I've been baby-sitting Gretchen and Andy Turell for almost two years, since before Mrs. asked Mr. to move out. The magazines on the coffee table used to read, "Keeping the Romance Alive in Your Marriage," "Rediscovering Intimacy After Childbirth," and "Holiday Makeover for Your House!"

Now Mrs. Turell is considering using her maiden name, Canfield, after the divorce is final. "But the children," she says to me, "it might confuse them. They've gone through so much already, I don't want to burden them with one more change." She asks me to call her Janet, and lately I've even been calling her Jan.

She looks young for her age, early thirties, I guess. Her blonde hair is almost down to her shoulders and she wears dangle earrings. She's thin, although she always complains about her "saggy tush." I think she's beautiful, like the pictures of women in Vogue, and I wonder what she looked like at my age, fifteen.

The last time he drove me home, Mr. Turell asked me what I thought of his wife. I looked at him and watched as his head rocked slowly from side to side. Maybe he had been drinking. Probably. When I didn't answer, he asked me again: "So, Barbie Baby-sitter, what...do you think...of my wife?"

I looked out the windshield, watching the road slip beneath the car. "She's nice," I said quietly. He laughed, but it was more like coughing. "Nice," he said, and I couldn't tell if he was serious. He shook his head like he was happily confused, and said, "One thing you can say about my wife—she sure is nice." The word sliced through me.

Steadying my school books on my lap, I sat perfectly still. He didn't say anything more before we reached my house. Counting out money, he laid the bills one at a time in my palm. I said thanks and got out of the car.

A month later the Turells separated. When I babysit now, Mrs. Turell is giddy, asking my advice about which shoes to wear or the shade of lipstick that suits her best. "Oh, that one," I say, urging her to coat her lips a deep garnet. I'm flattered that she asks for my advice. I only have an older brother, Ted, who barely grunts at me, and Janet is kind of like a big sister now. A big sister who has her own house, beautiful clothes, children, everything except a husband. But that doesn't seem to bother her.

"I'm just going out with the girls. The number's by the phone," she tells me. The girls. She goes everywhere with them: to the movies, out to dinner, shopping. I imagine Janet and her friends at a fancy restaurant drinking white wine from crystal glasses, laughing and talking.

"Mrs. Turell's not seeing someone? A new man?" my mother asks.

"No," I scowl and press my lips together tight. Even if she were seeing someone, I wouldn't gossip and be disloyal to Janet.

"Then why does she go out so often?" my mother asks, but I just shrug my shoulders in reply.

"Maybe she's meeting a man someplace and she doesn't want the children to know."

"Don't be ridiculous," I tell her and stomp out of the room.

But tonight, Friday night, there's a man in the Turell's living room when I arrive. He's sitting on the couch reading a magazine, oblivious to Andy who's running through the living room yelling, "Zoom, zoom, zooma zoom. . ."

Janet introduces me. "Michael, this is Barb, our baby-sitter."

"Hi Barb." He nods his head at me and then lowers it as he turns a page in the magazine. He's older than Mr. Turell, with wiry silver coils knitted throughout his light brown hair. It makes me think of tinsel on a Christmas tree. The tip of his nose is oddly pinched, but I try not to stare.

"I'll just be a minute," Janet says, and goes into the bathroom.

"C'mon, Andy," I say, "let's see what's on television."

In the family room, I sit on the black leather couch, Gretchen and Andy on either side of me. We watch America's Funniest Home Videos, laughing at the silly movie clips.

When Janet walks in to say good-bye to us, I check out her outfit. She's wearing a black lace dress with a silver and onyx necklace. She looks taller than usual, and I notice the stiletto black shoes with little silver bows at the toe.

"Wow!" I say. She grins, and turns a couple times, like she's a model on a runway.

"You look so pretty, Mommy." Gretchen bounds off the chair and hugs her mother tightly.

"Careful, honey; you're pulling my necklace." Janet looks over Gretchen's head and says to me, "We're going to the Shapiro's. The number's by the phone."

This is a surprise. Mr. and Mrs. Turell often had dinner at the Shapiro's. Mr. Turell and Mr. Shapiro used to play golf together.

Janet leans forward, curling a hand around one side of her mouth, and whispers, "Did you like him?"

"Him?" I whisper back.

She points her finger towards the living room, raising her eyebrows as she waits for my answer.

"Nice," I say tilting my head and smiling, happy that Jan cares about my opinion. I give her a thumbs up and she winks at me and kisses Andy and Gretchen. "Be good for Barb. I don't want to hear any bad reports when I get back."

The kids try to talk me into letting them stay up later, but I'm firm. I rush them through their baths, their good night stories, their drinks of water. Andy falls asleep almost immediately and Gretchen nods off about twenty minutes later.

