But maybe: Ismelda would intervene. If something went terribly wrong.

  If there came a call from the school. If one or the other child fell (seriously) ill.

  Never (yet) any emergency in the Jarretts’ family life.

  A charmed life, you could say. Though Hannah does not like to say, for fear of, as it’s said, tempting fate.

  Explaining to Ismelda that she might not be back home in time to pick up the children at school so Ismelda should plan on picking them up: usual time, usual place.

  Ismelda nodded. Yes, Mrs. Jarrett.

  As if not surprised. As if, in fact, Ismelda had expected to pick the children up. Never any doubt that Ismelda would pick them up at the usual time, usual place. There was even a third car in the Jarrett household, a Ford Pinto, for such utilitarian purposes.

  Maddening to Hannah: how Ismelda never expressed the mildest surprise when Hannah gave her instructions that, to Hannah, were out of the ordinary, a break in household routine.

  For it was Hannah’s conviction that she, the children’s mother, drove the children to school and picked them up after school most school days.

  Maybe not each day, but most. Usually.

  Not that she didn’t trust Ismelda’s driving: She did. Both she and Wes were satisfied that the children’s nanny was a good driver, and could be trusted. Probably a better driver than Hannah, who was so easily distracted in traffic.

  Like Conor’s bed-wetting. This appeared to be no surprise to the nanny who changed Conor’s bedclothes without commentary but it was always a surprise to Hannah if she found out.

  Was there not something insulting about this … secrecy? Something patronizing?

  Possibly it was ethic, racial. The (brown-skinned) employee’s lack of surprise when the (white) employer acted out of character. The nanny’s equanimity.

  As if they expect the worst in us. Never surprised when we are bad parents. Is that how they see us!

  Hannah was becoming anxious that Ismelda somehow knew about Y.K. The new presence in Hannah’s life, that so distracted Mrs. Jarrett.

  Those sensitive nostrils in the petite brown-skinned woman could detect—what?

  An odor of panic emanating from Hannah. Panic, and desire.

  But no: not likely. Hannah spent even longer than usual in the shower that morning. Piercing-hot water, a powerful spray, the newly purchased ceiling-mounted showerhead in polished nickel, pounding delirium of water, hypnotic, punishing yet pleasurable, you wanted never to turn it off and step out of the shower dazed in the cooler, dull air.

  And there was the creamy-white-gardenia lotion rubbed into the creamy-white-gardenia skin. Hannah, a supplicant in the worship of her very self, struck dumb with admiration, hope. Yearning.

  Ultra-fastidious about deodorant: It must be odorless, but it must be one hundred percent reliable.

  Mouthwash. First thing in the morning minty-green mouthwash gargled energetically for several seconds. Guaranteed to kill thousands, indeed millions of germs upon contact.

  Cleansed of all possible odors, betrayals of the body. Free then to apply expensive scents of her own choice evoking flowers, fruits.

  Still, Hannah was uneasy in Ismelda’s presence. As Wes observed, you can’t tell what these people are thinking.

  Generally in Far Hills—as in Bloomfield, Birmingham, Grosse Pointe—you could not tell, you could not even guess, what these people, the brown-skinned servants who made complicated white lives possible, were thinking.

  Born in Manila, eldest of ten children, scarcely five feet in height, can’t weigh more than ninety pounds, Ismelda might have been any age between twenty-five and forty-five: one of those (undocumented? illegal?) immigrant workers who send all but a fraction of their wages home to their families.

  One of those of whom their white employers say warmly—We treat her just like family.

  Hannah invites Ismelda to sit with her and the children, at the children’s meals, but Ismelda seems embarrassed, and declines. We try, but they don’t really feel comfortable with us. We try!

  Hannah feels less than complete, not entirely a devoted mother, in Ismelda’s presence. For (surely) she would never work so hard, so diligently and without complaint, for modest wages of which most are sent home to a family thousands of miles away.

  Well, maybe Hannah would sacrifice for her children. Her children.

  But not other children, not nieces and nephews, siblings … No doubt the Filipino families are large, Catholic families. Hannah shudders. The hive life of family! She can only just bear her own, and sometimes scarcely even her own.

