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“I assume youhaveseen something strange,” Fritz says once she’s gone. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking.”
I debate how much to tell him, knowing there still might be a logical explanation for what I saw last night and that the ball in my yard might have nothing to do with the garage lights flicking on and off at all the houses on Hemlock Circle. Deciding it’s too complicated to share, I simple say, “No, Mr. Van de Veer.”
“No need to be so formal, son. Call me Fritz.”
“Fritz,” I say, the name feeling weird as it springs off my tongue. “I’m just getting a feel for the neighborhood now that I’m back.”
He nods in a way that makes me think he doesn’t believe me. “You plan on staying a while?”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”
“It’d be a shame if you didn’t,” Fritz says as he aims the hose at a hydrangea bush dominating the corner of his yard, its blue blooms quivering in the water’s spray. “This place wouldn’t be the same without someone from the Marsh family living here. I was sad to see your parents go. They settling in okay?”
“They are, yes.”
“Good to hear,” he says. “Next time you talk to them, give your mother my regards.”
Fritz cuts the water and starts gathering up the hose. I nod goodbye and resume heading to the Wallaces’, my encounter with the Van de Veers already fading from my memory. Since I didn’t see much of them when I lived here as a kid, I suspect we’ll have even fewer interactions now that I’m back. It isn’t until I reach the Wallaces’ front steps that I realize something odd about the conversation.
Why did Fritz Van de Veer mention my mother but not my father?
Friday, July 15, 1994
9:22 a.m.
After throwing her half-eaten breakfast in the trash and shoving the syrup-streaked plate into the dishwasher, Joyce Marsh tells her husband that she’s going to go outside. Their argument earlier had been intense but brief, and even though everything since has been smoothed over—for now, at least—Joyce needs to put some distance between the two of them or else she’ll admit everything.
That there is indeed more to the story of how she lost her job.
That she can’t ever tell him all of it.
“Rejoining the Gaggle?” Fred says as she trades her house shoes for a pair of canvas slip-ons by the mudroom door.
He’s referring to the other wives of Hemlock Circle, who often gather for a few minutes each day in the yard of whoever happens to be out there first. Today, it’s Trish Wallace, who’s using a spray bottle to spritz the lilies that line her front walk. Deepika Patel, who lives next door, has already joined her, and Joyce knows it’ll be a matter of minutes before the others make their way over.
No one’s quite sure when the gatherings began. It certainly wasn’t planned, and there’s no organization to it. Just a group of friends and neighbors spotting each other across the cul-de-sac and steppingoutside to say hello. Still, Fred insists on calling it the Gaggle, in a way that sounds more condescending than Joyce thinks he intends. As if they’re all just a bunch of gossips with nothing better to do. She chalks it up to jealousy on his part. The men of Hemlock Circle never gather like this.
“Might as well,” she says with a sigh. “Time to get back in the habit, I guess.”
Once outside, she sees that in addition to Trish, Deepika, and Misty Chen, Mary Ellen Barringer has joined the group. A surprise. Her next-door neighbor rarely participates in the Gaggle. At least, she didn’t used to. Maybe that’s changed since Joyce stopped taking part.
Making her way across the cul-de-sac, she can’t help but think about how jarring it is to not be going to work anymore. Yes, she’d only been there two months, but it was long enough to fall into a comfortable routine. Right now, for instance, she’d be settling at her desk with a cup of coffee after a five-minute chat with Margie, the senior assistant. Margie’s there right now, likely chatting with whoever they brought in to take Joyce’s place. Joining the Gaggle on the Wallace lawn makes her feel…Well, she’s not sure how she feels. “Failure” is too strong of a word, but it feels akin to that. Disappointment, she guesses, that she’s so easily slipped back into her old routine.
“Look who’s back,” Trish says. “Day off?”
“Permanently off,” she replies. “It just wasn’t a good fit with my schedule. You know how it is.”
Joyce smiles through the lie. If she can’t tell her husband anything, she’s certainly not going to tell these women. Because, condescending though it may be, there is some truth to the name Fred gave the group.
“A mother’s work is never done,” Trish says as the others nod in agreement. Their bobbing heads make Joyce wonder if they’re silently judging her for trying to have a job while also maintaining a home.
On Hemlock Circle, the women aren’t expected to work. They don’t need to. It’s an expensive neighborhood in an expensive cornerof an expensive state. They all live here because they can afford it, thanks to their husbands. They are the wives of professors and scientists, engineers and bankers. Everything they could possibly want is provided for them.
“It’s better this way,” Misty tells Joyce. “Ethan needs you at home. Just for a little longer.”
Joyce would beg to differ. Lately, Ethan acts like he doesn’t need her at all, which is one of the reasons she decided to get a job. She misses the days when he depended on her for everything. Now that he doesn’t, there’s a void she had hoped employment would fill.
“I suppose you’re right,” Joyce replies, declining to debate the point with Misty, whose bright smile and perfect skin betray no hint that in the past twelve months she’s endured one of the worst things a mother can go through. Poor, troubled Johnny. Such a tragedy.