It's only nine-thirty. Good—plenty of time before Jan gets back with her date at eleven. I have the house to myself. One of my favorite things to do is pretend that I live here, that I'm inspecting each of the rooms for a big party I'm going to have. I start in the living room, arranging the magazines on the coffee table so they fan into a semi-circle. The living room adjoins the dining room, a big open room with Scandinavian furniture. The dining table is a little dusty; Jan told me that she couldn't afford to pay the cleaning woman who used to come twice a week. Laying my arm on the table, I move it so the dust sticks to my sweatshirt. Sometimes I actually set the table with china and silverware, even the candlesticks if I'm imagining a really elegant dinner party. I sit at one end of the table and pretend that people are talking and laughing as they pass the platters of food around. I'm not looking at him, but my imaginary husband at the other end of the table is marveling at how I throw together these chic dinner parties at a moment's notice.

The kitchen is filled with stainless steel appliances. The surfaces shine under the recessed lighting, and I can't resist running my hand over the cool, glimmering refrigerator. The Corian countertop is pale blue, the same color as the floor tiles. It's a "sleek, elegant" kitchen, just like the ones in House Beautiful magazine. I've described it to my mother many times, urging her to update our ugly brown and beige kitchen, to get rid of the old light fixture that you turn on by yanking on a string. She just shakes her head and says, "Do you think we're made of money?"

I'm rinsing a mug left in the sink when the telephone rings. Picking up the phone on the end table, I say, "Turell residence," my voice just a little snobby.

"Oh, really?" someone says, like he doesn't believe me. I know the voice, but it takes a few seconds for my mind to recognize it.

"Mr. Turell?" My voice wavers and I clear my throat. "This is Barb Hoffman. I'm baby-sitting."

"Well, Barbie Baby-sitter, what do you know," he says briskly. "How are you?"

"Fine."

"Good, good. Breaking hearts yet?"

"No." I'm embarrassed because it's a personal question, but also because I don't have a boyfriend.

"Don't worry. Any time now. You're a sweet baby-sitter one minute and a heart stomper the next."

The receiver feels heavy in my hand, and it starts to slip because my palm is damp.

"Where's Jan?" he asks.

My heart bounces in and out against my chest just like it does in geometry class when I know I'm going to get called on. "Out," I tell him.

He laughs once. "I know that Barbie Baby-sitter, but out where?"

Running a finger over my lips I say, "She went out with a friend. I think they were going to dinner."

"Where?"

"Oh, I don't know. With some other friends I guess."

I wonder if I should pretend to hear one of the kids crying. Which one? Andy. But Andy never wakes up; he sleeps like a rock.

"Didn't she leave a number?"

I realize it will sound too obvious now if I try to get off the phone. "Number?"

He's getting more impatient, but I'm too confused to think. He's sighs, and a feeling, cold and heavy, drops down from my shoulders and lodges in my stomach. "She's at the Shapiro's," I say as softly as I can, but he hears me.

"Oh." The line is silent. "She went with a friend, you say?"

"Yes." I exhale loudly, realizing I should have covered the mouthpiece.

"Oh." He makes a couple sounds, not words, more of a sucking sound, like he's running his tongue over his teeth. "Don't worry, Barbie. I'm not going to interrogate you. I get the picture."

"Okay," I say, relieved.

"Tell her I called." I think he's going to hang up, but then he says, "Wait. Tell her to call me. Tell her to call me the minute she gets in."

I close my eyes imagining Janet's reaction to the message. She hasn't given me special instructions about what to say, or not say, to her soon-to-be ex-husband. I only told the truth, answered questions; I didn't volunteer any information. Still, I worry that she'll be mad at me. That she'll tell me to call her Mrs. Turell again.

"I'll give her the message."

"Do that," he says and hangs up.

In the kitchen, I write on the message pad: "Mr. Turell called at nine-forty-five. Please call him as soon as possible tonight." That way I can just hand her the message instead of saying it in front of her date.

It's ten o'clock and now I go into Janet's bedroom, across the hall from Gretchen and Andy's rooms. It's so much neater now that Mr. Turell is gone. He used to leave his dirty socks on the floor and his tie rack was always a mess. Now Janet has a lot more room for her clothes. In the closet are three hanging plastic sweater cases and two shoe racks. Her slacks and jeans hang upside down on clip hangers. The dresses, covered in plastic, take up a whole half of the closet. I inhale deeply to smell the spicey, cinammon scent from the lace sachets of potpourri hanging on the back of the closet door.

What I've been waiting to do all night is try on Janet's clothes. I've done this a few times before, putting everything back carefully. I can make myself look so grown-up, much older than fifteen. If my mother saw me, she'd die. Her idea of high fashion is sensible shoes and an all weather coat.