  Of course, Ismelda is a devout Christian. That makes all the difference.

  It seems that Ismelda belongs to a Catholic-related evangelical sect with its headquarters in Dearborn, where she and three other Filipino nannies in the vicinity worship each Sunday morning and each Wednesday evening. Hannah has never seen the church, has no idea of its size, even its official name—something like the Church of the Risen Christ.

  In the small maid’s room on the third floor of the house Ismelda sometimes plays Christian rock music late into the night, overheard by Hannah when Hannah is unable to sleep beside her slumbering husband, or unable to sleep because Wes is away on business and she has forgotten where he is, with whom he might be, tormented by the rhythmic thumping elsewhere in the house, near-inaudible, a sound as of sexual coupling, uneasily overheard, troubling, envied, resented, confused with the insatiable yearning of dreams.

  If something happens to Hannah.

  If (for instance) Hannah fails to return home to the house on Cradle Rock Road, Far Hills, on the afternoon of Good Friday 1977.

  If (for instance) Hannah is missing for a day and a night, a night and a day, before her bruised and bloodied and naked body is discovered wrapped carelessly in filthy bedding and shoved into an obscure corner of a storage area on the ground floor of the newest luxury hotel in Renaissance Plaza.

  If so, Ismelda will take over the Jarrett household at least temporarily, but capably.

  Child care, meal preparation, housecleaning and laundry, sorting the husband’s clothing, ironing the husband’s dress shirts, overseeing the husband’s dry cleaning, bringing in the mail and sorting it for the husband—most of these mundane but necessary tasks the nanny has already been doing since beginning to work for the Jarretts several years ago.

  Certainly, Ismelda will be questioned closely by police. For Ismelda will be identified as the last person in Far Hills to have seen Hannah Jarrett alive.

  “Give Mommy a Kiss”

  Give Mommy a kiss—two kisses!”

  Pulling them by their small mittened hands to the rear entrance of the school. At the door, just inside the door stooping to kiss Katya, stooping to kiss Conor, yes their foreheads feel mildly heated, yes it’s too late to do anything about it, best not to think of it, or rather to defer thinking of it as the beautiful little girl surrenders Mommy reluctantly, the beautiful little boy pushes away from Mommy with a brave sneer, each with the gravitas of young children blinking back tears they must not shed in the presence of rowdier classmates.

  Thinking—But what if I never see them again? What if they never see Mommy again?

  Good Friday 1977.

  PRIVACY PLEASE!

  DO NOT DISTURB

  In the corridor outside room 6183 of the Renaissance Grand Hotel Hannah has been trying to think! Hannah’s head hurts, she has been trying so very hard to think.

  Lingering smell of cigar smoke in the elevator, a passing sensation of nausea—she will overcome.

  How to interpret the sign. If any interpretation is expected—if she is making something out of nothing.

  The most obvious interpretation: The sign has no relationship to Hannah at all. Not a rebuke or a mockery of her, just a (routine) sign for the housekeeping staff.

  Because (of course) (Hannah tells herself) a man expecting a woman to come to him, in the privacy of a hotel room, does not want a hotel employee intruding into that privacy. Hardly!

  So Hannah reasons. Considering the sign hanging from the doorknob like a reproach, an arrow to the heart, her heart.

  You should not be here. You are risking your marriage. Your children …

  The sign is a rebuke. The sign is an insult. A special message for Hannah, to rouse her to her senses.

  … the remainder of your life.

  “Excuse me, ma’am!”—the voice is harshly male, impatient, annoyed, as unwittingly Hannah has stepped back from the door to suite 6183 colliding with a man passing closely behind her, murmuring an apology even as the man mutters, in passing, in contempt, “Stupid cunt.”

  So quickly this happens, so fleetingly, Hannah has scarcely time to register the incident, still less the insult. Vaguely she’d been aware of someone approaching, he’d been slowing his steps, then, seeing Hannah, he’d seemed to change his mind and quickened his pace, pushing past her, colliding with her and recoiling from her, in the same instant, as Hannah recoiled from him.

