Conundrum Read online

  “Sassy had triplets this week—”

  “Lisa, you know I don’t give a damn about the goats or ducks or sheep.” She halted in her tracks. Joggers whizzed by; their slipstreams whipped my ponytail, whereas Anne’s frizzy thick hair lay pinned to her head, and her forehead was dotted with beads of perspiration. Flashes of colorful fabric caught my attention, but Anne brought my attention back around.

  “He’ll come home, Lis. He loves you. It’s your mother he can’t stand.”

  “I know that. But I can’t take sides—”

  Anne grabbed my arm and pulled me off the path and out of traffic. “Yes, you have to. He’s your husband—”

  “And she’s my mother. She came first.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Anne said with some disgust. “Your mother is trying to destroy your marriage. Look what she did to Raff and Kendra. They’ll be divorced after this whole thing shakes down.”

  “Anne! How can you say that?”

  She grunted and scowled in my face. The same expression she’d display when I used to beat her at gin rummy. “Because it’s true. Lis, you know it’s true.”

  I scowled back. “Is not.”

  Anne clamped her mouth shut and resumed walking the path. We slipped into the flow, just like merging on the freeway. I could hear the ocean soughing mingling with the slapping of shoes on asphalt.

  I thought about Sarah, Anne’s diminutive and always-smiling mother, dressed in her Hawaiian muumuus and never far from the kitchen, where glorious aromas drifted into all the rooms of the house, an ambiance quite absent from my childhood home, which had housed a lone parent who could cook a passable meatloaf and little more. My memories of Anne’s house all centered on those tantalizing scents, which included the weird cooking experiments I’d be invited to participate in. We’d bake Aunt Rose’s crescent almond cookies, and some obscenely sweet concoction we called “Anne’s Decadence”—nine layers of chocolate and butterscotch chips, flaked coconut, condensed milk, pecans, raisins, and a few more ingredients I couldn’t recall. No wonder we’d stay up late after midnight watching old black-and-white movies on her little TV set, unable to fall asleep. Hundreds of hours I spent on their living room floor, playing endless card games with Anne, lounging by their big stone fireplace, reading books together, playacting scenes from Jane Austen. Sarah, to me, was the consummate doting mother. Every time I stayed overnight, they always had roasted chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner. Big warm oatmeal cookies for dessert.

  Sarah had never failed to give me bear hugs, something I craved and was denied by my mother. I tried hard, as I walked fast to keep up with Anne’s short but speedy legs, to recall any instance when my mother had hugged or kissed me when I was a child. All I could dredge up was an occasional touch of my hair, a slap on my face, a belt smacking the seat of my pants.

  “Why would my mother want to destroy my marriage? She loves Jeremy.”

  Anne sighed and picked up her pace. I went back to half jogging to keep up. We were nearly over the final rise with the stretch of sand in view when she answered softly, “Lisa, just don’t see it. You have blinders on. You want to believe your mother is some kind of saint, but she’s far from it. You’re too close to the trees.”

  “So, explain it to me.” I tried to keep the anger out of my voice, but all those arguments with Jeremy had frazzled my finesse. Her argument was dismantling me.

  Anne huffed while she spoke. “Your mother is almost sixty, right? She’s alone, no husband, no one to take care of her. All she has is you three kids. And money. She knows no other way to ensure your loyalty and devotion than with bribery and threats. Give you money, make you her slave. She’s done it to Neal, to Raff, and to Jeremy. She owns the lot of you. And I’d hate to see the day when any of you double-crosses her.”

  I stopped abruptly, and two joggers almost ran me down. One mumbled some profanity. “I thought you liked my mom. What’s gotten into you?”

  Anne led me over to one of the picnic tables positioned askew on the sand. The ocean thrashed and rallied against the shoreline a hundred yards away. We sat and she scrunched her face. “I know you don’t want to hear this. You never do. You’re fiercely protective of your mother. And I understand that. But, your brother’s trying to kill himself, and your husband’s just walked out. Neal floats from job to job, watching baseball from your mother’s couch. And in the midst of all the chaos is Ruth, orchestrating this, to her delight.”

