A Safe Distance

By Bernadette Walsh

How close is too close?

 

Ellie Barrett and Joanna Fox are neighbors who used to be friends. Now they are neighbors who pretend to be friends. And that's okay with Ellie. With three children, a sick mother and a difficult husband who admires the slim athletic Joanna a little too much, Ellie doesn't have time for neurotic Joanna Fox. A wave and a nod across the cul-de-sac and the occasional car pool is enough for Ellie. She prefers to keep her distance.

 

Yet, when a global pandemic strikes and the Barrett and Fox families are trapped together on their picturesque cul-de-sac, Joanna can no longer successfully suppress the demons of her childhood and Ellie can no longer ignore the cracks in her marriage or the strange attraction between her mercurial husband and her bothersome neighbor next door. Will the two families rally to protect themselves from the violence that threatens their suburban oasis? Or will long-held secrets blow the two families — and their respective marriages — apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bernadette Walsh
• Release date: Jun 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201752637

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

FOUR WEEKS BEFORE QUARANTINE

JOANNA

As soon as I opened the door, he pulled me into the motel room and threw me on the bed. I hadn’t even taken my coat off when he pushed my sweatpants and underwear down around my knees and entered me so abruptly that it hurt more than a little.

The part of my brain that forced me to meet with him time and again said, "Don’t you dare complain. This is what you came here for."

As usual, we found our rhythm. He flipped me over and clothes were shed. I raised my knee as his hands roamed my body. I ran my fingers through his thick black hair. He whispered in my ear, I can’t believe you’ve had five children. Your ass is incredible.

Shut up and fuck me. I didn’t want to talk to him about my kids or my ass. I didn’t want to talk to him about anything. It’s not like I snuck out of the house for a chat.

He stopped and started several times, hoping to make our illicit rendezvous last but I had the dinner to put on and, frankly, wasn’t in the mood for anything other than a quickie. I trapped his hips in my runners thighs. Come on, Martin. The girls will be home from Irish dance class in a half hour.

After he’d collapsed onto me, I wriggled out from under him, grabbed my handbag and ran to the shower. I took the small bar of soap from home out of my handbag — my husband Warren had a nose like a bloodhound and although he wasn’t due home from the hospital for hours, I didn’t want to take any chances.

After my shower, I walked into the bedroom naked. Martin always like a final look before I dressed. Often, if we had time, another look was all it took to get him going. But I didn’t have time for another round today. I needed to get back to my real life. The life I lived outside the confines of a cheap motel on Route 110.

Martin lay propped up on three pillows with the sheet wrapped around his waist. The hard line of his abs and his jet black hair belied his fifty-three years. You are beautiful, Joanna.

And late, I said.

Aw, come on back to bed. The kids can make themselves macaroni and cheese, can’t they?

No they cannot.

But I want to talk to you. We never talk anymore.

I hooked the back of my bra and then pulled the sweatshirt over my head. Don’t you have a wife for that?

Yeah, I love talking about the mating rituals of cowboys from the 1850s.

That’s not nice.

He grinned. I thought we agreed neither one of us was nice.

I try to be nice. At least sometimes.

Martin pulled back the sheet and exposed himself to me. I much prefer you as a nasty girl.

I laughed. I’ll bet you do. Now remember, wait fifteen minutes before you drive home.

Yes, boss. Have you thought anymore about my proposal?

I stepped into my sweatpants. What proposal?

A weekend away. Just the two of us.

Only a weekend? Why not a week? Or a month? I’d love to spend a month on the Rivera.

Be serious. I can borrow a house in East Hampton from one of my partners next week. It’s the offseason so no one will be around.

I sat on the bed with my back to him and tied my sneakers. No, Martin.

I’ll tell Ellie I have a business trip.

I stood up and slipped on my jacket. I’ll be in Ireland next week. At the Irish Dancing World Championships. With your wife and daughters. Maybe you can take one of your other girlfriends.

I don’t have any other girlfriends.

Yeah, right. I picked up my handbag. I’ve gotta go, Martin. Remember, wait at least fifteen minutes.

Still naked, Martin leapt from the bed and enveloped me in his lean arms. There’s no one but you.

And Ellie.

He kissed me. Tenderly, which was unusual because we didn’t often kiss. I closed my eyes and almost allowed myself to melt into his arms but I stopped. Tender kisses weren’t part of what this was.

