The Sitter Read online

  I don’t think he heard me over the throbbing music. He pressed his hot face against my cheek. “I’ve got some X, Ellie. Do you want it? Let’s take it, huh? I’ve got Ecstasy. We could take it together and have a good talk.”

  “Clay, you know I’m not into that,” I said sharply. “You know I don’t do that stuff. Why are you always trying—?”

  In the middle of the dance floor, but we weren’t dancing, and Teresa seemed a million miles away. Poor Clay. He’s not a bad guy, really. He could be someone’s teddy bear. He could. But why does he care so much about me? We saw each other for less than a year, and it wasn’t even an exclusive thing. So why does he care so much?

  I feel sorry for him now. Is that why I let him pull me out of the club? Or is it the wine? Did I have three glasses or four?

  Up the stairs and out onto Second Avenue and into a taxi. He’s squeezing my hand so tight, like he’s never going to let go.

  “We said good-bye, remember?”

  Doesn’t he hear a word I say?

  “We’ll have a good talk, Ellie. We were always so open and honest with each other.”

  We were?

  He’s so sad. I’ve made him so sad.

  And now we’re walking up the steps to the brownstone where he lives, bumping each other, leaning on each other. “Just one last time,” he’s whispering.

  And we’re in his stuffy, cluttered one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. I’m staring at the travel posters on the wall, British Rail posters, trains arriving at cold-looking, stony beach towns. Why does he like these posters?

  I let him pull me to his bedroom. Yes, I let him. My head still throbs from the club music. The floor tilts as he leads me.

  Y’all ready for this?

  Y’all ready for this?

  He’s undressing me. “Clay—please . . .”

  He’s undressing me so feverishly with those clumsy bear paws.

  I’m letting him. Yes, I know. I should fight or scream or something. But I’m letting him.

  My glittery top. My short black skirt. He’s pawing at my skirt, tugging it down as he leans over me, pushing me onto the unmade bed.

  “One last time,” he whispers, his breath so hot and wet in my ear. His dark eyes spinning. “Ellie, please . . . one last time.”

  No. This is wrong, Clay. No. Stop.

  Did I say the words? Or did I only think them?

  His hand between my legs. Then he pulls down my black underpants. “One last time.”

  No. Don’t.

  I’m only thinking the words.

  I’m letting him . . . letting him. My underpants are around my ankles. And he’s on top of me now. And now he’s in me. Now . . . now . . . now . . . now . . .

  What is he saying?

  He’s talking rapidly, talking, moving on top of me, and talking the whole time. But I can’t hear the words. I can’t hear his voice.

  And once again, I see the blond boy in his place.

  Once again, I see the blond boy moving on top of me, not Clay. The adorable blond boy, so light and fair, like a fine, pale deer.

  Not Clay. No, not heavy, bearish Clay.

  The blond boy is here again, and Clay disappears. And I’m sliding, sliding, sliding into a kind of dreamworld. Only I don’t slide all the way because I know what I’m doing. . . .

  I know the blond boy isn’t making love to me.

  I know the blond boy is a ghost.

  But I don’t care. I want him there. After all these years, I still want him.

  After all these years.

  And now Clay is finished. I hear him groan and see him lifting himself off me.

  Why do I let him take advantage of me? My underpants still knotted around one ankle. I don’t want to be here.

  I let him . . . I let him . . .

  He slides beside me. Presses his hot mouth against my cheek.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t know if I can breathe in here. “Clay . . . this is the last time,” I whisper.

  His lips are against my ear. “You can’t get away from me, Ellie.”

  “No, Clay. Listen—”

  “You fucking can’t get away. I won’t let you.”

  But I’m already gone.

  Did I say the words? Or did I just think them?

  2

  The next morning—a windy, gray Saturday in late May. I called my mom.

  I call my mom once a week, and she always acts surprised to hear from me. Like it’s been a year or two since we spoke.

  First we do the weather report. “It’s kind of blustery here in New York, Mom. Not like summer yet. I think it’s going to rain. How is it in Madison?”

