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Authors: Kate White
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he had to leave. You a friend of his?”
“Actually a friend of the family his former girlfriend worked for.” Her eyes widened and I could tell that she was in the
loop about what had happened. “I wanted to see how he was doing.”
“Not so good,” she said.
“How did he find out?” I asked.
“I think he saw it in the paper.”
“Did you know her—Heidi?”
“She used to come in all the time—with that little boy. But not so much lately.”
“You don’t have an address for Jody, do you? I need to get hold of him to make sure he’s okay.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t have an address. But I could give you a phone number.”
Number in hand, I headed for 93rd and Second Avenue, where Janice lived with the family who employed her. The apartment building
turned out to be one of those forty-story-tall condos that had gone up in the 1980s, full of yuppies who, as Cat had once
pointed out, could afford the mortgage but didn’t have enough equity to snag a more fashionable place west of Lexington Avenue.
The concierge announced my arrival and directed me to go to 31E. It took Janice about a minute to answer the bell. I could
hear her hushing a kid, and then the sound of her making her way to the door, her shoes or sandals flip-flopping across the
floor. Her looks surprised me. Probably because of Heidi, I had expected Janice to be pretty, too, but she was short and plump,
and her long, brassy blond hair was styled in a bad version of Farrah Fawcett’s
Charlie’s Angels
do. She was squeezed into a pair of jeans and a black CK T-shirt—about three sizes too small.
“Hi, Janice, I’m Bailey,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Thanks so much for seeing me. I’m sure this must be hard for you,
since you and Heidi were so close.”
As soon as I said Heidi’s name, tears began to fall, depositing streaks of mascara as they slid down her face.
“I’m so upset,” she said. “I’ve been calling the house over and over to see if someone would, like, talk to me, but I keep
getting the stupid machine.”
“Well, the press is pestering the family—because of Miss Jones’s job. May I come in?”
“Oh yeah, sorry.”
The apartments in these kinds of New York City buildings all look pretty much the same—rectangular rooms without any ornamentation,
parquet floors, tiny kitchens—so I was surprised by the place as I got my first full glimpse of it. The owners must have totally
gutted the existing apartment—several apartments, for that matter—and had created a loftlike space with a large open kitchen,
dining, and living area. The furniture was mostly contemporary, and though the space was decorated decently, there was stuff
piled on every possible surface—shrink-wrapped packages of Pampers, tubs of baby wipes, Blockbuster videotapes, magazines,
mail, catalogs, unfolded laundry, a six-pack of vanilla pudding. In the living area was a huge TV screen, practically the
size of ones they use in football stadiums to show the replays. Parked in front of it in a baby walker was a nearly bald baby,
probably just over a year old. He was gumming a bagel to death and watching a show or videotape featuring a giant blue-spotted
dog.
Janice flip-flopped her way in a pair of black mules to the dining room table and plopped down in one of the chairs. On the
placemat in front of her was a can of Diet Coke and a plate of half-eaten French fries, the kind with ridges that you buy
frozen and heat up in the oven. I sat down at the spot directly across from her, with a stunning, unbroken view to the East
River and Queens.
“You wanna soda?” Janice asked, pushing aside the plate of fries and picking up her own can. Her inch-and-a-half-long nails
were painted purple and had little flower decals on them.
“No thanks, I’ll just drink my cappuccino,” I replied. As I took a sip, Janice glanced over at the baby. He was bouncing up
and down giddily in his walker,
“Actually a friend of the family his former girlfriend worked for.” Her eyes widened and I could tell that she was in the
loop about what had happened. “I wanted to see how he was doing.”
“Not so good,” she said.
“How did he find out?” I asked.
“I think he saw it in the paper.”
“Did you know her—Heidi?”
“She used to come in all the time—with that little boy. But not so much lately.”
“You don’t have an address for Jody, do you? I need to get hold of him to make sure he’s okay.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t have an address. But I could give you a phone number.”
Number in hand, I headed for 93rd and Second Avenue, where Janice lived with the family who employed her. The apartment building
turned out to be one of those forty-story-tall condos that had gone up in the 1980s, full of yuppies who, as Cat had once
pointed out, could afford the mortgage but didn’t have enough equity to snag a more fashionable place west of Lexington Avenue.
The concierge announced my arrival and directed me to go to 31E. It took Janice about a minute to answer the bell. I could
hear her hushing a kid, and then the sound of her making her way to the door, her shoes or sandals flip-flopping across the
floor. Her looks surprised me. Probably because of Heidi, I had expected Janice to be pretty, too, but she was short and plump,
and her long, brassy blond hair was styled in a bad version of Farrah Fawcett’s
Charlie’s Angels
do. She was squeezed into a pair of jeans and a black CK T-shirt—about three sizes too small.
“Hi, Janice, I’m Bailey,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Thanks so much for seeing me. I’m sure this must be hard for you,
since you and Heidi were so close.”
As soon as I said Heidi’s name, tears began to fall, depositing streaks of mascara as they slid down her face.
“I’m so upset,” she said. “I’ve been calling the house over and over to see if someone would, like, talk to me, but I keep
getting the stupid machine.”
“Well, the press is pestering the family—because of Miss Jones’s job. May I come in?”
“Oh yeah, sorry.”
The apartments in these kinds of New York City buildings all look pretty much the same—rectangular rooms without any ornamentation,
parquet floors, tiny kitchens—so I was surprised by the place as I got my first full glimpse of it. The owners must have totally
gutted the existing apartment—several apartments, for that matter—and had created a loftlike space with a large open kitchen,
dining, and living area. The furniture was mostly contemporary, and though the space was decorated decently, there was stuff
piled on every possible surface—shrink-wrapped packages of Pampers, tubs of baby wipes, Blockbuster videotapes, magazines,
mail, catalogs, unfolded laundry, a six-pack of vanilla pudding. In the living area was a huge TV screen, practically the
size of ones they use in football stadiums to show the replays. Parked in front of it in a baby walker was a nearly bald baby,
probably just over a year old. He was gumming a bagel to death and watching a show or videotape featuring a giant blue-spotted
dog.
Janice flip-flopped her way in a pair of black mules to the dining room table and plopped down in one of the chairs. On the
placemat in front of her was a can of Diet Coke and a plate of half-eaten French fries, the kind with ridges that you buy
frozen and heat up in the oven. I sat down at the spot directly across from her, with a stunning, unbroken view to the East
River and Queens.
“You wanna soda?” Janice asked, pushing aside the plate of fries and picking up her own can. Her inch-and-a-half-long nails
were painted purple and had little flower decals on them.
“No thanks, I’ll just drink my cappuccino,” I replied. As I took a sip, Janice glanced over at the baby. He was bouncing up
and down giddily in his walker,
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