Read Online Goodnight Nobody by Jennifer Weiner - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Weiner
Tags: Chic-lit
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else? I'm bored." I stared at her defiantly, knowing that I'd just spoken the dirtiest word in the Upchurch lexicon. As far as my fellow mommies were concerned, saying you were bored was admitting to being about two steps away from drowning your babies in the bathtub, something so sinful and forbidden you could never 'fess up to it. But here I was, 'fessing. "I'm bored, and this murder, while horrifying, is also the single most interesting thing that's happened here since the Langdons next door broke ground for their guesthouse and cracked their septic tank. It's interesting, and I want to find out more."
Janie sat back, looking satisfied at last. "That's my girl," she said.
Seven
Once upon a time, there was a woman who'd lived in New York City, then moved to Connecticut with her baby and her husband--a woman not too different from me, or Kitty Cavanaugh. Except Laura Lynn Baird was famous, and she didn't have to deal with boredom. When her son was born, she'd kept working (although, paradoxically, much of that work seemed to involve flying around the country or appearing on television to tell other women that they were bad mothers if they had jobs that took them outside of the home).
I parked my minivan in front of 734 Old Orchard Lane in Darien, Connecticut, checked my lipstick in the rearview mirror, and tucked my bangs behind my ears. Janie had worked her magic, getting Laura Lynn on the phone with me. "H-hello," I'd stammered. It had been years since I'd interviewed anyone except a potential babysitter. I'd fumbled through the basics: I was working on a tribute to my departed neighbor and colleague, and I would be deeply appreciative if Laura Lynn, busy though she must be, could possibly spare--
Laura Lynn cut me off. "Ten o'clock, tomorrow morning. I can give you twenty minutes." Click.
The dashboard clock said 9:54. I pulled a sheaf of papers out of my bag. I'd printed every single one of "The Good Mother" columns, and I'd highlighted pertinent passages the night before, after I'd put the kids to bed. "Feminism's Big Lie is a two-headed Hydra, a snake that whispers into the modern woman's ears that her own happiness is primary, that having it all is possible, and that both can be achieved without her children suffering, or even noticing," Laura Lynn Baird-slash-Kitty Cavanaugh had written. "The truth, as any woman who's honest with herself knows, is that children were meant to be raised by their mothers. In this case, and for a finite number of years, biology really is destiny. Shame on the woman who exchanges her role as the dispenser of good-night hugs, consoling kisses, and lullabies for the transitory pleasures and cocktail-party cred of the corner office and the fancy title. And pity the working-class child-care provider who doesn't realize that the real villain in her life isn't a stereotypical sexist pig, but the woman wearing recycled-fiber clothing, eating organic produce, and calling herself your sister even as she profits from your off-the-books, under-the-table toil."
Heady stuff. It was hard to imagine Kitty, with her pleasant smile and inoffensive chatter, writing it. I tucked the pages back in my bag, called home to make sure that nothing was burning or broken, and exited the car, making my way up Laura Lynn's crescent-shaped driveway, stepping onto her pillared porch, and knocking on the green front door. At ten on the dot, a tanned, bony hand snaked out of the six-inch gap between the door and the jamb, grabbed my sleeve, and pulled me inside.
"You're Kate Klein?" Laura Lynn Baird snapped.
"Yes," I said.
Laura Lynn had looked slim but imposing every time I'd seen her on television, gleefully trashing some Democratic congressman or feminist lawyer. In person, she was tiny, a flat-chested androgynous sprite the size of a starving fifth grader, clad in a pink Chanel suit with tufted cream trim at the hem of the skirt and on the jacket pockets. She had on cream-colored pumps, a double strand of
Janie sat back, looking satisfied at last. "That's my girl," she said.
Seven
Once upon a time, there was a woman who'd lived in New York City, then moved to Connecticut with her baby and her husband--a woman not too different from me, or Kitty Cavanaugh. Except Laura Lynn Baird was famous, and she didn't have to deal with boredom. When her son was born, she'd kept working (although, paradoxically, much of that work seemed to involve flying around the country or appearing on television to tell other women that they were bad mothers if they had jobs that took them outside of the home).
I parked my minivan in front of 734 Old Orchard Lane in Darien, Connecticut, checked my lipstick in the rearview mirror, and tucked my bangs behind my ears. Janie had worked her magic, getting Laura Lynn on the phone with me. "H-hello," I'd stammered. It had been years since I'd interviewed anyone except a potential babysitter. I'd fumbled through the basics: I was working on a tribute to my departed neighbor and colleague, and I would be deeply appreciative if Laura Lynn, busy though she must be, could possibly spare--
Laura Lynn cut me off. "Ten o'clock, tomorrow morning. I can give you twenty minutes." Click.
The dashboard clock said 9:54. I pulled a sheaf of papers out of my bag. I'd printed every single one of "The Good Mother" columns, and I'd highlighted pertinent passages the night before, after I'd put the kids to bed. "Feminism's Big Lie is a two-headed Hydra, a snake that whispers into the modern woman's ears that her own happiness is primary, that having it all is possible, and that both can be achieved without her children suffering, or even noticing," Laura Lynn Baird-slash-Kitty Cavanaugh had written. "The truth, as any woman who's honest with herself knows, is that children were meant to be raised by their mothers. In this case, and for a finite number of years, biology really is destiny. Shame on the woman who exchanges her role as the dispenser of good-night hugs, consoling kisses, and lullabies for the transitory pleasures and cocktail-party cred of the corner office and the fancy title. And pity the working-class child-care provider who doesn't realize that the real villain in her life isn't a stereotypical sexist pig, but the woman wearing recycled-fiber clothing, eating organic produce, and calling herself your sister even as she profits from your off-the-books, under-the-table toil."
Heady stuff. It was hard to imagine Kitty, with her pleasant smile and inoffensive chatter, writing it. I tucked the pages back in my bag, called home to make sure that nothing was burning or broken, and exited the car, making my way up Laura Lynn's crescent-shaped driveway, stepping onto her pillared porch, and knocking on the green front door. At ten on the dot, a tanned, bony hand snaked out of the six-inch gap between the door and the jamb, grabbed my sleeve, and pulled me inside.
"You're Kate Klein?" Laura Lynn Baird snapped.
"Yes," I said.
Laura Lynn had looked slim but imposing every time I'd seen her on television, gleefully trashing some Democratic congressman or feminist lawyer. In person, she was tiny, a flat-chested androgynous sprite the size of a starving fifth grader, clad in a pink Chanel suit with tufted cream trim at the hem of the skirt and on the jacket pockets. She had on cream-colored pumps, a double strand of
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