Although lately, I wasn’t sure exactly what this thing between us was. In the last few months since we’d started up again after an almost five year hiatus, something had changed. He had changed. Which wasn’t a good thing.

But, then again, nothing about this situation was good.

I pulled away. Remember. Fifteen minutes.

***************

THREE WEEKS BEFORE QUARANTINE

JOANNA

5:00 am. I was already awake when the alarm went off. I never slept the night before a competition — certainly not one as important as the Irish Dancing World Championships. Thankfully neither Maura nor Alanna shared my nervous energy. The other mothers complained about how their kids tossed and turned the night before a competition. Not my daughters. As soon as the lights went out their little girl snores filled the hotel room. Maura and Alanna had nerves of steel they must’ve inherited them from their father.

Or fathers.

No, I couldn’t think about that. Not now.

I showered, slicked my wet hair into a tight ponytail and pulled on a pair of jeans and a comfortable sweater. Today was all about making the girls look like perfect dancing dolls come to life. What the mothers looked like didn’t matter. Many dance moms barely ran a brush through their hair before they stumbled down to the ballroom but I insisted on getting up a little earlier so I had time to shower. You had to maintain some standards, especially around that pit of vipers.

I shook Maura awake. Wake up, sweetie. It’s time to put on your wig.

I left Alanna asleep in the room since she’d danced yesterday — and had come in a respectable tenth place. Maura and I made it down to the practice room for warm ups with the dance teacher, Mrs. O’Brien, by 6:50 and were the first to arrive. Start stretching, I barked at Maura.

I opened my large vinyl tote bag for a final check. Extra socks, safety pins, sock glue, gaffers tape, scissors, bloomers for under the costume, large safety pins, small safety pins, large bobby pins, small bobby pins, hair spray for the natural hair peeking out of the wig at the front and a teasing comb. Good. I had everything. Inevitably some dance mom would scramble in search of something. Probably my neighbor, Ellie Barrett, who always seemed to need a safety pin. But not me. I came prepared.

The other under-13 competitors and their harried mothers streamed into the practice room. Ellie Barrett barely made eye contact as she and Colleen Kennedy reluctantly threw their various dance bags beside mine — the practice room was small and Geraldine McMorrow from Belfast and her posse of Irish-born dance moms had already commandeered the opposite side. The Irish-born mothers always stuck together. One of the new mothers, a transfer from Buffalo named Anne Marie Madden, scurried into the room trailed by her daughter, Maeve, who was already in tears. As a fellow upstate New York native, I’d initially hoped Anne Marie and I could be friends. Given how hot and cold Ellie was — never mind that nasty Colleen Kennedy — I certainly could’ve used an ally. Anne Marie was friendly at first, especially after I invited her to our house last summer and Maura helped Maeve with the new slip jig steps. By Labor Day there was a definite cooling. Obviously one of those bitches bent Anne Marie's ear. Oh, well. Maeve was only marginally better than Katie Barrett so no real threat to my Maura. Let Anne Marie find someone else to help the flat-footed Maeve.

Geraldine McMorrow strolled over, her brown curls a rat’s nest. Hiya, girls. Anyone have any extra tape? I swear to God, my child must eat that tape. I packed two rolls before I left home.

I have some, I said.

Good woman, Joanna. I knew I could count on you.

I bent down to open my tote bag but not before I caught Colleen Kennedy’s eye roll.

Geraldine McMorrow would look right through you in the dance school parking lot or local feiseanna but for some reason she became very chatty at major competitions and deigned to speak to the American moms. Geraldine looked over at the crying Maeve. The poor mite. It’s too much, really. The pressure. They’re only children after all. I remember I was so nervous I threw up before my first Worlds. How about you, Ellie? Did you toss your cookies before Worlds?

Ellie flipped her long blonde hair and laughed. I gorged on Cadbury’s chocolates before I got on stage so I should’ve puked but never did. She bumped her arm into Colleen’s. This lady here was the big puker.

Colleen smiled. Guilty as charged. Rosalie O’Brien was so mad at me when I puked at my first Worlds, she threatened to send me home and not let me dance my soft shoe round.

Ugh. Colleen and Ellie always made it a point to let everyone know that they were former students of Mrs. O’Brien. God forbid any of us forget that they were part of the inner circle. Every time one of them called the dance teacher Rosalie instead of Mrs. O’Brien, it was all I could do not to smack the smug smiles off their faces.