  “What? You think she’s happy Raff wants to die? Please, get real!”

  “No, of course not. But it’s all about control. Controlling her empire and all the players in it. The world’s a stage, Lis, and your mother the director. You take all your cues from her. Try to see it from Jeremy’s side for once. Try to distance yourself a little and stop playing the part of the loyal, dutiful daughter.”

  “I’m just trying to keep the peace. Hold us together. Help Raff—”

  “Lisa, forget trying to save Raff. You gotta save yourself first.”

  “Look, I know you have more insight into my family than anyone else, but it doesn’t give you the right to pontificate.”

  Anne shrugged, and that one gesture carried layers of meaning. She would acquiesce—for now. But that little twitch of her shoulders was also a subtle brush-off and insult. It said, Lisa, you are so dense. Just wait. You’ll see . . . My gut began its familiar knotting. I’d had enough of this topic.

  “I have this strange idea,” I said. Anne spotted my strategy right away and sighed in exasperation. We’d pick up where we left off on some other day, of that I had no doubt. Anne always scored. And I loved that bulldoggedness about her. If I ever needed an advocate on my side, she’d be my first pick. I felt sorry for the poor slobs that had to sit in a courtroom and listen to her diatribes. Just the thought of watching her in action gave me chills.

  “I’ve been thinking about my father—who died when I was four.” I told her about my father’s death and the mysterious and suspicious circumstances coloring my early years—years she’d never heard about. Being so close throughout our childhood, it might have seemed strange that I’d never broached the subject. But that just showed how my father had been so neatly erased from my life after he died. I wove what bits and pieces I had into an incomplete and unsatisfying picture, and gave that to her to pick apart.

  “Wow, pretty weird,” she said. “But fascinating.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “Well, it seems to me the person who’d best know the truth about your dad would be his brother. Do you have any idea where he could be? Maybe you could talk with him.”

  The thought had never occurred to me. My uncle. “Maybe still in New York? That’s where my dad grew up. I don’t even know my uncle’s name. Or if he’s even alive.”

  “Did your mom ever mention him?”

  “For some reason I remember he was a doctor, or something medical.”

  “So, that wouldn’t be hard to look up. Sitteroff’s not that common a name, is it? Check the library. Medical journals. Call the AMA. If he’s practicing medicine, he’d be registered or licensed somewhere. It’s a place to start.” Anne put a hand on my shoulder. “I think it’s a good idea, digging into your past. You should learn more about your dad—it’s a giant puzzle piece missing from your life. And maybe you’ll uncover something that will help Raff. You never know. The truth can sometimes set you free.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Although, truth sometimes wielded a sharp two-edge sword. But what could it hurt to look for my long-lost uncle? I suddenly had a strong need to find him. I could look up references to my father too. Maybe he’d written articles, abstracts in physics quarterlies or other academic publications. I stood and wiped sand off the seat of my jeans.

  On the way back to our cars, Anne was quiet. I tromped at her side, my mind wheeling with plans and ideas. The Marin County Library would have limited resources, but I could go into the city. I had nothing to do the rest of the afternoon. Two gardening jobs, big estates, but I could start on those tomorrow.

  “My mom once told me about the time she went to the public pool with your mother.” Anne said, the words coming out in a rhythm with her pace. “You and I must have been five or so.”

  “Hey, I remember that pool. Didn’t they bulldoze it at some point?”

  “Yeah. To build that subdivision—over in Corte Madera.”

  I recalled a gigantic rectangular pool with low and high diving boards. Tons of kids yelling. A lifeguard with a bullhorn, blasting “no running allowed.” I used to love swimming at that pool during summer vacation.

  Anne continued. “Raff and Kyle were splashing around with the bigger boys, playing Marco Polo. We were playing on the wide steps with our mothers sitting on the ledge, dangling their legs in the warm water. Mom said you slipped and floated down to the bottom of the shallow end. But the bottom of the pool was slanted, remember? By the time my mom and your mom stopped chatting and looked back over, you had disappeared.”

