Just Between Us Read online

  “Of course, honey, but we’re all under a lot of stress,” Julie said gently. “This is more than stress.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s an anger-management problem.”

  There was color high on Heather’s cheekbones, but her voice barely betrayed the emotion and embarrassment she had to be feeling. “It was just a silly argument,” she said. “I didn’t want you to see the mess.”

  “Like the bruise on your wrist?” Alison’s voice was low and hard. She looked as upset as I’d ever seen her. “Did he hit you?”

  “No, of course not!” Heather said, but her gaze darted away and I don’t think any of us believed her. I wondered what fresh bruises her clothes were hiding. Viktor had obviously been careful not to leave any marks on her face.

  Julie gathered the silverware noisily together and started loading it back in the dishwasher, her movements hurried and jerky. “We’ll help you get this cleaned up, it’s no problem.”

  “Thank you, really, but I’d rather you didn’t,” Heather said, sounding strained. “Please, let’s just go back outside.”

  “Whatever you want,” Julie said, shoving the last of the silverware into the dishwasher before straightening up and glancing out the kitchen window. “Alison, I think Matthew might need you.”

  “Oh!” Alison bolted out the back door, clearly panicked that she’d forgotten about her kids, and I followed after her, anxious that Sam might have hit another child while I was inside.

  The sun had shifted and the day felt even colder. Back on the courtyard the coffee had gone cold and new leaves had blown onto the table. Julie plucked one out of her coffee cup as Heather gently shook the pot. “There’s more in here,” she announced before emptying the cold dregs from her own cup into a boxwood hedge that edged the patio. We all followed suit, Alison’s toss landing short so a trail of milky coffee trickled across the stone, seeping into the cracks.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, springing up to dab ineffectually at it with a napkin.

  “It’s fine,” Heather said. “No big deal.” She refilled our cups with a smile and Julie smiled, too, slipping easily back into the pretense that everything was okay. No one commented that the coffee from the pot was barely warmer than what we’d tossed out. Heather and Julie resumed their conversation about the fashion show as if nothing had interrupted it. I couldn’t do it, not now, not after this. I’d never been good at pretending, and I knew Alison wasn’t either. She’d sat back down at the table to brood over her coffee, lost in thought and absentmindedly biting her nails. I felt a sudden impatience—we needed to stop sitting there and do something.

  “There’s help,” I blurted, and the others looked at me, Julie’s expression wary and Alison’s relieved. Heather’s face betrayed nothing at all. She simply stared at me, her face the beautiful blank canvas of a plaster Madonna. It was disconcerting. I cleared my throat, gripping my coffee cup. “There are places to get help,” I said. “You don’t have to put up with this.”

  “Put up with what?” Heather said after a long, uncomfortable silence, her eyes fixed on mine. I wished that Julie or Alison would step in and back me up, but then Heather laughed. I was so startled my cup slipped from my hands and coffee splashed over the table. It dripped through the open wrought iron and I pushed back from the table to avoid it, my chair scraping noisily against the stone. “I’m not being abused,” Heather said, still laughing, a high, brittle sound. “This is absurd.”

  “I know it’s hard,” Alison said then, and I shot her a grateful look. “But we’re here for you—we want to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Heather said quickly. “Look, this is just a misunderstanding. We had a stupid argument and some dishes were thrown. That’s all.”

  There were spots of color on her perfect cheekbones, and as she picked up her own coffee cup, I saw that her hands were trembling. She noticed it, too, and set the cup down before folding her arms.

  “What if he’d cut you? Or Daniel?” Alison spoke in the same low voice she’d used before.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Heather said. But we’d all stood in that kitchen surrounded by broken glass and none of us was convinced. “Daniel was at school,” she added in an insistent tone. “He didn’t see it.”

  “Well, that’s one bright spot,” Julie said in a weak voice.

  “What about your nanny?” I said. “Did she see it?”

  “She’s not working for us anymore,” Heather said, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Alison looked at me and I could tell we were both thinking the same thing: Viktor didn’t want any witnesses.

