker and gave it
a few thumps for good measure. “Hello?”
“Mommy, can I ring the doorbell?” Sophie asked.
She stood on her tiptoes and waved her fist in
the air.
“No, it’s my turn,” said Sam, kicking his
sneakered feet against one of the half-dozen
perfectly spherical pumpkins beside Kitty’s
front door. Halloween was a week away, and we’d
only gotten around to carving our single
jack-o’-lantern the night before. It had come
out crooked and its right side had rotted and
caved in overnight, and it looked like we had a
sadistic stroke victim parked on our porch. When
I’d lit the candle, all three kids had cried.
“My turn!” said Jack, shoving his
younger-by-three-minutes brother.
“Don’t push me!” cried Sam, shoving back.
“Sophie, then Sam, then Jack,” I said. Two
degrees in English literature, a career in New
York City, and this was where I’d ended up,
standing on a semi-stranger’s doorstep in a
Connecticut suburb with uncombed hair and a tote
bag full of bribe lollipops, wrangling three
kids under the age of five. How had this
happened? I couldn’t explain it. Especially not
the part about getting pregnant with the boys
when Sophie was just seven weeks old, courtesy
of an act of intercourse I can barely remember
and can’t imagine I’d condoned.
Sophie reached up, pigtails quivering, and rang
the bell. A dimple flashed in her left cheek as
she gave her brothers a smug look that said,
This is how it’s done. Nobody answered. I looked
at my watch, wondering if I’d heard Kitty wrong.
She’d called on Wednesday night, when the boys
were in the bathtub and Sophie was sitting on
the toilet, applying lipstick and waiting her
turn. I was kneeling in front of the tub, my
shirt half-soaked, a washcloth in my hand,
scrubbing playground grime from underneath their
fingernails and enjoying one of my most
persistent and vivid daydreams, the one that
began with two men knocking on my front door.
Who were they? Police officers? FBI agents? I’d
never figured that out.
The younger one wore a beige suit and a clipped
inch of sandy mustache, and the older one had a
black suit and thinning black hair combed over
his bald spot. He was the one who did the
talking. There’s been a mistake, he would tell
me, and he’d explain that, due to some glitch
I’d never quite fleshed out (Bad dream?
Alternate universe?), I’d wound up with someone
else’s children, living someone else’s life.
Really? I would ask, careful not to sound too
eager as a woman – these days, she was usually
the lady from the Swiffer commercial who danced
around to the Devo song, happily dusting – stepped
between them, hands planted on her
capable hips. There you are, you little scamps!
she would say to the children. I’m so sorry for
the inconvenience, she’d say to me. No problem,
I’d graciously reply. And then she’d say …
“Telephone.”
I looked up. My husband stood in the doorway,
with his briefcase in one hand and the telephone
in the other, staring at me with something that
was either disdain or its close first cousin. My
heart sank as I realized that getting slopped
with the boys’ bathwater was the closest I’d
come to showering that day.
I reached for the phone with one soapy hand.
“Can you watch them for a sec?”
“Let me just get out of this suit,” he said, and
vanished down the hall. Translation: See you in
an hour. I stifled a sigh and tucked the
telephone under my ear.
“Hello?”
“Kate, it’s Kitty Cavanaugh,” she’d said, in her
low, cultured voice. “I was wondering whether
you were free for lunch on Friday.”
I’d been too shocked to stammer out “Sure” or
“Yes.” I’d wound up saying “Shes,” even though
lunch with Kitty Cavanaugh wasn’t high on my
to-do list. As far as I was concerned she
represented everything that was wrong with my
new hometown.
I remember the first time I’d seen Kitty. After
a morning of unpacking I’d driven the kids to
the park our Realtor had pointed out. I hadn’t
washed my thick, curly brown hair in three days
and was looking more than a little disheveled,
but the other mothers wouldn’t mind, I thought,
as I pulled into a parking space. As the kids
and I walked through the white picket playground
gates, we saw four women seated on the green
wooden bench by the seesaws: four women wearing
the identical shade of dark pink lipstick; four
formidably groomed, exquisitely fit,
terrifyingly capable-looking women. Each one had
a monogrammed paisley silk diaper bag slung
across her shoulder, like a Pink Lady jacket. Or
an Uzi.
