CLAUDIA RUSK WORKED FOR SUSAN’S NEIGHBOR. SHE WAS A friend of Susan’s nanny, Bonita, and had helped Susan on many occasions when Bonita couldn’t. Like Bonita, Claudia was a college student at night, earning tuition as a nanny by day. Now, Claudia had disappeared, leaving the neighbor’s baby in the laundry room, stuffed in a basket among dirty towels and undershirts. It made no sense. Why would she do that? Where had she gone? Why?
I thought about Claudia as I tucked Molly in. I thought about her as I went downstairs, made myself a cup of tea, and snuggled under an afghan on my overstuffed crimson chair. I thought about her as I laid my head back and closed my eyes. Stop worrying, I told myself. Worrying won’t help. There’s nothing you can do about Claudia or her disappearance. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if, on the day she disappeared, Claudia had been wearing red nail polish.
I took deep breaths. I told myself to center my energy, not to think of the finger, Claudia, or the other missing women. Our doors were locked; Molly and I were secure inside our brown-stone. My bubble. It was a good bubble. I’d worked hard to put it together, and it was cozy. I looked around my tiny, cluttered living room. The built-in shelves filled with books and small treasures. My great-grandmother Bella’s heavy brass mortar and pestle for grinding flour, and her porcelain soup tureen, now stuffed with dried flowers. On the walls, paintings by people I knew, aspiring artists like I used to be. A huge abstract oil, bold strokes of umber, yellow, and beige. A fat nude. An etching of a farm beneath a crescent moon.
The furniture was sparse and strewn with stuff: one of Molly’s many half-finished art projects with her jars of beads and bottles of Elmer’s glue, a half-dressed baby doll, a lone red knee sock, a well-worn teddy bear. In the far corner, the Stair-Master gathered dust, sulking and nagging at me. Last year, my New Year’s resolution had been to work out. I knew I should, but I hadn’t gotten around to it; the machine served primarily to take up space and tug at my conscience.
I adored my heavy purple sofa, the handwoven blankets draping its back, the cabinet I’d painted with funky designs, the chair I’d found at a flea market. Nothing matched. Colors, textures, and shapes had nothing in common except that I liked them. Yet, gathered together, all the pieces seemed to fit. Like odd members of a family, a collection of strays, they made this a home. I sipped my tea, feeling it warm my blood. Gradually, I let myself relax and felt the tension lift and went up to bed.
But I couldn’t sleep. I thought about Claudia; then I began to think about our sitter, Angela. She wasn’t a college student, not even trained as a professional nanny, but I trusted Angela and relied on her. She was almost a member of the family. She had her own house key. She’d once snaked our toilet. She scolded me about the way I loaded the dishwasher, tried to teach me how to organize my cabinets. Angela knew what went on behind our closed doors, our private stuff.
She stood maybe five feet tall, wore lots of large gold accessories, and blue eye makeup, had long sculpted fingernails, and dyed her hair purplish black. She had a throaty voice and a loud, hoarse laugh. She’d been with her boyfriend, Joe, since high school and planned to marry him. Born and raised in South Philly, second youngest of five kids, she didn’t like to leave her neighborhood; Queen Village, a few blocks north, was about as far away as she’d venture. Except for the mall.
I usually smiled when I thought of Angela, the twang of her vowels, her street-smart, in-your-face attitude. Except now, I didn’t smile; I worried. Claudia and two other local nannies were missing, and someone had lost a finger. Angela could be in danger. I couldn’t bear to think about that; the idea was too awful. Besides, Angela was a babysitter, not, technically, a nanny. I wondered if the kidnapper would make the distinction.
I lay back and watched the darkness, listening to night sounds: wailing sirens, revving engines, screeching brakes, and, whenever I’d begin to doze, the patient flapping of black wings.
I puffed up the pillow. I tossed. I flipped. I looked at the empty pillow next to mine. My ex-husband’s ex-pillow. I frowned at it and turned my back. I already had too many scary images in my head; I didn’t need to stir up more by revisiting my former marriage. Desperate for diversion, I reached for the remote. Colors flickered. Animated candy bars sang Christmas carols and flew in reindeer-driven sleighs. I changed channels. A green convertible careened around a corner, pursued by police. Click. A talking head with a necktie and an authoritative voice updated the news. I turned him off before he could mention the missing nannies.
Finally, giving up, I got out of bed. Go downstairs and exercise, I told myself. Go work out. You’ll get tired. You’ll sleep better. You’ll feel better about yourself. I thought about it. I imagined turning on the StairMaster and climbing to exhaustion long into the night.
Instead, I went to the window. Occasional cars passed, even at this bleak hour. Across the street, the electric Santa blinked on and off, bathing the street with alternating beams of light and darkness, darkness and light. Victor’s upstairs light was on, a solitary silhouette behind his shades. Apparently, he couldn’t sleep, either. Old Charlie was up, too. He was out on his porch, sitting alone in the cold shadows, smoking a pipe.