Friday, July 15, 1994

Friday, July 15, 1994

9:22 a.m.

After throwing her half-eaten breakfast in the trash and shoving the syrup-streaked plate into the dishwasher, Joyce Marsh tells her husband that she's going to go outside. Their argument earlier had been intense but brief, and even though everything since has been smoothed over—for now, at least—Joyce needs to put some distance between the two of them or else she'll admit everything.

That there is indeed more to the story of how she lost her job.

That she can't ever tell him all of it.

"Rejoining the Gaggle?" Fred says as she trades her house shoes for a pair of canvas slip-ons by the mudroom door.

He's referring to the other wives of Hemlock Circle, who often gather for a few minutes each day in the yard of whoever happens to be out there first. Today, it's Trish Wallace, who's using a spray bottle to spritz the lilies that line her front walk. Deepika Patel, who lives next door, has already joined her, and Joyce knows it'll be a matter of minutes before the others make their way over.

No one's quite sure when the gatherings began. It certainly wasn't planned, and there's no organization to it. Just a group of friends and neighbors spotting each other across the cul-de-sac and stepping outside to say hello. Still, Fred insists on calling it the Gaggle, in a way that sounds more condescending than Joyce thinks he intends. As if they're all just a bunch of gossips with nothing better to do. She chalks it up to jealousy on his part. The men of Hemlock Circle never gather like this.

"Might as well," she says with a sigh. "Time to get back in the habit, I guess."

Once outside, she sees that in addition to Trish, Deepika, and Misty Chen, Mary Ellen Barringer has joined the group. A surprise. Her next-door neighbor rarely participates in the Gaggle. At least, she didn't used to. Maybe that's changed since Joyce stopped taking part.

Making her way across the cul-de-sac, she can't help but think about how jarring it is to not be going to work anymore. Yes, she'd only been there two months, but it was long enough to fall into a comfortable routine. Right now, for instance, she'd be settling at her desk with a cup of coffee after a five-minute chat with Margie, the senior assistant. Margie's there right now, likely chatting with whoever they brought in to take Joyce's place. Joining the Gaggle on the Wallace lawn makes her feel…Well, she's not sure how she feels. "Failure" is too strong of a word, but it feels akin to that. Disappointment, she guesses, that she's so easily slipped back into her old routine.

"Look who's back," Trish says. "Day off?"

"Permanently off," she replies. "It just wasn't a good fit with my schedule. You know how it is."

Joyce smiles through the lie. If she can't tell her husband anything, she's certainly not going to tell these women. Because, condescending though it may be, there is some truth to the name Fred gave the group.

"A mother's work is never done," Trish says as the others nod in agreement. Their bobbing heads make Joyce wonder if they're silently judging her for trying to have a job while also maintaining a home.

On Hemlock Circle, the women aren't expected to work. They don't need to. It's an expensive neighborhood in an expensive corner of an expensive state. They all live here because they can afford it, thanks to their husbands. They are the wives of professors and scientists, engineers and bankers. Everything they could possibly want is provided for them.

"It's better this way," Misty tells Joyce. "Ethan needs you at home. Just for a little longer."

Joyce would beg to differ. Lately, Ethan acts like he doesn't need her at all, which is one of the reasons she decided to get a job. She misses the days when he depended on her for everything. Now that he doesn't, there's a void she had hoped employment would fill.

"I suppose you're right," Joyce replies, declining to debate the point with Misty, whose bright smile and perfect skin betray no hint that in the past twelve months she's endured one of the worst things a mother can go through. Poor, troubled Johnny. Such a tragedy.

"Right about what?"

Joyce spins around to see Alice Van de Veer has joined the group. The last person she wants to see right now. From the tight-lipped smile Alice gives her, Joyce wonders how much she knows. Not just about what Alice's husband, Fritz, has been up to, but Joyce's role in all of it. She doubts Fritz outright told Alice anything, but wives have ways of finding things out. Even things they shouldn't know.

"Alice is a good woman," Fritz once said as they rode in his car. "The less she knows, the better."

"Being there for your kids," Trish says offhandedly, clearly assuming Alice wouldn't understand. She and Fritz are the only household on Hemlock Circle without kids, which makes them unofficial outsiders, even though they were the first to move here.

"Of course," Alice murmurs.

Changing the topic, Trish Wallace leans in close and says, "I don't know if I should even mention this. It's probably nothing. But someone's been roaming the neighborhood."

She goes on to tell them that some man—a stranger—was spotted walking between Hemlock Circle and Willow Court the previous afternoon. She heard it from Sally Seitz, who's lived on Willow for as long as Trish has been on Hemlock.