  Before anyone could comment, Julie’s son, Owen, came running toward us, clutching the front of his pants in a gesture that all of the mothers understood even before he said, “I gotta go to the bathroom!”

  “I’ll take him,” Heather said, standing up, clearly glad for the interruption.

  “Don’t be silly, I’ll do it.” Julie got to her feet and hustled Owen into the house. Heather didn’t sit back down, using the excuse of checking on Daniel to leave the table.

  When Julie came out of the house with Owen, she said she’d forgotten she had an appointment later that afternoon. I got up at once, eager to leave. Alison followed suit.

  “You don’t have to go so soon,” Heather said, but it was a halfhearted protest at best. It was clear she wanted us to go and I wondered why she hadn’t simply canceled this afternoon.

  We took turns saying good-bye to her on the driveway, each giving her a careful embrace, cradling her close.

  “If you ever need to talk,” Alison murmured when it was her turn.

  “Yes, we’re your friends,” Julie said, adding, “Thank you for the coffee,” as if trying to normalize everything. I waited to say anything to her until we’d loaded the kids into the car, and until Alison had pulled out ahead of us, and until we’d waved, parade-float smiles in place, at Heather standing in the drive, her slender arms wrapped around her midsection.

  “I feel terrible leaving her there,” I said in a low voice, conscious of the kids. “Viktor is a monster.”

  “We don’t know that,” Julie whispered, eyes darting to the kid mirror to see if they were listening in the backseat. “They had an argument. Granted, it looked like a really bad argument, but all couples argue.”

  “C’mon, he trashed their kitchen—that’s more than an argument and you know it.”

  “Shh. Careful about certain little someones with big ears. Look, I know it seems … excessive, but we weren’t there and we don’t know what really happened. Maybe they were both throwing dishes.”

  “If that were true, then wouldn’t she just tell us that? And have you forgotten the welt?”

  Julie had no answer to that. Noticing her hands clutching the steering wheel, I realized how stressed she was about it. Julie liked things light and happy. She was the one who always tried to defuse tension in our group. One reason she was such a successful salesperson was that she didn’t internalize negative feedback about the properties she listed, focusing only on what worked and plowing ahead to highlight it. Clients loved her bubbly personality and I did, too, but this wasn’t the first time I’d felt frustrated by her attitude.

  “I know you admire Viktor—”

  “Of course I admire him—he’s a very well-respected doctor.”

  “But how well do you know him? How well do any of us know him?”

  We knew one another’s husbands only as the accompanying spouse for the occasional cocktail party or kids’ sporting event. We’d gone to dinner once or twice as a group, but eight people required a pretty large table, so I hadn’t had much of a chance to talk with Viktor. One time, Julie and I decided to separate the couples in order to spark more lively discussion, and that had been the longest conversation I’d ever had with him.

  Sitting there in Julie’s passenger seat, I tried to recall my impressions of Viktor. He was a tall man, much taller than me, of course, but he also tower
ed at least two inches above Eric. He was good-looking in a way that could make people feel slightly nervous when he turned his blue eyes in their direction. I’d been nervous before first meeting him, having heard he was a plastic surgeon and feeling self-conscious about my body and afraid that I’d see a negative assessment in his eyes. I needn’t have worried. He was friendly, with old-school manners, always holding doors for women and offering a hand to his wife when she had to take steps or climb out of the car. Granted, it was a bit paternalistic, but I’d never seen any hint of bullying behavior.

  What had we talked about at that dinner? Something innocuous—was it about cooking? A cooking show? I remembered being surprised that he had any time to watch TV, much less to cook, given the busy schedule he somehow maintained, albeit with all the help that having a doctor’s salary afforded him. “Heather doesn’t care for cooking,” he’d said in his easygoing way. “I’ve tried to explain that kids need more to eat than PB&J.” He’d laughed when he said it, but had there been an edge to it? Or was I only imagining that now I’d seen the rage he was capable of?

  “Did you know Viktor was married before?” Julie said in a musing voice. I turned to look at her, my mouth literally dropping open.