  Cold, of course. It’s always cold in Madison. Well, except for those few months when it’s swelteringly hot, and the humidity off the lake practically knocks you over.

  Then I ask about my cat, Lucky. I miss Lucky so much. I’ve had him since I was twelve, but I had to leave him behind when I moved to New York. “How is Lucky, Mom?”

  “He’s okay. How should he be?”

  Then I get the report on Wendy, my successful, hardworking, married, nearly rich, fucking yuppie of an older sister, whose stupid, sacred shadow I walk in. And don’t you ever let me forget it, Mom.

  “Wendy and Noah bought a BMW, an adorable little convertible. I hate to tell you what it costs.”

  Oh, go ahead and tell me, Mom. You know you’re dying to.

  Then she asks me what I’m doing, and her voice changes—it suddenly sounds as if she just stepped in dog poop. “Ellie, dear, what’s new? Are you still temping at that stockbroker’s?”

  “Well, I’m still temping, Mom. But the stockbroker thing ended. So I’m going to be starting somewhere new.”

  “I thought you had a friend there. That young woman you mentioned. Teresa something. She was going to find you a real job there.”

  “Teresa’s only a secretary, Mom. She really doesn’t have enough pull to get me a job.”

  “Oh, I see. I didn’t realize you were working at such a low level. And I guess you couldn’t get a real job on your own?”

  “Uh . . . well . . . I enjoy temping, Mom. Really. And I . . . I’m still trying to work things out.”

  “Still hung up in the past? You’re really saying this to me? What year is this? Did I fall into a time warp? Are we living some kind of science-fiction movie where I’m doomed to live the same scene over and over?”

  “Mom. Come on. I didn’t call to argue.”

  “What’s past is past.”

  “Mom—”

  “Why don’t you get a tattoo like all the other crazy people your age? You could tattoo that on your forehead: What’s past is past. You ran off to New York to forget it all, am I right?”

  “I didn’t run off. I made a decision, and I moved here. Give me a break, Mom. I’m trying.”

  “You’re trying? You’re trying my patience, that’s what you’re trying.”

  “Ha ha. You’re such a comedian, Mom.”

  “Then how come I talk to you and I want to cry?”

  “Please. I’m really trying to get over the past. I need a real change. You know. A fresh start.”

  “Ellie, you’re twenty-four. You’re going to run out of fresh starts soon.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement, Mom.”

  “Listen to me—”

  “Mom, I’m sorry. Got to go. I have another call.”

  Sometimes I say that just to get off the phone. But this time, I really did have another call.

  “Ellie, I didn’t get to tell you about your dad’s root canal. Three hours in the chair. You wouldn’t believe the pain that poor man—”

  “Mom, please. It’s beeping. I have to take this call. Bye.”

  I clicked her off, but I knew her raspy, two-packs-a-day voice would ring in my ears for the next hour or two.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe. It’s me. Clay. I was thinking maybe we could get together tonight.”

  3
r />   The next Saturday, Teresa called and said to come over and we’d do lunch or something. I hadn’t seen her since that night at Beach Club.

  What would I say if she asked me what happened with Clay? Could I tell her the truth? No way. Too embarrassing.

  I pulled on a pair of pale blue chinos and a navy polo shirt and swept my hair into place with my hand. Then I stepped outside into a warm, sparkly day—June first, and summer was just about here!—and began to walk up West End Avenue.

  In a windowsill, some late daffodils swung gently in the soft, warm breeze. Someone had planted red and purple tulips around the trees that lined the avenue. Two blond-haired boys zipped past me on their silver Razor scooters, jackets flying behind them.

  How could I know that this was the day that all the horror would begin?

  Teresa lives on West Eightieth Street, just a few doors down from the legendary H & H Bagels store. H & H has its ovens going twenty-four hours a day, and the wonderful aroma of baking bagels floats up the block—and into Teresa’s windows. She says she’ll never move.