  Instantly, I conjured up a memory. Lying on my back, feeling the rough concrete grazing my shoulder blades as they scraped along, looking up at the wavering images through the surface of the water, blotches of color, distorted faces. The sudden quiet and the alluring weightlessness.

  The memory jarred me with its sharp sensations, but I didn’t recall being afraid.

  “I remember . . .”

  “You do?’ Anne asked.

  “But I mustn’t have been underwater that long. Someone jumped into the pool and rescued me. All the adults gathered around me, and I remember their concerned faces and shouts of relief. That’s weird,” I said, exploring the textures that memory brought back—the hefty smell of chlorine, the hot sun on my face as I lay on the pool
’s ledge, the cacophony of voices as women in rubber bathing caps and cotton one-piece swimsuits fussed over me.

  “That was my mom,” Anne said. “She’s the one who jumped in.”

  I slowed down and looked at Anne. I tried to conjure up the face of my rescuer, but I drew a blank. She continued, but her voice was measured. “Before Mom died, she told me how she spotted you gliding down into the deep end, underneath all the myriad of kicking legs and paddling arms. She hollered and shook your mother’s shoulder, pointing at you. She could see your eyes wide open in surprise, your limbs unmoving. When she turned and caught the expression on your mother’s face, she was so shocked, she couldn’t move a muscle. A moment later, after shaking off her surprise, she threw her sun hat to the ground and dove into the deep end. She wasn’t the best swimmer, but that fact never entered her mind. She managed to bring you to the surface and pull you over to the side of the pool, where a dozen hands yanked you up and out.”

  I stopped at the end of the pathway, where our cars baked in the noonday summer sun. I strained to remember, but only recalled a whoosh of motion, someone pulling me to the surface, my head emerging into a sea of air, sucking in and filling my lungs.

  Anne gave me a big hug, her arms familiar around my waist. “Funny, you remember that day, and I don’t recall it at all. I probably never even noticed you disappeared.” She unlocked her car door, then turned back to me. “Let me know if you find anything at the library. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

  “Anne,” I said, pulling keys from my pocket. “Why did my mother’s expression cause your mom such distress? What did she see?”

  Anne shrugged noncommittally but I made her look at me. “Something that frightened her. Like your mom didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to acknowledge the danger you were in.”

  “Maybe my mom thought she was joking.” I added, “That was a long time ago, and I’m sure the incident happened so fast, all those impressions were a blur.”

  Anne nodded, but it was clear she didn’t agree with my assessment. If she had more to say on the subject, she kept it to herself. Just why had she brought that up anyway?

  I watched Anne get into her car and drive away. Suddenly another memory came out of nowhere—the time I accidently set the house on fire.

  I was about ten, and Raff was sleeping over at Kyle’s. Neal was in the den watching TV. That night was my first stint as babysitter. Neal and I had finished dinner, and the dishes were loaded in the dishwasher. I went to my room to do some homework and had lit a taper on the nightstand next to my bed, but didn’t think to move the large box of matches away from the candleholder. I had forgotten all about it when I went to join Neal to watch my favorite show—Time Tunnel. By the time I smelled smoke, half my room was up in flames. My mother was at her business manager’s house, going over investments and taxes. My mother made a lot of money buying and selling commercial real estate, on the advice of her manager. That was how she supported us after my father died.

  I rushed into the kitchen and dialed the phone number she left for emergencies. Harv Blake put her on the line, and when I told her about the fire, she told me to get bowls of water and put the fire out. Then I was to run into the street and yell “fire.” That was in the days long before 911. I did as she said, and by the time the fire trucks had come screeching up to our house, I had the fire put out, but smoke filled every room in a thick hovering cloud.

  I called my mother back, as instructed, and told her everything was fine and under control. I sobbed into the phone as the shock of the incident sent a delayed wave of fear through my heart. My entire body shook in fits and starts. Neal hugged my leg and wouldn’t let go. I had tried to be so grown-up and was proud I had put the fire out. I asked my mother how soon she’d get home. Soon wasn’t soon enough for me.