“Hi!” I said. My voice seemed to bounce off the
pebbled rubber mats underneath the slides and
echo through the swing set. The women took in my
outfit (loose, syrup-stained cargo pants,
fingerpaint-smeared sneakers, one of my
husband’s washed-out long-sleeved gray T-shirts
with one of my own violet short-sleeved shirts
on top), my messy hair, my makeup-free face, the
belly and hips I’d been meaning to do something
about for the past two years and, finally, my
kids. Jack looked okay, but Sam was clutching
his favorite pacifier, which he hadn’t used in
months, and Sophie had pulled on a tutu over her
pajama bottoms.
The buff-looking blonde in the middle, in
camel-colored boot-cut pants topped with a
zippered fleece vest, raised her hand and gave
us a semi-smile. Her name, I’d later learn, was
Lexi Hagen-Holdt, and she looked exactly like
what she was – a former all-state athlete in
soccer and lacrosse who’d worked as a high
school coach before marriage and had started
training for a triathlon six weeks after she’d
had baby Brierly.
The brunette next to her had shoulder-length
light brown hair perfectly streaked and styled,
and eyebrows plucked into perfect arches, then
dyed to match; she gave us a half of a wave. Her
full lips twisted sideways, as if she’d tasted
something sour. This was Sukie Sutherland, in
Seven jeans and high-heeled, pointy-toed suede
boots – the kind of outfit my friend Janie
would have worn out clubbing and I never would
have attempted at all.
“Hi!” said the redhead – Carol Gwinnell – at
the far end of the bench. She sported a
pumpkin-colored sweater with a long skirt in
swirling shades of red and orange and gold. Her
little gold earrings were clusters of bells that
jingled and chimed, and she wore sequined purple
slippers trimmed in gold braid. Carol’s husband,
I would shortly learn, was head of litigation at
one of the five biggest law firms in New York
City. Carol and Rob and their two sons lived in
a Bettencourt and had a summer house on
Nantucket, which I guess gave her the right to
dress like she was going to a Stevie Nicks
concert if she wanted to.
Finally, the fourth woman deigned to approach
us. She knelt down gracefully in front of my
kids and one by one asked them their names. Her
straight, thick hair fell to the center of her
back, a glossy sheet of chocolate brown held
with a black velvet band. She had lovely
features: full lips, a straight, narrow nose,
high cheekbones, and a neat little chin. Given
her hair, and her golden complexion, I would
have expected brown eyes, but hers were wide set
and a blue so dark it was almost purple. The
color of pansies.
“And I’m Kitty Cavanaugh,” she said to my
children. “I have twins too.”
“Kate Klein,” I managed, thinking, Don’t fall
for it, you little bastards. Of course, my kids
were charmed. The boys let go of my leg and
smiled at her shyly, while Sophie stared at her
and said, “You’re so pretty!” I tried not to
roll my eyes. The last time Sophie looked at me
that intently, she hadn’t said that I was
pretty, she’d told me I had a hair growing out
of my chin.
I plastered a smile on my face and made a series
of mental notes: figure out where to buy a
perfectly cut suede jacket; find out where these
women got their hair blown, their teeth
bleached, their eyebrows plucked; and try to
locate the other overwhelmed, undergroomed,
bigger-than-a-breadbox mothers like myself, even
if I had to cross state lines to find them.
The ladies had gone back to their conversation,
which seemed to concern the student-teacher
ratios at the town’s competing private schools.
It had taken three more playground visits,
twenty minutes spent listening to Sukie talk
about reorganizing her pantry, and a trip to Mr.