  She shares a three-bedroom apartment with two other women in an old building with a marble lobby and an elevator that creaks and groans and barely makes it to the eighth floor. Teresa and her roommates have covered the walls of the apartment with movie posters and furnished the place with things from IKEA, a few old chairs found on the street, and a massive, brown leather couch that sits in the middle of the living room. No one is sure how it got there.

  The kitchen is about the size of a phone booth—no kidding. They have to go in there one at a time or they might get stuck. But like a lot of the older West Side apartments, the ceilings are high, the windows are tall, and the rest of the rooms are big and comfortable.

  Sarah, one of Teresa’s roommates, answered the door. “Just heading out for a run,” she said, slipping past me. “Teresa’s in her room.”

  I found Teresa sitting sideways on her bed, legs crossed, leaning against the wall. She wore a green-and-white-striped tank top over faded denim jeans. She had her hair piled up, a green bandanna tied around it. She had no makeup on, which made her face very pale, her green eyes even more prominent than usual.

  She raised the Mary Higgins Clark book from her lap. “Ellie—hi. Have you read this one?”

  “Nope. I haven’t read any mysteries since Nancy Drew.”

  Teresa snickered. “You used to read those things? They were so old-fashioned and dorky.”

  “I know. But I didn’t care. I read a whole bunch of them. I loved them. I loved solving the mystery before Nancy did. But my mom made me stop reading them. She said I had to start reading real books.”

  “Well, this is a really good mystery,” Teresa said. “I’m almost done, and I can’t figure out who the stalker is.”

  Of course that made me think of Clay.

  “Hey, I miss you at work,” Teresa said, pulling me from my thoughts. “I got used to seeing you every day. You know. Having lunch together and everything. Did the agency send you to another job?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m still waiting by the phone.”

  “I asked Mrs. Snow if she had anything for you. Full-time. But she said there’s a hiring freeze.”

  “Teresa, that’s so nice of you.”

  She shrugged. “Hey, we’re pals, right?”

  Teresa and I had met at Charles Schwab the previous December. I was temping for the woman who had the cubicle next to Teresa’s. Teresa and I started talking over the cubicle wall—we hadn’t even seen each other yet—and pretty soon we were laughing and gossiping and having a great time.

  I was so glad to make a new friend, a real friend. My first year in the big city, and it was hard to get to know people. Most people I met seemed to be racing from place to place, too busy to make new friends.

  Of course, I had hooked up with Clay. But that wasn’t like having a friend. Not anymore, anyway.

  I spun the chair away from her dressing table and sat down. I found myself staring at Teresa’s giant poster of Johnny Depp.

  “Why didn’t I notice that before?” I asked.

  “It’s new.” She grinned. “You like?”

  I studied it. He had his slick, black hair plastered straight back, and he stared out with deep, dark, sad eyes. “Teresa, why Johnny Depp?”

  “Because he’s not human,” she said, staring at it with me. “He’s a Martian or something. See his face? It’s perfect.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but she didn’t give me a chance.

  “No. Really. I mean, it’s perfect. Look at that side; then look at that side. You see? It’s symmetrical. Both sides are the same. He’s the only human in the universe who has a perfectly symmetrical face.”

  I nodded. “I see you’ve made a real study of this.”

  “Ellie, how many times in life do you see total perfection?”

  “Speaking of that,” I said, “what happened between you and Bernie last Friday night?”

  She turned away slowly from Johnny Depp. “Bernie? Oh. You mean the Swingin’ Surgeon? He wasn’t interested in me. He lost interest after you left. I guess he likes you Winona Ryder types.”

  “Excuse me? Winona Ryder? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Well, you know. You’re kinda waifish, El. You’ve got the big round eyes and the straight black hair, and the . . . uh . . . tiny body.”

  Waifish?

  “Besides, Bernie was engaged or something,” Teresa said.

  She folded down the page in the book and tossed it onto the bed table. Then she picked up a pack of Parliament Lights, slid a cigarette into her mouth, and lit it with a plastic lighter.