"He came from the woods?" Mary Ellen says.

Trish nods. "Apparently. Sally heard he emerged from the woods behind Willow before walking over here, to Hemlock. She also said he was wearing camouflage. If that's not suspicious, I don't know what is."

Or it could all be nothing, Joyce thinks. It's not illegal to walk in the forest surrounding the cul-de-sac. All of it is preserved woodlands, purchased by the county with grants from the state in the late eighties, when New Jersey realized it was going to run out of undeveloped land if something wasn't done about it. Hence the thick wall of trees behind her house. A whole mile of forest until the access road, and then another mile after that until the Hawthorne Institute.

"Maybe it was a hunter that got turned around," she suggests.

"Hunting's not allowed in these woods," Trish says.

"A hiker then."

Joyce assumes people hike there all the time. One of them stumbling into a backyard is unusual, yes, but nothing to get worked up over.

"Do you think he was casing our houses?" Alice says.

"We need a good neighborhood watch program," Deepika chimes in. "I've been saying that for years now."

"Just keep your eyes open, ladies," Trish says with finality. "This world gets crazier every day."

The Gaggle disbands after that, with the women retreating to their various homes. Standing alone on the asphalt of Hemlock Circle proper, Joyce stares at the house she shares with her husband and son. It looks so big from the street. A much larger house than she ever thought she'd live in. Built by the same developer at the same time, all the homes on Hemlock Circle look slightly similar, with brick fronts and dormer windows on the second floor and two-car garages.

The North Jersey neighborhood she grew up in was filled with tall, narrow homes crowded close together like books on a shelf. She always assumed she'd settle down in a place similar to that. Instead, she's here, in what's technically the suburbs but feels more remote than that. Like the cul-de-sac is an island unto itself. Not for the first time, Joyce wonders if she's worthy of a place like Hemlock Circle. If she deserves to be here. Right now, she feels like she doesn't.

She knows the other ladies of the Gaggle would say otherwise. That being a homemaker is just as vital as any other job. You're the damn glue that keeps the household together, she imagines Trish Wallace saying.

That may be true. But Joyce wants more than that. Why does she have to just be the glue? Can't she also help build the house?

Right as she's about to go inside, Joyce hears her name being uttered from the yard next door. It's Mary Ellen Barringer, standing at the end of the privacy hedge, looking as hushed and serious as always. Joyce tries to pretend she doesn't hear her and keeps marching through the front yard. She's not in the mood for Mary Ellen. It's not that she doesn't like her neighbor. She does—in small doses. But now that Ethan and Billy Barringer have become inseparable, those doses are getting bigger and bigger.

Mary Ellen says her name again, louder this time, and Joyce has no choice but to stop in the middle of the lawn, plaster on a smile, and pivot.

"Hey, Mary Ellen," she says.

"Do you still think it's a good idea to have Billy stay over tonight?" her neighbor says, as usual getting right to the point.

"I don't see why not. Ethan loves the weekly campout."

"You don't think it's dangerous? With that man walking around?"

Joyce studies Mary Ellen, wondering at first if she's making a joke about how ridiculous everyone else in the Gaggle acted about the stranger allegedly roaming the neighborhood. From their reaction, you'd think Trish Wallace had told them Bigfoot was in their midst.

"Oh, that," Joyce says. "It's silly, right?"

"It's not silly," Mary Ellen says, making it clear she isn't joking. Of course she isn't. In Joyce's experience, Mary Ellen Barringer is deadly serious about everything. "Someone is out there. Planning God knows what. We should all be worried until he's caught."

But he's done nothing wrong, Joyce thinks. If he even exists at all. It's more likely Sally Seitz made it up just so she'd sound important.

"I think we need more information before we start getting too worried," Joyce says. "Besides, it's not like the boys will be camping in the woods. They'll be in our backyard the whole time. It's perfectly safe."

"Do you really think so?" Mary Ellen says.

Joyce flashes the same kind of tight smile Alice gave her. "There's nothing to worry about. Everything will be just fine."

Twenty-four hours later, Joyce will regret every word. But right now, in this moment, she fully believes what she says—at least about Ethan and Billy camping in the yard. Everything else remains maddeningly worrisome. Especially when she reaches the front door of her house and notices that one neighbor remains outside. Someone who hadn't been there earlier.

Fritz Van de Veer.

Dressed in a black suit, he stands next to his open garage, simply staring at her from across the cul-de-sac. Joyce does the neighborly thing and waves—just in case someone is watching from one of the other houses.

Fritz doesn't wave back.

Instead, he lifts a finger to his lips, his message from the other side of Hemlock Circle silent but frighteningly clear.

Don't tell a soul about last night.