Steven, the local hairdresser, before Kitty and
I had had an actual conversation, about what
kind of baked goods I should bring to the Red
Wheel Barrow annual holiday bake sale. “No nuts,
no dairy,” she’d told me. I’d nodded humbly and
managed to keep from asking, “How about crack?
Would crack be okay?”
Our second talk had been less successful. We’d
been standing side by side at the swings on the
playground one summer afternoon. Kitty was
wearing a pink linen sundress, simple yet
elegant, a look (and a fabric) I hadn’t
attempted in years, and I was wearing my usual – grubby
pants and a cotton tank top – feeling
overweight and underdressed and entirely
inadequate. It’s this town, I thought, tugging
at my waistband with one hand and pushing Sophie
with the other. Back in New York I’d get the
occasional whistle from a construction worker,
an appreciative glance from a guy on the street.
Sixty miles out of the city and I was Shamu in a
sweater set.
I had been daydreaming out loud about a vacation
I’d probably never take, describing some resort
I’d read about in a travel magazine in my
gynecologist’s waiting room. Private open-air
bungalows … individual swimming
pools … fresh-cut pineapple and papaya set out
on the terrace every morning …
“Can you bring kids?” Kitty had asked.
Startled, I’d said, “Why would you want to?”
“Phil and I take our daughters everywhere,”
she’d said primly, giving little Madeline a
push. “I would never, ever leave them.”
“Never ever?” I’d repeated – a little
sarcastically, I’m afraid. “Not even for a
Friday night at the movies? Not even to go out
to dinner? Or for a light snack?”
She’d shaken her glorious hair, a tiny smile – a
smug smile, I thought – playing around her
lips. “I would never leave them,” she’d
repeated.
I’d nodded, plastered a smile on my own face,
eased Sophie out of the swing, mumbled, “Have a
nice weekend” (without realizing until much
later that it was Tuesday), hustled all three
kids into the van, stuck a DVD into the player,
turned up the volume, and muttered the word
“freak” all the way home.
Since then, Kitty and I had had a nod-and-wave
acquaintance, smiling at each other across the
soccer field or the dairy aisle of the grocery
store. I didn’t want it to go any further than
that. But I’d said yes – or “shes” – anyhow.
Oh, well. Mindless assent, I thought, and shoved
a wayward curl behind my right ear with one
shampoo-slick hand. It was what had gotten me
three babies and a house in Connecticut in the
first place.
“I think we have a friend in common,” Kitty
said.
I wiped my hands on my thighs. “Oh? Who’s that?”
For one giddy moment I was completely sure that
she was going to say Jesus, and that I’d be
stuck listening to a soliloquy about her
personal relationship with the Savior and how I
needed one myself.
But Kitty answered my question with another one
of her own. “You were a journalist, right?”
“Well, that’s putting it a little strongly,” I
said. “I worked at New York Night, and I covered
celebrity addiction. Not exactly Woodward and
Bernstein stuff. Why?” Here it comes, I thought,
bracing myself for the invitation to edit the
nursery school newsletter or do a quick polish
on the Cavanaugh Christmas card. (“Dear friends!
Hope this season of comfort and joy finds you
well. It’s been a blessed year for the Cavanaugh
Clan …”)
“There’s something …,” she began. Just then Sam
dunked Jack under the water. “Mommy, he’s
drownding the baby,” Sophie observed from the
toilet seat, where she was twisting her hair
into a chignon. I bent down to drag Jack
upright. He was spluttering, Sam was crying, and
Kitty said we’d talk on Friday.
At least, I was pretty sure she’d said Friday.
Positive, almost. I took a deep breath and
lifted the knocker again, noticing the way the
Cavanaugh house gleamed under the cloudless blue
sky. The hedges were trimmed, the leaves were
raked, the windows sparkled, and there were
charming arrangements of bittersweet and
miniature pumpkins in the window boxes that
complemented the dried-red-pepper wreath on the
door. Gah. I gave an especially forceful knock,
and the door swung open.