  “Hey, what happened with Clay that night? Did you have trouble getting rid of him?” she asked.

  “Uh . . . a little,” I said.

  “Talk about clueless,” Teresa said, sending a cloud of smoke into Johnny Depp’s perfect face. “What happened?”

  “Well, we talked for a while,” I said. “But I don’t know if I got through to him or not.”

  And that was about as close to the truth as I could bear to admit.

  Blinking away Teresa’s cigarette smoke, I saw pictures of that night, of Clay’s apartment, of Clay . . .

  I let him.

  I let him.

  “He . . . he’s still haunting me,” I said. “He’s still stalking me. He won’t leave me alone.”

  I picked up a Magic 8 Ball from Teresa’s vanity. I turned it upside down. It answered, REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN before I even asked it a question.

  Teresa took a long drag on her cigarette, her eyes narrowed, studying me. She let the smoke out slowly. “You should call the police, Ellie.”

  I sat up and shook my head. “I just want to get away from here for a while,” I said. “You know. Get away from Clay. Get out of the city. Did I tell you that my sublet is up the end of May?”

  “That’s in two weeks.”

  “Tell me about it. In two weeks, I have to pack up and—”

  “You could move in here for a week or so. You could sleep on the couch, I guess.”

  “Thanks. You’re great.”

  “Whoa. Wait.” Teresa jumped up, stubbed the cigarette on the bed table’s ashtray, and turned, suddenly excited. “Here’s one thing you could do that would be fun. You could join our summer share in the Hamptons. I think there are still some places open. That would be awesome!”

  I shook the Magic 8 Ball. Once again, it said, REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN. Maybe it was in a rut—like me.

  “I can’t,” I told Teresa. “I can’t afford a summer share in the Hamptons. Besides, that’s only weekends, right? Where would I live during the week? On the beach? I’m nearly broke. I can’t keep temping. I have to find a real job.”

  Teresa took the Magic 8 Ball from my hand. She started pacing back and forth over the patchy, brown rug, tossing the plastic ball from hand to hand.

  “Oh, I know,” she said, stopping and dropping down beside a small bookcase beside t
he window. “Hold on. I think I still have them.”

  I stood up and crossed the room to her. On the windowsill, two pigeons were parading back and forth, strutting, cooing, bumping each other.

  “Have what?” I asked.

  She pulled out a stack of newspapers. “From the Hamptons. I used them to find my summer share. Maybe we can find you a job out there, Ellie. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “If I get a job in the Hamptons—”

  “We’ll find you a cheap place to live,” Teresa said. “Then we can hang out together all summer. Partying on the beach every weekend? Endless guys? Endless sun? It’ll be excellent—just like in those beach movies, only real life.”

  She took the first newspaper, the Southampton Press, and handed it to me. “Check it out. The job ads are in the back.”

  The paper was bigger than the New York Times. It took me a while to find the right section. I saw listings for a couple of sales jobs in Southampton boutiques. It didn’t sound so appealing to me, but Teresa made me call.

  Both jobs were already filled.

  “This isn’t working,” I said, folding up the newspaper.

  Teresa tossed the plastic ball at me. I made a fumbling catch before it sailed into the wall. “What’s wrong with you, El? You give up after only two calls?”

  “The whole idea is crazy,” I protested. “I don’t think—”

  “Give me that.” She grabbed the newspaper. “I’ll read the ads. You just dial the numbers.”

  After six or seven more unsuccessful attempts, I called a store in Watermill called Country Modes. A woman with a hoarse, scratchy voice answered. “Country Modes. How may I direct your call?”

  I don’t want you to direct my call, I thought. I just want to speak to you.

  “I saw your ad in the newspaper,” I said. “Are you still hiring?”

  “Yes, we are, dear.”

  After so many loser calls, the answer took me by surprise. “You . . . have a job?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  I flashed Teresa a thumbs-up. “I’m interested,” I said. “I’m looking for a full-time job. What do I have to do?”

  “Just come in and fill out an application.”