If the Fates Allow: A Short Story(6)

“Well . . . Nobody will say anything. If I go back in.”

“If?”

“Well, my brother’s family just broke down our wall, you know? They crossed our perimeter.”

“I do know.”

“Any one of them could have Covid. They have three kids—kids don’t even get symptoms half the time. They could be giving my parents Covid right now.”

“Probably not.”

“How do you know what’s probable?” He raised his voice and his shoulders. “How does anyone? It’s like—the air in there is different now. And if I go back in, I’m part of it. I keep thinking about all the terrible things that could happen from this moment on. Taking care of my parents. Taking care of myself. You can’t even visit someone in the hospital, you know?”

“I know.”

“And my brother will feel like shit if that happens. He’s not a bad person.”

“Is this the wrestler?”

“Yeah. I mean, not anymore. But yeah.”

“So you’re going to . . . what?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You must think I’m crazy. Paranoid.”

“I would have,” she said, “before. But now . . . I don’t even know what it means to be crazy. If you’re as careful as you’re supposed to be, you seem neurotic. I feel neurotic. Now. And I never used to be. I’m the sort of person who’d share an ice cream cone with a dog.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I know. But I’ve never cared about that sort of thing. I go swimming in lakes. I wear shoes in the house. If I drop my hot dog in the grass, I’ll just brush it off and eat it.”

Mason laughed.

“But now I wipe down my mail.”

“They say you don’t have to wipe down your mail,” he said.

“I know, but I’m in the habit now.”

“You get a lot of mail? I don’t get any mail.”

“I’m a homeowner with a retirement plan,” she said.

“Now you’re just bragging.”

Reagan laughed. She leaned on the railing of the deck. She was tired of standing.

“They’re in there eating pie,” Mason said.

“How long has it been since you’ve all gotten together?”

“Indoors? Months. Probably June or July.”

She nodded.

“Is your family all being careful?” he asked.

“God no, they’re all at my mom’s house. They’ve been acting normal this whole time. I haven’t seen my mom since March.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. She still calls me every other day. And texts me weird YouTube videos.”

Mason laughed. “I don’t think my mom knows how to get on YouTube.”

“Count your fucking blessings.”

“I do.” He looked down again, still kind of chuckling. “It’s not fair,” he said, more seriously. “I made that pie.”

“I’m impressed,” Reagan said. “I struggled with the Jell-O salad.”

He looked up. “I thought that might be Jell-O salad . . . What kind did you make?”

“Green.”

“Green is the best,” he said.

“Green is the best,” she agreed.

“I’m impressed.”

Reagan smiled at him. Only because he couldn’t see it. “Wait right there.”

She turned around and walked into the house. Into the kitchen. The Jell-O was in the fridge.

“You talking to somebody?” her grandpa called from the living room.

“Just Mason,” she said.

“I like that Mason. He’s got a job in Washington.”

“Mm-hmm.” Reagan got two everyday bowls out of the cupboard. Blue-and-white Pfaltzgraff. “Do you want anything while I’m in here?”

“No, thanks. I’m still stuffed.”

“All right.” Reagan took the bowls out onto the deck. Mason was still standing there, with his hands in his pockets. He laughed when he saw her.

“I’m not sure how to do this,” she said.

“You could set it on the deck, then back away from it.”

“Yeah, all right.” She set one of the bowls down and then stepped back.

Mason sat on the edge of his deck and slid under the wood railing, hopping to the ground. It wasn’t much of a drop. He took the bowl and climbed back onto the deck, using the stairs. Then he leaned against the railing across from Reagan again. “It looks perfect,” he said. “Are there layers?”

“It’s just Cool Whip and cherries,” Reagan said. “Also—there are pecans in there.”

“Yeah there are.”

“In case you’re allergic.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, good.”

He was looking at it.

“You can eat it,” she said.

“Now?”

“Yeah, we’ll just keep our distance.”

“All right.” He sat down at one end of his deck.

Reagan sat on her grandpa’s deck, at the other end. Mason took off his mask and smiled over at her. She’d been a little hard on his chin before—it was present. He had a square face. Narrow eyes. Lips that didn’t quite close over his smile. He looked like a chipmunk. She definitely would have pointed that out in high school; he was right to steer clear of her.