Anne Marie Madden abandoned the weeping Maeve and joined our circle. I never puked at Worlds, Anne Marie said. But I did fall. Flat on my bum during hard shoe. Two years in a row. Anne Marie tacked on a fake laugh. Kiss-ass.

Ouch, Colleen said.

What about you, Joanna? Geraldine asked. I’ll bet you never puked before you got on stage. You were probably cool and collected like your Maura.

Actually, I didn’t dance. I played CYO basketball.

Ellie and Colleen exchanged looks that screamed, You didn’t dance because you couldn’t afford it.

I kept a smile on my face as my mother’s words rang in my ear:

"Danny, please, her friends are all joining dance at the Buffalo Irish Center. We can carpool and it’s not that much money."

Bullshit. My cousin’s kids dance there and he said it’s a total money pit.

There’s enough money around here to buy drinks for the losers at the Allegheny Inn every damn night but there’s no money for dance class?

If you’re off gallivanting to Buffalo every week, who’s supposed to watch Kathleen? Who’s gonna cook dinner? Me? Let Joanna play basketball like her brothers.

Joanna’s not one of the boys. She’s a girl and she should dance. I danced and my mother danced. I want her to learn and she really wants to do it.

Enough, Maureen. I said no. Case closed.

You were probably the smart one, Joanna, Geraldine said. I think we should save ourselves this headache and enroll the girls in basketball. You don’t need wigs and all this damn tape to play basketball, that’s for sure.

I nodded, grateful for Geraldine’s unexpected kindness. You got that right.

Mrs. O’Brien started the girls’ warm up and the mothers dispersed. I found a chair beside the practice area, right in Rosalie O’Brien’s line of vision. I smiled at her and she graced me with a slight nod. Good. She saw me. Now she’ll be sure to give my Maura a little extra attention. I knew that Ellie and the other mothers mocked me for sitting in on classes and warm ups at majors while they all gabbed in the hallway, but whose daughter made the podium at last year’s Worlds? Whose daughter came in first two years in a row at Regionals? Mine, that’s who. And why? Because I cared. Because I made the effort. Because I made sure Mrs. O’Brien saw me right there and gave Maura and Alanna their fair share of attention. No one’s child made it onto the podium without a little push. So roll your eyes all you want, Colleen Kennedy, and I’ll try not to laugh when your daughter barely claws her way into the top thirty.

My kids were grateful for my attention — or at least they will be some day when they look back at all this. They’ll appreciate all the costumes and the trips and the time. My God, the time I’ve put into this. If my mother made it to one basketball game a year it was a lot.

"Joanna, honey, I’m sorry."

It was the league championships. You promised!

But there’s no ramp for Kathleen’s wheelchair into the gym and your father was late home from work.

You always have an excuse.

Next week. I’ll be there next week. I promise.

There is no next week, Mom. The season’s over.

My daughters were two very lucky girls. If they didn’t appreciate it now they’ll appreciate it someday. They’ll appreciate me. I know they will.

ELLIE

Quick, Colleen said. Let’s grab some coffee before the madness begins. And before Joanna Fox tries to join us.

Joanna had by this point already raced to secure her spot by the side of the line of dancers. The competition wasn’t scheduled to start for another hour and she already had that wild manic look in her eye. Martin always cracked up when I made my Joanna dance mom face — eyes bulging with her mouth twisted into a toothy unnatural grin. You needn’t worry, I said. Why would Joanna join us when she could shout ‘Kick higher, Maura! Spin faster!’ a few hundred more times before the poor child takes the stage?

Colleen laughed as we walked into the hallway. Thank goodness Maura has learned to block Joanna out. Otherwise she’d always be out of time.

Hard to believe I’d idolized Joanna when the Foxes first moved onto Bayview Crescent. Thirty-five years old to my twenty-four, Joanna was everything I was not. Confident. Effortlessly chic. Totally organized. And most important, a mother.

Thirteen years my senior, Martin was desperate to start a family. He traded his Upper West Side bachelor pad for our five bedroom monstrosity in Huntington Bay and moved us in right after our honeymoon. Of course it wasn’t fair to call Martin’s dream home a monstrosity. The house wasn’t a monstrosity so much as it was overwhelming. Too much for a girl of twenty-three to manage. 