  “No, I didn’t know that. How on earth do you know and I don’t?”

  She shrugged. “Heather told me. I guess I just assumed she told you and Alison, too.”

  “Divorce?”

  “I assume, but I didn’t want to pry.” Which was just so typical of Julie. Alison or I would definitely have asked questions.

  “What if he abused his first wife?” I said, flashing to all the cases I’d seen in court, bruised women and men desperate to escape, filing restraining orders against battering exes.

  Julie took her eyes off the road to look at me and whispered, “I was just wondering the same thing.”

  * * *

  As soon as we got home, I set the kids up in front of the TV so I could Google Viktor Lysenko. My kids usually weren’t allowed to watch TV on weekdays, and they plopped happily on the couch to stare glassy-eyed at some Disney princess, while I poured myself a glass of chardonnay and sat down in front of the desktop in the small alcove that we’d turned into a home office. Our house was only a three-bedroom and space was at a premium—we’d bought what we could afford to get into the school district. I’d carved out this little work space in the only place available and Eric and I vied to use it, although it didn’t really afford any privacy. The minute I sat down, Hansel, our large orange Persian cat, jumped up into my lap.

  It had been a stressful afternoon and I needed to take the edge off. I sipped the wine, trying not to gulp it down, while searching online, occasionally reaching down to absently stroke Hansel’s soft fur. There was nothing marriage-related except Viktor’s wedding announcement to Heather. Instead, what jumped out at me was how much more information was included about Viktor than Heather: Her bio was two sentences about being related to some people in West Virginia and having modeled, while his was a veritable Who’s Who, listing his connections to various hospitals and organizations, and his embrace of Pittsburgh when he came from the Ukraine as a youngster. And their wedding had taken place in Pittsburgh, not the bride’s hometown. Had that been at Viktor’s insistence? It smacked of someone who needed to be in control.

  I grabbed a pad of paper to jot down what I’d found, but when I looked for my favorite pen—a black Montblanc that had been a law school graduation gift—I couldn’t find it. Eric had probably taken it to grade papers; I wished he’d remember to put things back where they belonged. Josh called from the other room, needing me, and I didn’t have time to get back to the search until later that evening. Once I’d done laundry, made dinner, and bathed the kids, I finally had a moment free to call Alison. Of course, techie that she was, she managed to find more information online than I had.

  “There’s a wedding announcement for Viktor and a woman named Janice Franz. I found another reference to her and there’s a Janice Franz who lives in Penn Hills.”

  Just east of Pittsburgh, only fifty minutes away. It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d be so close by. “What if we called her and asked about Viktor?”

  “I think we should talk to her in person,” Alison said. “We don’t know what happened with their marriage and how she feels about Heather.”

  Alison patched Julie in to our call so we were all on the phone together. Not surprisingly, Julie didn’t jump at the chance to question Viktor’s first wife in person. “How on earth are you planning to bring that up? ‘Excuse me, did your ex-husband ever hurt you?’”

  “Something like that.”

  “Count me out. What if she’s still friendly with him and calls Viktor?”

  I said, “We could ask her to be discreet.”

  “What about Heather?” Julie said. “What are you going to say if it gets back to her?”

  “That we’re concerned about her,” Alison said. “That we think she’s being abused and isn’t facing reality.”

  “She asked us to stay out of it,” Julie said.

  “Are you saying you’re comfortable doing nothing?” I said. “What, you just want to sit by while your friend is the victim of domestic violence?”

  “Allegedly,” Julie said. “She’s allegedly a victim—we don’t know that for sure.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Alison said in an acid voice. “And he allegedly destroyed their kitchen, and allegedly squeezed her wrist hard enough to bruise, and allegedly grabbed her at the Chens’ house and allegedly threw her into a door.”

  There was silence for a moment so long that I thought we’d lost the connection. Finally, I said, “Hello? Julie?”

  Julie let out a sigh, like a balloon deflating. “Okay, okay, I’ll go with you. But I don’t want Heather to find out.”