Placing my own clothes on the king-sized bed, I slip into a burgundy silk dress with double-looped spaghetti straps. It's just a little too long, but it fits fine everywhere else. I've noticed that Janet wears sheer black stockings with this dress; she has a drawer full of nylons in her bureau. Unfortunately, Janet's wearing her highest heels, so I have to settle for little black pumps. But there are pierced diamond earrings in her jewelry box and a necklace with a single diamond pendant. I'm very careful putting the earrings on; I got my ears pieced only a couple months ago and they still hurt sometimes.

Now, the really fun part. Sitting at the vanity, I put on lipstick and blush. I'm careful to use very little, just one coat of "Richest Plum" on my lips and a dusting of "Pink Wine" on my cheeks. I think lavender eye shadow would be wonderful with this dress, but Janet only wears brown. I apply some with the little sponge applicator, careful not to smudge it. There are a bunch of mascara tubes in a little cosmetic bag on the vanity, and I use the darkest one I can find to make my lashes look really long.

Now for my hair. It's reddish-orange, and as if that wasn't bad enough, it's frizzy. My brother calls me, "Queen of the split ends." I never let myself even wonder what Janet thinks about my hair, Janet with her yellow locks that fall like a water fall caught in motion. Maybe someday I can ask her to take me to her hairdresser.

I pull my hair back and wind it into a tight bun at the base of my neck, keeping it in place with lots of bobby pins. In the mirror, I'm transformed. I could pass for twenty. Getting up, I walk back and forth across the bedroom floor. You can't get too much practice walking in heels. Standing in front of the mirror, I turn and examine myself from every angle.

I hear something, a creak of some kind or a soft whine. Standing very still, I tilt my head to listen and hear the same sound again. Maybe it's Gretchen; sometimes she gets thirsty and wakes up for a drink of water. Walking into the hallway, I look in the children's rooms, but they're both sleeping. The furnace goes on, making the house sound like it's stretching and breathing. Reassured, I go back to the master bedroom. I decide to change the jewelry, put on pearls. Janet has quite a collection of single and double-strands. I'm deciding which would go better with the dress, regular or freshwater pearls, when I hear his voice behind me.

"Well, well, well. Barbie Baby-sitter grows up."

Turning, I see him in the doorway. He looks amazed, almost happy, but his left eye is squinting and that makes him look confused too.

"I'm sorry." My face is flooding with heat and shame. "I shouldn't have done this. I'll put these clothes back right away." I'm surprised I'm not stammering, but my guilt is enough to drown me.

Mr. Turell enters the room and steps slowly around me, circling me. His overcoat is damp and I wonder why I didn't hear the rain. "Easy, easy," he says slowly. "There's no rush. The Shapiros have the longest, most boring dinners on the planet."

"Still..." I begin to remove the jewelry, fingering the clasp on the back of on an earring.

"Don't," he says, almost sharply, but his hand, when he touches my arm, is very light. He stops pacing and stands directly in front of me. His eyes look frightened, but there's something wild building in them; an eerie yellow circle around his pupils expands into the murky brown of his irises.

"Janet, Mrs. Turell, isn't home yet," I tell him, looking down at the blue carpet. I see the little dents in the rug from the heels of the pumps. "She's not home yet," I repeat.

"I wouldn't be here if she was." He sits down on the bed, casually pushing my jeans and sweatshirt over. "Since my wife is out partying, I thought I'd come over and see my kids." Suddenly he stands and pulls back the comforter. How odd it is, the way he's standing there staring at the sheets. He kneels and I have the insane notion that he's praying the way a child does at the side of a bed before sleeping. But, of course, he's not. He runs his flat hands over the sheets and brings his face down to the mattress as if he's trying to smell something.

His back still towards me, he asks with embarrassment, "Do her dates ever stay over?"

I can't answer; tonight is the first time I've met one of her dates. I'm too scared and befuddled to say anything. He stands and then sits on the bed again.

"Well?"

"I don't know. This is the first time—"

"Don't!" he interrupts, noticing that I was slipping off a shoe. He almost stands, but then he sits further back on the bed.

"Andy and Gretchen are asleep,"

"That's okay, that's okay. I just want to take a peek at them."

I nod, like I understand, but I'm so scared I don't think I'm breathing. I watch as Mr. Turell slides his coat off his shoulders. He laughs, startling me more. "Relax, would you? I'm not going to tell, Barbie."

"I'm sorry," I start again. "I was just..."

"Trying on my wife's clothes. No big deal. They look good on you. What are you now, seventeen, eighteen?"

"Fifteen."

His face flinches, and he's quiet for a few moments. "Playing dress-up, huh?" He swallows, his adam's apple rising and falling. "Pretending you're a high society princess?"