A year after moving in, most of the rooms were empty and the walls remained the builders’ drab eggshell white. More distressing to Martin, I was still not pregnant. With a bride barely out of college, that unfortunate development was certainly not part of Martin’s grand plan. By our second anniversary, I’d already deeply disappointed Martin. The truth was, we had disappointed each other. The charming handsome man I’d met at a Holy Cross alumni mixer showed no resemblance to the dour taskmaster I was trapped with in our overpriced cavernous house. Every time Martin snapped off an excess light or complained about an unwashed dish, a part of my soul shriveled. After yet another teary phone call, Mama suggested I move back to my old bedroom on Maple Lane. But then the Foxes arrived.

Martin and I soon found ourselves in the Foxes’ backyard at least twice a week that first summer, feasting on sirloin steaks Warren Fox grilled to perfection. Joanna kept our wine glasses filled to the brim as she simultaneous shoveled cut up chicken fingers into her young sons’ endlessly hungry mouths. Warren’s mother or one of his unmarried sisters would babysit the boys while Joanna and I scoured every fabric store on Long Island for the perfect window treatments. The saleswomen at the local Ethan Allen salivated every time we walked in the door. We quickly filled room after room in our respective modern Victorians. By the end of that summer I finally admitted to Joanna that I was having trouble getting pregnant. She reached out to a former work friend for doctor recommendations. Martin was stuck working on an important merger so it was Joanna who sat with me and took notes at the first meeting with the reproductive endocrinologist. After a simple procedure and a few rounds of Clomid, I was pregnant by the following spring — as was Joanna herself with her third child, Maura. If Martin hadn’t had so many sisters, I would’ve asked Joanna to be godmother to one of the twins.

And now I snuck out of rooms to avoid her. As Mama used to say, Isn’t life strange?

But people change. I got older, became a mother myself and less star struck by the slim Joanna. I eventually saw the cracks beneath her carefully constructed facade. Joanna’s obsession with order. Her mercurial temper whenever something didn’t meet her exacting standard. Her insecurity about being a townie from a college town outside of Buffalo. Her pathetic attempts to transform her slightly nasal Upstate twang into a Long Island accent.

If only Maura and Joanna hadn’t stopped by that afternoon when my twin daughters, Katie and Faith, were showing my mother their new steps in my kitchen.

I didn’t know you were an Irish dancer, Ellie, Joanna had said. My mother was from County Cork and always wanted me to dance. Maybe I should enroll Maura too.

Oh, you should, my non-Irish mother gushed. It did wonders for Ellie and  her posture. Kept her slim too. Plus Rosalie O’Brien is a wonderful teacher. They say she’s one of the best. Won’t that be wonderful, Ellie? The three girls can dance together!

Wonderful wasn’t exactly the word I’d have chosen. But what could I do? It was a free country and if Joanna wanted Maura to dance, I couldn’t very well stop her. But it turned out to be an unfortunate development. If it wasn’t for this damn Irish dancing, Joanna and I could be like other neighbors. We could limit our interactions to waves from the driveway and annual Christmas cards. The kids could still be friends but without the dance connection I wouldn’t be so entwined with Joanna Fox and her particular brand of crazy.

But the girls were heading into high school next year. A lot of dancers quit during high school. Maybe this chapter in their childhood would soon come to an end. A lot could happen in a year.

I could only hope.

I sipped my coffee as the new mom, Anne Marie Madden, joined our circle. Apparently Maeve had finally stopped crying and one of the assistant teachers had repaired her makeup. Rosalie had given her new student a pep talk and all was good.

This is such a wonderful school, Anne Marie said. I’m so glad we transferred here and I’m glad I didn’t listen to my husband and stay home. He heard they might close the borders because of this stupid virus. He is such a worrywart. Can you imagine if Maeve missed her first Worlds?

Close the borders? I’d never heard that. Surely Martin would’ve mentioned something to me. But he’d been working like crazy these past few weeks and I hadn’t spoken to him much before we left. Between finishing up my edits on my latest novel and finding a friend who could watch my son Timmy, I hadn’t read a paper or watched the news in weeks.

Anne Marie’s husband probably was a worrywart. I’d never met the man. No point becoming upset about what some stranger thinks. I smiled at Anne Marie. Yeah, we’re glad you made it too. Nothing’s more important than Worlds, right? We’d better finish up our coffees and get the girls to the ballroom.

JOANNA

Before Faith Barrett danced a step, she owned the stage — this despite her year-old, outdated costume. With a wide and natural smile, Faith looked like there was no place on earth she’d rather be than on that stage. I looked over at Ellie who sat two rows ahead of me surrounded by her cousins and aunts — her spine rigid as she silently mouthed Faith’s steps. Tension vibrated off of Ellie while Faith