  I thought that was more than we could promise, but before I had a chance to respond, Alison said quickly, “Don’t worry—she won’t.”

  chapter seven

  JULIE

  It wasn’t until we turned in to Janice Franz’s neighborhood the following Saturday that we thought about how it would look for three complete strangers to show up on her doorstep.

  “I think it should just be Julie,” Sarah said, pulling her minivan over to the side of the road and putting her blinkers on so we could plan. Alison rode shotgun and I’d taken the backseat.

  “Me?” I spluttered, dribbling the coffee I’d brought down my chin. “I didn’t even want to come on this trip!”

  “She might feel threatened,” Alison said, passing back a tissue. “But you’re so friendly that you’ll melt any possible hostility.” Sarah nodded and I wondered if they’d talked ahead of time, waiting to spring this on me. Why had I agreed to be part of this plan?

  “You’ll have to be careful about how you bring up the abuse,” Alison said. “Even if she seems eager to talk about Viktor’s behavior, I’d still be careful about using the actual word.”

  “I’m no good at this sort of thing!” I protested. “I don’t want to have this conversation at all.”

  “Oh, you’ll be great.” Sarah waved a hand dismissively. “Everybody loves you. As soon as you mention Viktor you can gauge her reaction. If she can’t stand him, then you can probably bring up domestic violence right away.”

  “That still wouldn’t be proof that he’s hurting Heather,” I said.

  “Yes, but if he battered his first wife, then maybe we can use that to help Heather,” Alison said. “And maybe if she knows that Viktor did this to another woman, and how bad it got, that would be enough to convince her to leave him.”

  This seemed like wishful thinking to me. Heather had denied being abused; I didn’t see her leaving any time soon. As Sarah pulled back onto the road, I started to sweat, nervous about what I would say.

  Sarah drove slowly, searching the house numbers along the steep street. Penn Hills has lots of small brick homes—ranches and Cape Cods—some on slightly bigger lots than others, but
most of them modest, middle-class houses. I thought of Viktor and Heather’s neo-Gothic stone estate in Sewickley Heights. Apparently Viktor’s ex hadn’t done well in the divorce.

  The destination turned out to be a tiny ranch with lace curtains in the front window and a wooden sign declaring GOD BLESS THIS HOME hanging from the front door. “His ex lives here?” Sarah said with surprise, as Alison double-checked the address. We circled the block once, before Sarah pulled up out front. I hoped Janice wasn’t peeking out from behind those curtains, wondering about the strange van parked outside her house. I got out and turned up the short concrete walk. As I rang the bell, I could feel Alison and Sarah watching from the car. Other than its faint chiming, there was no other noise from inside the house. The neighborhood was quiet, except for the distant sounds of traffic on the main road and some far-off neighbor’s leaf blower. I waited a few minutes and rang the bell again. It felt like an eternity before the door finally opened.

  A short, squat older woman with a soft cloud of graying hair stood there with an inquiring look. Dozens of little white hairs clung to her navy-blue sweater, and a powerful aroma of cat made me take a step back. I was so surprised by her age that I just blinked for a second, unable to speak. “Yes?” she said, beating me to the punch. “Did you want something?”

  “Yes, hi, maybe I’m at the wrong house. I’m looking for Janice Franz?”

  “I’m Janice Franz.”

  “Oh, um, you are? I mean, you’re not who I was expecting.”

  “Are you selling something, miss? I’m sorry, but I already gave to the Boy Scouts and the United Way—” She tried to close the door and I stuck my foot out to block her.

  “I’m not with any organization, I’m a Realtor, but—”

  “I’m not interested in selling at this time.”

  “No, no, it’s not that—I’m sorry, this is awkward, but I was expecting someone young—that is, closer to my age. The Janice Franz who was married to a Viktor Lysenko?”

  The confusion on the woman’s face disappeared, but something else settled in its place. It was an odd expression; her eyes were sad, but the set of her jaw suggested she expected a fight. “You’re confusing me with my daughter—Janice Marie Franz. I’m Janice Lee Franz.”