  She said she was sorry, but she couldn’t leave. Her manager insisted she stay and finish what they were doing. Hours went by. I opened all the windows as the quiet dark of night blanketed the neighborhood, trying to make the smoke seep out. All the walls in the house were blackened from the ceiling down about two feet, like a ring around a bathtub. After I tucked Neal in bed and waited until he was asleep, I sat on the front porch, huddled in a blanket in the chill air, and watched for my mom’s car.

  Finally, late into the night, she drove up. I don’t remember what she said, but her anger spilled out of her mouth as she walked from room to room, assessing the damage. She bedded me down on the living room couch without a kind word. My bedroom was charred and my bed uninhabitable, but I’d been able to find a pair of pajamas in my partially scorched dresser by the door.

  The next day, she kept me home from school and demanded I write one hundred times on lined paper: “The next time I decide to do something stupid like that, I will ask permission first.” She made me get up on a ladder and scrub the smoke residue off all the walls, something that took the better part of a week. I never could abide the smell of Lysol after that incident. She must have gotten over her anger, because I recall thumbing through books of wallpaper patterns, and her letting me choose a design for my bedroom walls.

  I had no idea why that memory rushed back at me as I stood next to my car, my keys gripped in my hand. But twenty years after the fact, the obvious question came to mind.

  Why didn’t my mother rush out of her manager’s house and hurry home? How could she have stayed away all those hours? I always blamed it on Harv Blake. “He wouldn’t let me leave,” my mother had said. “I had to stay.” It was his fault.

  All those years, I’d never questioned her excuse. Wasn’t something very wrong with that picture? If I had been the parent and my daughter called to tell me the house was on fire, I would have been out the door with tires squealing before my business manager could say a word in protest. Just what had she been doing with Harv that night? I began to doubt it had anything to do with investments.

  As I drove over the bridge into the city, through the crowded, traffic-ridden streets heading for the massive gray brick library building on Powell, I replayed my conversation with Anne. Those two disparate images stuck in my mind—Anne’s mother pulling me from a watery grave and my mother turning her back on her children engulfed in flames. The images felt heavy, imposing, significant. But they were isolated moments, only small pieces of the whole tapestry of my life. And had nothing to do with my current purpose—uncovering the truth of my father’s death.

  I shoved those lingering images to the back of my mind and let my father’s name roll over my tongue. Nathan Sitteroff.

  Hard as I tried, not one memory surfaced. His name drew a blank. And, for some reason, that distressed me even more than the recent revelations of the afternoon.

  Chapter 4

  The librarian left me alone with the microfiche machine, after explaining how to access the different periodicals by date and keyword. I had used those machines on occasion in college when working on term papers, maybe eight years ago, and I never liked them. I spent an hour putting in one rectangular film after another under the small warm bulb, searching for the name Sitteroff in medical and scientific journals. I found a half-dozen references to people whom I couldn’t imagine would be related to me, but it wasn’t until I started in on the newspapers that I came across something odd.

  A contributed article in The Washington Post, dated only eight months earlier, mentioned the name Nathan Sitteroff. I skimmed through the piece and nearly discarded it—something to do with mothers and abusive husbands and custody battles. A woman named Mandy Glessman wrote it, apparently an attorney who was going through a bitter divorce offering practical advice for abused wives. My eyes were tired from the strain of reading small type in bad lighting, and my recent fitful sleeping combined with the stuffy room made it difficult to concentrate. In my excitement to get to the library, I had skipped lunch, and my stomach, now free of nausea, cried out for food. Yet, a secondary glance at the author’s byline showed her to be from New York, so that made me stop and reread.

  I woke from my ennui when I found the sentence with my father’s name.

  “I named my son after an uncle I’d never met—Nathan Sitteroff. My father used to tell me stories of how he and his protective older brother were moved from one foster home to another during the Great Depression. How they survived starvation and poverty and cruelty. Often the agency would try to place them in separate homes, because no one wanted to take on two children at once. Yet, my uncle Nathan refused to let his little brother Samuel—”