Shrugging my shoulders, I shake my head yes. Briefly, I think of telling him that Janet told me I could borrow a dress for a school dance, but he could tell in a second it was a lie.

He begins to pull his body forward and stands up. "Why don't you go see Gretchen and Andy?" I say. "I'll change into my own clothes..."

I can tell he's not listening. He opens the closet door and looks at the clothes. Running his hands over a blue silk blouse, he fastens the top two buttons. He fumbles through the closet, taking out what looks like a long red kimono. "I got her this for Christmas last year," he says. I wonder if I should tell him that I think it's beautiful, that I love the way the cherry blossoms are imprinted into the fabric, that I understand that it must be terrible to lose a wife as beautiful as Janet.

He walks over to the bureau, studying it for a few moments before abruptly pulling out the middle drawer. When he kneels in front of it, I turn away and stare at the window on the other side of the room. I've opened that drawer also, many times. My hands have run over the satin garments, folded and refolded the nightgowns and robes. I've never had the nerve to try on anything in that drawer, but I've held the soft things against my cheek, rubbed them into my skin as if to bring me good luck.

My favorite item is the deep purple silk teddy with matching lace across the bodice, but the tiny pink camisole with the skinny straps is also pretty. I know that the drawer also contains tap pants, garter belts, shimmering satin bras in soft pastel colors. I've looked at the Turrells' mail; a Victoria's Secret catalog comes often. I glance back. Mr. Turell slowly unravels a lavender negligee until it hangs straight. For a brief moment, I consider grabbing my clothes off the bed and running to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I imagine staying in there until Janet and her date arrive home. But then Mr. Turrell takes a step towards me and says in a heavy, empty voice, "Put this on."

"No," I say immediately. He's crazy, I think—crazy. What should I do? I have to get away from this crazy man.

Mr. Turell doesn't like my answer. He brings his face close to mine, so close I can feel his breath on my face, smell the hard alcohol. "Put it on! Want me to tell Jan what's been going on here, huh Barbie? You're supposed to be watching my kids and here you are trying on her clothes, wearing jewelry I gave her for our goddamn wedding anniversary!" Grabbing the pendant, he jerks hard. I can feel the clasp break against the back of my neck, and watch as the necklace falls to the floor. Bringing his face closer, his nose almost touching mine, he says in a throaty command, "You do what I tell you-- NOW PUT IT ON!"

Covering the bottom of my face with my open palms, I start to cry. I back away until the wall hits me. My tears make everything in the room look drowned, like I'm underwater. But I can tell that Mr. Turell is coming closer. I slide myself down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, my head lowered to my knees. There's movement in the room but I don't look up. My nose is running, disgusting snot smeared all over my face and the dress. I stay like that for several minutes. Finally, lifting my head, I open my eyes and see I'm alone in the room. I know instinctively that he left, that he didn't bother to look at his children. Still, I stay seated on the floor. The furnace shuts off and the house is gradually quiet, so silent I hear the spray of rain hitting the window.

Finally, I stand up, my legs wobbly, and remove every item of clothing. My own clothes feel soft and warm, they fit so well. I press a cold washcloth over the stained part of Mrs. Turell's dress and hope it looks okay the next time she wears it. With the same washcloth, I remove the make-up on my face. Scrubbing over my mouth, my cheeks, my eyes, I feel as if I could keep going until I removed my freckles. It's good to keep moving; it steadies me. In the utility drawer in the kitchen, I find a tiny pair of pliers and I do a reasonably good job of fixing the clasp on the diamond necklace. I place it carefully in the top drawer of Janet's jewelry box.

The lavender negligee is swirled into a silk puddle on the floor. Carefully, I fold it into a small rectangle and put it back in the drawer. I walk towards the door but then stop. Sliding open the closet door, I look at the blue blouse buttoned all the way up to the collar. I undo the top two buttons and slide the door shut. As I do, I know I will never enter this room again.

The children are fine. In Gretchen's room, I sit in the dark listening to her breathe in and out for a couple of minutes. Holding her Raggedy Anne doll, I stay there until my watch says it's eleven o'clock, and then I move to the living room and sit on the couch.

Mrs. Turrell and Michael arrive home just a few minutes later. I can tell from the way she rubs her temples that she didn't have a good time. She opens her wallet to pay me, but then Michael offers, "Here, let me."

"Don't be silly," Mrs. Turrell says, "she watched my kids." She hands me a clutch of bills that I immediately slide into a pocket. Michael asks me where I live and says he'll drive me home. Before I leave with him, Mrs. Turell asks if there were any calls. The message is on the kitchen table, but I shake my head no. She nods at me and I hold her gaze as long as I can before her date places his hand on my back and ushers me out the door.