Cackle(11)

Should I curtsy?

“Have you met anyone else in town?” she asks.

“No, not yet. You’re the first.”

She smiles like she takes some satisfaction in this. “What brings you here?”

“I’m teaching at Aster High. I teach English and ASL.”

“Mm,” she says. “Teaching is a very noble profession. Requires quite a bit of patience.”

“I think it’s the same as any job,” I say. “Can be hard sometimes. But that’s why there’s wine.”

Why did I say that? That was so corny. I wish I could melt into the floor.

“Annie,” she says, “we should get coffee sometime. Won’t you come to the farmers market this weekend? It’s on Saturday. Every Saturday, Memorial Day through the end of October.”

“Sure,” I say. Is this small-town life? Inviting strangers to coffee?

But are we strangers? It doesn’t feel like we’re strangers.

“Wonderful,” she says with a single clap. “I’ll introduce you to everyone in town. They’ll be so excited to meet you.”

“Really?” I ask, my skepticism slipping out of my mouth like excess sauce.

“Of course.” She laughs. “We don’t get many new faces here.”

“Oh,” I say. “Um, where is the market?”

“Just down the road, there’s a little path. You won’t be able to miss it,” she says. She’s standing so close to me that I can smell her perfume. It’s lavishly floral.

I’m taller than her by a few inches, which is not unusual. I’m five foot nine and typically taller than my friends. But I don’t feel taller than she is. She carries an air of authority.

It could be because she’s so beautiful. It elevates her. Puts her on another plane of existence. Or maybe it’s the accent.

“I’ll see you Saturday, then,” I say. “Thank you for the wine.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Have a good night, pet.”

“You, too,” I say. I’m careful not to trip on the step on the way out. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Sophie, this gorgeous, generous wine-store-dwelling goddess.

I get in my car and set the wine down on the passenger seat. I consider fastening the seat belt around it. It’s a straight three-minute drive back to my apartment. Back home.

I drive slowly. Bottle on board.

I park at the end of the driveway, in my spot, back wheel lined up with Mr. Frog.

“Mr. Frog,” I say, tipping my imaginary hat to him.

I load my bags onto my wrists. I carefully hold my wine in one hand as I unlock the door with the other. I climb the stairs. My feet land in the center of each step; my knees lift the exact right height. My body knows them already. It’s receptive to this new place.

The hope I felt this morning comes fluttering back. Cute apartment, charming new town, charming new friend.

I should allow myself this moment of optimism. I should give myself permission to feel something other than sad.

You could be happy here.

I open the door to my apartment and choke on my triumphant exhale. There’s a spider the size of a silver dollar scuttling across the floor. He vanishes before I can catch him, somehow squeezing into the gap between uneven floorboards.

“Enough!” I tell the spiders.

I’m disturbed by the size of that one, though maybe my mind exaggerated. Maybe it wasn’t so big.

I attempt to tap back into that optimism. I play music through the TV speakers, let the sound flood the space.

I set the wine down on the kitchen counter, unpack my groceries and put up my new curtains. I celebrate my privacy by undressing in the middle of my apartment, leaving my jeans on the dining table, my shoes near the window, my shirt over a lamp.

I turn the shower on, dial it as hot as it will go. I disappear inside the steam. I’m going to sanitize myself, scald myself clean. I scrub my scalp like an aggressive hairdresser. The water runs brown at first. I’m horrified.

I’d forgotten just how dirty I was from cleaning my classroom. I’m surprised Sophie wanted anything to do with me.

After my shower, I change into deliciously clean clothes. I cautiously water the plant, then dance around the kitchen while I make myself scrambled eggs for dinner. I eat them with tortilla chips and guacamole, standing at the counter. I look out at the backyard, at the woods, thick and dark and inscrutable. If that’s where the spiders are coming from, I guess I can’t blame them for wanting out.

I leave my dishes in the sink and open the wine. I pour it into a regular glass because I don’t have any wineglasses, which doesn’t feel very adult, but oh, well. I settle on the couch.

I’m suddenly hyperaware of my aloneness. Its descent is rapid and heavy as a summer storm. I scan for a spider, almost missing their company.

“If you’re hiding somewhere, you can come out,” I say.

I give it a minute.

No spiders.

“All right. Suit yourself,” I say. “Cheers.”

I sip the wine.

It’s like velvet on my tongue. My taste buds nod in approval, stand up and applaud.

I polish off one glass. Then another.

I lull myself into a pleasant, loopy state. I drown my better judgment.