  “Oh! Sorry”—Hannah’s apology is a reflex.

  The insult, the cunt, Hannah will pretend not to hear. The scowling face, Hannah will pretend not to see. Wisest strategy is to (always) turn away, avoid confrontation.

  Her impression is of a man of about her age, possibly younger, roughened skin like sandpaper, untrimmed and unflattering mustache, steely ice-pick eyes behind tinted glasses. Detroit Lions cap pulled low on a low forehead, the sort of hat worn indoors by men prematurely losing their hair.

  Upright rodent. Halfway metamorphosed into a man.

  Hannah doesn’t look after him: no. Waiting for him to let himself into one of the rooms farther along the corridor, assuming that he’s a hotel guest, not wanting to knock on Y.K.’s door until the corridor is empty … But the scowling man surprises Hannah by not stopping at any door, continuing to the end of the corridor and disappearing through the exit door.

  Hannah doesn’t think: Why? The man in the Lions baseball cap, scowling, muttering an obscenity at her in passing, disappearing from her consciousness as from the hotel corridor.

  For Hannah is very nervous, standing before Y.K.’s door. Like a diver poised on a high diving board. She does not want to make a mistake.

  Still pondering how to interpret the sign hanging from the doorknob—do not disturb.

  It is a riddle. Like so much in Hannah’s life.

  The fact that her heartbeat is accelerating. Knocking against her ribs. A sign, a tell. Excited, near fainting. A sensation she has not felt—if she is being honest—in a very long time.

  Well, she has come so far, and she is so beautifully dressed, what a waste, to turn away, flee like a coward!

  Joker Daddy lights a cigar, amused. His favorite daughter’s life has become one of those cruel fairy tales where whatever choice you make, you will regret.

  Beautiful Clothes

  But why, such beautiful clothes. On a weekday, midday.

  To have come to him, who will tug them off of her, carelessly.

  Scarcely seeing the rich man’s wife, impatient, rough-fingered, amused by her alarm at what she has triggered into motion that cannot easily be stopped—Oh!—don’t. Wait …

  “Hello, Mrs. Jarrett!”

  “How are you, Mrs. Jarrett!”

  Beautiful clothes, elegant and understated. Not showy but casual, Neiman Marcus at the Bloomfield Mall, seventh-floor women’s designer collection where Hannah is greeted with warm smiles.

  Lighting up the faces of saleswomen, providers. Glowing faces casting a glow back upon Hannah.

  How you know you are loved, cherished.

  As a girl Hannah was trained in the art of self-presentation. Trained to understand that first impressions are absolute and irrevocable. If you fail the immediate test you have failed absolutely and irrevocably, except (perhaps) with persons (like yourself) of no significance, whose opinions don’t matter.

  Persons to whom failure is familiar, who don’t even recognize failure. Such persons to be avoided like death.

  Clothes, makeup. Only the most prestigious brand names. If it’s a time in your life when you don’t have much money know what your priorities are—fewer purchases but never less than the highest quality.

  Why Hannah shops exclusively at Neiman Marcus, Bergdorf Goodman, Saks at the Bloomfield Mall, a small selection of boutiques in Far Hills. Prada, Louis Vuitton, Saint Laurent, Dior. Too insecure to purchase anything other than designer clothing, makeup. Ceaseless quest to find the perfect costume, the perfect face.

  Before going out Hannah will require an hour examining herself in the mirror, in secret. Trying on clothing—“outfits.” Tossing aside rejected items, pulling other items off hangers. Staring at herself as anxiety mounts like a vise tightening around her skull.

  At the rear of the step-in closet is clothing purchased months, years ago, yet to be worn outside the house for it is never quite right.

  Some clothing, still in its plastic wrappings. Discovered after her death with price tags attached.

  A secret from the husband who would laugh at Hannah as if affectionately but go away disapproving.

  The shallow soul. Who is this person I’ve married!

  At a young age made to understand that clothing is costuming. You are the actress performing your own life, must choose the perfect clothing and makeup inside which to disguise yourself.

  For God’s sake try to smile at least, Hannah. A smile can perform wonders for a plain face like yours.

