Cackle(34)

“Nothing,” I say, unlocking the door. “It’s messy. I’m sorry. Like I said, rough week.”

“Please,” she says. “No judgment from me.”

She sashays into the kitchen and puts the basket down on the counter, then begins to wash dishes.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” she says. “You relax. Oh, I brought you a candle, orange blossom and honey. Citrus and sweet. It’s in the basket. Here.”

She wipes her hands on my grimy dish towel and opens the basket. She takes out the candle. It’s in a big glass jar. It’s homemade. She made it.

“Thank you,” I say, taking a sniff. It smells so good it’s absurd. “Wow, Sophie. I love it.”

“I made it with you in mind,” she says. She pulls a book of matches out of somewhere. A pocket? She tosses it to me.

I put the candle in the center of the kitchen table. After a few failed attempts to light a match, I finally have a lucky strike. I light the candle. But the flame is quick, hungry, and it burns down to my fingers.

“Ow, fuck,” I mumble, dropping the match into the candle, and literally lick my wounds.

“Are you all right, pet?” she asks.

“Yep,” I lie, my fingers still in my mouth.

I sit myself down before I cause any more damage. I watch her work. She’s so fast, so efficient. The dishes are all placed neatly on the drying rack. She begins unpacking the picnic basket. There’s a loaf of bread, cheese, some kind of spread. A roasted chicken in a glass Pyrex dish with sprigs of rosemary and thyme. A sack of tiny red potatoes. Green beans.

A bottle of brown liquor.

“I’m going to make rum punch,” she says.

“This is really nice, Sophie,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Annie, I haven’t had anything to do on a Friday night in . . . let’s just say a very, very long time. It’s my pleasure. Truly.”

She pulls a pear, an apple, and a container of blackberries out of the basket, which is starting to give off major Mary Poppins vibes. How much stuff is in there? She brought her own cutting board and knife. It’s a big knife. She must sense my reaction, because without looking up she says, “Don’t worry. The fruit won’t feel a thing.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Do you want to talk about your week? Might feel better to get it off your chest.” She begins to chop the apple. The knife makes a crisp slicing sound. It must be very sharp.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s clearly not nothing, or you wouldn’t be upset,” she says. She sets the knife down. She approaches me, offering a slice of apple.

“Try it,” she says. “They’re good this time of year.”

It’s got pink skin, pale flesh. There’s no browning, no bruises.

“What?” she asks. “Don’t you like apples?”

The room creeps up on me, walls inching in. There’s not enough air.

I take the apple slice and shove it into my mouth. I stand, walk over to the window and crack it open.

“It’s stuffy in here,” I say, mouth full of apple mush. Delicious mush. Juicy. Sweet.

I notice Sophie is watching me. Not looking at me. Watching. Dissecting.

Something’s not right. The feeling is sudden and palpable.

I meet her gaze, and she begins chewing on her thumbnail. Her eyebrows are low. It’s an unmistakable expression of concern.

“What?” I ask her.

“You don’t trust me,” she says.

“What? No. Of course I do. I trust you.”

“I understand,” she says. “I’m not an easy person to trust. Maybe it’s the way I look.”

“No, Sophie. Why would you say that?”

“You hesitated. Just now when I gave you the apple. Like you were afraid to eat it.”

“No,” I say. But I was, wasn’t I? Why? Why do I feel like something’s off?

“I . . . ,” she says. She doesn’t finish her thought. She stares out the kitchen window.

I can’t let my weird paranoid bullshit ruin this potential friendship. I won’t.

“It’s not you, Sophie. I’m just preoccupied. I had a bad conversation with Sam. He said something that really bothered me. And then I started drinking. I’ve been drinking a lot,” I say. “I keep thinking, what if I can’t do this? What if I can’t be alone?”

Her demeanor changes. She softens, returns to cutting fruit.

“I understand why you’re asking the question,” she says. “But we’ve talked about this. You will be fine. Who initiated the contact? Him or you?”

I falter. Technically he called me, but he was calling me back. “Um . . .”

“So you?”

I nod.

“We’ll have to fix that,” she says. “And what prompted the call?”

“I don’t remember. General loneliness?”

“Here,” she says. She sets a glass down on the table in front of me. “Only if you want.”

“Is it just rum in there?”

“Does it matter?” she asks.

I take a sip. It’s straight rum. I guess we’ve abandoned the punch idea. That’s fine.