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I’d so much rather stay in my pj’s, read more of the book that had put me to sleep last night, and eat pizza early enough in the day to not have to think about its effects on my esophagus. But if I didn’t visit Barb, the only other human contact she’d have all week would be Nancy, her housekeeper. I figured the two
women looked forward to my visits just to escape each other’s company for a short amount of time.
Why was I Barb’s only other human contact? Because my aunt never left the confines of her apartment. She wasn’t housebound for any physical reason. If she wanted to, she could do her own shopping, have lunch with friends, even visit me. It was her mental state that kept her from venturing out into the world.
It started a little over ten years ago, right after I’d graduated from NYU with my master’s degree, that my aunt took a journalistic fall from grace. Her reclusion began almost immediately after she was accused of manufacturing evidence against then-Interpol president, Nicholas Kerr, a married man with whom it was alleged Barb had had a torrid affair.
In my aunt’s career-ending story, which the AP had inexplicably passed on, she accused Kerr, along with the other members of Interpol’s executive committee, of years of accepting bribes in exchange for a massive cover-up of what she’d reported as being called Operation Argead.
Days after the story ran, the AP ran their own piece, accusing Barb of being a spurned lover when Kerr ended the affair. The article alleged she’d falsely accused those named in it, out of spite. Within days of that, Kerr, along with the vice president and secretary-general of Interpol, sued her for libel. While that suit was later dropped, the damage had already been done.
Making matters much worse at the time, my aunt was unable to produce the evidence she’d said she had to back up her allegations. When pressed about it, Barb said her apartment had been burglarized and, suspiciously, all that was taken was every shred of evidence she had against Kerr and his co-conspirators.
The story took on a life of its own—not against Kerr, against my aunt. Her fellow reporters hounded her so relentlessly she remained locked inside her apartment, refusing to venture out for any reason. Even after the story died down, she’d refused to go out in public.
Her weekly therapist appointments continued, but over the phone, not that the woman had helped my aunt overcome or even battle her extreme agoraphobia.
The one thing the therapist had recommended, and that I agreed with wholeheartedly, was that Barb hire a companion, housekeeper, assistant—however my aunt wanted to define the position—in order to free me up to live my life.
I couldn’t remember exactly where Barb had found her, but Nancy proved to be as invaluable to my sanity as she was to my aunt’s. The arrangement worked out well for both women when she offered Nancy a salary to include room and board.
Online shopping became her favorite pastime, besides the endless research she conducted, which culminated in assignments for me.
I couldn’t begrudge her, though. When my mother was first diagnosed HIV positive, my father had not only accused her of being unfaithful, he left the house one morning and never came back.
The following day, she was served with divorce papers. The day after that, Aunt Barb had shown up and never left. I was five. Four years later, my mother was gone, I had zero contact with my father, and my aunt had dedicated her life to caring for me.
My aunt was the one who’d first called me TJ when, right after my mom died, I told her I detested my first name—which I hadn’t divulged to a single soul since. The J was for Jackson, my father’s last name.
It wasn’t long before my aunt adopted me and we legally changed my name to TJ Hunter. Hunter was Barb’s last name, my mother’s maiden name. The adoption was easy, given my father had relinquished his parental rights in my parents’ divorce.
When it came time for me to go to college, she made sure I had every penny I needed to earn both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. She sublet her apartment in DC and rented a place in Manhattan for the two of us while I attended NYU.
During that time, Barb, for the most part, quit working. When she did write, they were mainly fluff pieces.
The Kerr-Interpol-Operation Argead story was the first big investigative piece she took on after I graduated from college. I wondered now if the time off had made her rusty, diminished her previously honed skills, and resulted in her being sloppy. The idea that she blew the story for those reasons, only added to my already overwhelming sense of guilt.
With that burden firmly in place, I got my shit together, showered, and was on my way to her apartment an hour later. My laptop bag was slung over my shoulder, and I had Greek takeout in hand from the café in the lobby of Cope’s building—the same place that had catered his and Ali’s wedding yesterday.
“It’s just me,” I shouted, letting myself in.
“TJ?” she hollered back. Uh, who else would it be? She didn’t recognize my voice after thirty years?
“I brought your favorite for lunch.” I pulled plates from the cupboard and filled each with gyro, rice, tzatziki, and Greek salad. I looked up when she walked into the kitchen.
“I thought you meant Italian,” she said with a sour face. For a moment, I considered dumping the food back into the takeout containers. Maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea to come over. My hangover—along with my missed opportunity for post-wedding sex—already had my tolerance-for-shit level close to zero.
I stabbed my fork into the salad and took a bite. “More for me and Nancy, then,” I said with food in my mouth. “Where is she, anyway?”
My aunt made a noise of disgust, picked up her plate, and sat at the dining room table. “In her room.”
“You two have a spat?”
“I’m old as the hills, and that woman is ten years older than I am. It’s time she retired and I said so.”
Admittedly, my aunt was in her mid-sixties, which meant her housekeeper was seventy-five, at least. But if she retired, how would Barb get on without her?
“You were in a mood last night,” she mumbled after we’d eaten in silence for several minutes.