  Trying on “outfits” is an interlude of such excitement and apprehension, Hannah’s heartbeat quickens. Her breathing comes short and shallow as if she has been running up a steep flight of stairs.

  Indeed, Hannah is frequently short of breath. She has been diagnosed with a mild case of emphysema, believed to have been caused by secondary smoke inhalation, years of Joker Daddy’s Cuban cigars smoked in the house and in his car on those long trips to the summer place in Castine, Maine.

  Those years!—when it was rude to ask smokers not to smoke, rude even to wave away smoke that was making you cough; when coughing was interpreted as a rebuke to a smoker, and prolonged coughing an insult, likely to provoke a reprimand if the smoker was Daddy and the cougher was his (favorite) daughter.

  Hannah recalls that her mother never intervened with her father in the matter of smoking. Her mother did not (ever) intervene with her father in any matter of child treatment. She’d confronted the problem of her husband’s Cuban cigars by insisting that the smoke didn’t bother her, in fact she liked the rich dark smell of the cigars. Hannah has a memory of her mother shutting her eyes in a simulacrum of bliss as suffocating smoke drifts into her face, poor Mother trying with all her strength not to succumb to a fit of helpless coughing.

  It would be years before sentiment would begin to shift away from smokers and toward their victims. When smoking was outlawed on airplanes, in hospitals, in public places. By which time it was too late, the cigar smoke had done its damage in the family.

  Still, Hannah’s very breathlessness has become one of her most charming traits. That air of girlish intensity, sincerity. Especially men are attracted.

  Leslie Caron, Audrey Hepburn. That most gorgeous of quick-breathing beauties, Marilyn Monroe. My models.

  Now that her parents have passed away Hannah has become her own most exacting critic.

  With their sharp, always subtly disappointed eyes, Hannah sees herself. In the mirror is the tremulous child, prepubescent.

  Their principles guide her. Elegance, simplicity, taste—never take a chance on appearing common.

  In this phase of Hannah’s life she has been a flawless performer. Only Y.K. has seen into her soul.

  His (bemused) eyes penetrate her clothing, a mere costume won’t deceive him.

  Still, Hannah must try. Nervously she has rejected several changes of clothing and has decided to wear, for the trip into Detroit, for this (reckless, audacious) adventure, a pale rose silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, light woolen trousers, a newly purchased winter coat, black cashmere with a mink collar. A belt that ties casually as if negligently at her waist which comes loose even as Hannah crosses the hotel lobby to the row of elevators feeling a presentiment of dread that she is trapped in a dream in which beneath the coat she is naked …

  Run, run! Hide your face in shame.

  No turning back. Too late. Ascending rapidly in the glass cubicle of an elevator.

  Seeing, at his room, a do not disturb sign hanging from the doorknob.

  Reminding her: Joker Daddy never wanted to be disturbed. If the door to any room in which Joker Daddy was, was shut, never never turn that knob. Not ever.

  Hesitant now. Not sure what to do.

  Is DO NOT DISTURB a test? A test of Hannah? No accident for there are no accidents, there is only fate.

  Telling herself: The test is whether she will behave as if she has no idea that the sign is a test, for she is not one for whom testing is likely; or will she acknowledge that yes of course it’s a test, and an insult and a humiliation, for she is exactly the sort of person to be put to the test, and fail.

  But Hannah has no choice, she must play out the scene. For she has so elaborately costumed herself: beautiful clothes, beautiful shoes, beautiful face.

  If a woman is not desired, a woman does not exist.

  Help me to exist.

  Lifting her hand to ring the bell beside the door. And in an instant—done …

  “Hello!”

  Laughing at Hannah, the expression on her face.

  His arms pull her inside. Quick before anyone sees, a roughness that might be interpreted as playful, or merely pragmatic, expedient—as the door is shut behind her.

  Hannah’s beautiful clothes—is there no one to see them? Calculate their worth?

  Can’t hear what the man is saying, a laughing remark, her voice falters, fails, all that she has rehearsed to tell this person, to inform him, to state clearly to him, yes and to apologize to him, her words she’d feared would disappoint him, none of this registers, no one is listening.