“Hello?” I called into the dim, echoing
entryway. No answer … but I could see lights
gleaming from the kitchen at the end of the
hall, and I could hear music playing, one of the
Brandenburg Concertos, which were undoubtedly
more edifying than the polka tunes my kids
enjoyed. “Kitty? Hello?” I called again.
Nothing. The wind kicked up, sending a drift of
brown leaves rattling against the hardwood
floor. I was starting to get the proverbial bad
feeling about this as I wiggled my cell phone
out of my pocket, called information, and asked
for the Cavanaugh listing at 5 Folly Farm Way.
The operator connected me. Inside the house I
could hear Kitty’s phone ringing … and
ringing … and ringing.
“Nobody’s home,” Sophie said impatiently,
bouncing up and down in pink sneakers that did
not quite match her orange overalls.
“Hang on,” I said. “Hello?” I called into the
house. Nothing.
“Mama?” Sophie reached for my hand. The boys
looked at each other, their foreheads drawn into
identical furrows, plump mouths pulled into
matching frowns. The two of them were all curves
and dimples and alabaster skin that flushed when
they were overheated or upset. Their lashes cast
spiky shadows on their cheeks, and their brown
hair curled into ringlets so beautiful I’d cried
at their first haircuts … and second … and
third. Unlike her brothers, Sophie was tall and
lanky, like her father, with olive skin and fine
brown hair that tended toward snarls, not
ringlets.
“Stay here. Right here. On the porch. On the
pumpkins,” I said, in a burst of inspiration. “I
want tushies on pumpkins until I say it’s okay.
And don’t close the door!” Sophie must have
caught something in my tone because she nodded.
“I’ll watch the babies.”
“We’re not babies!” said Jack, with his hands
balled into fists.
“Stay here,” I said again, and watched Sophie
scowl at her brothers as they copped a squat on
one of Kitty’s perfect pumpkins. I held my
breath and walked inside. The Cavanaughs had the
same house we did, the Montclaire (six bedrooms,
five full baths, hardwood floors throughout).
The investors in our development were Italian,
plenty of the residents were Jewish, and yet the
homes all had names that made them sound like
members of the British Parliament. Evidently
nobody would buy a model called the Lowenthal or
the Delguidice, but if it was the Carlisle or
the Bettencourt, we’d be lining up with our
checkbooks.
I tiptoed through the entryway, into the warmly
lit kitchen, where the solemn notes of the cello
and an antique clock’s ticking filled the air.
No dishes in the sink, no newspapers on the
counter, no crumbs on the kitchen table, and no
lady of the house that I could see. Then I
looked down.
“Oh, God!” I clapped my hand against my mouth
and grabbed on to the countertop to keep myself
from sliding to the floor. Kitty had gone for
the same upgrades that Ben and I had picked. Her
countertops were granite, her floors were
pickled maple, and the French doors leading to
the garden had leaded glass insets. There was a
Sub-Zero refrigerator and a Viking range, and
between them was Kitty Cavanaugh, facedown on
the floor with an eight-inch carbon-steel
Henckels butcher’s knife protruding from between
her shoulder blades.
I ran across the kitchen and knelt in a pool of
tacky, cooled blood. She lay arms akimbo, white
shirt and hair both a sticky maroon. I felt
dizzy as I leaned over her body, queasy as I
touched her sticky hair, then tugged at the
handle of the knife. “Kitty!”
I’d watched enough cop dramas to know better
than to move the body, but it was as if I were
floating outside myself, unable to stop my hands
as they grabbed her slender shoulders and tried
to pull her up into my arms. The music swelled
to its crescendo, strings and woodwinds sounding
in the still, copper-smelling air as her torso
came loose with a sickening ripping sound. I let
her go. Her body thumped back onto the floor. I
clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from
gagging, and stifled another scream.
“Mommy?”
(Continues…)
Atria
Copyright © 2005
Jennifer Weiner, Inc.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-7434-7011-7
Excerpted from Goodnight Nobody
by Jennifer Weiner
Copyright © 2005 by Jennifer Weiner, Inc..
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
