The Shape of Night(5)

The way I served champagne last New Year’s Eve.

Once again I can hear the clink of ice cubes and jazz playing on the stereo and the chatter of friends and family and colleagues crowded into my Boston apartment. I had pulled out all the stops for my party and had splurged on Damariscotta oysters and a whole leg of Jamón Ibérico de Bellota. I remember looking around at my laughing guests, noting which men I’d already slept with, and wondering who I might be sleeping with that night. It was, after all, New Year’s Eve, and one can’t celebrate alone.

Stop, Ava. Don’t think about that night.

But I can’t help poking at that wound, unroofing the scab so it bleeds again. I refill my wineglass and cycle back through the memories. The laughter, the clatter of oyster shells, the happy fizz of champagne on my tongue. I remember my editor Simon tipping a glistening oyster into his mouth. I remember Lucy, on call that night for the hospital, virtuously sipping only sparkling water.

And I remember Nick skillfully popping the cork on a bottle. I remember thinking how jaunty he looked that night, with his tie askew and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Whenever I think of that night it always, always comes back to Nick.

The candle on my dining table sputters out. I look down and to my surprise I find the bottle of Chianti is now empty.

When I rise to my feet the house seems to sway, as though I’m standing on the rolling deck of a ship. I haven’t opened any windows, but the smell of the sea once again sweeps through the room and I can even taste salt on my lips. Either I’m hallucinating or I’m more tipsy than I thought.

I’m too tired to clear the dishes so I leave my barely touched risotto on the table and make my way to the stairs, turning off lights as I go. Hannibal darts past and I stumble over him, banging my shin against the second-floor landing. Already the damn cat knows this house better than I do. By the time I make it to the bedroom he’s already claimed his spot on the comforter. I don’t have the energy to move him; I just turn off the lamp and sprawl onto the bed beside him.

    I fall asleep, with the scent of the sea in my nostrils.



* * *



—

In the night, I feel the mattress shift and I reach out, seeking the warmth of Hannibal’s body, but he is not there. I open my eyes and for a moment I don’t remember where I am. Then it comes back to me: Tucker Cove. The sea captain’s house. The empty bottle of Chianti. Why did I think running away would change anything? Wherever you go, you drag along your own misery like a rotting carcass, and I have dragged mine up the coast to this lonely house in Maine.

A house where I am clearly not alone.

I lie awake, listening to the scritch-scratch of tiny claws moving through the walls. It sounds like dozens, maybe hundreds of mice are using the wall behind my bed as a superhighway. Hannibal is awake too, meowing and pacing the room, driven mad by his killer feline instincts.

I climb out of bed and open the bedroom door to let him out, but he won’t leave the room. He just paces back and forth, meowing. The mice are noisy enough; how can I sleep through Hannibal’s yowls? I am wide awake now anyway, so I settle into the rocking chair and gaze out the window. The fog has lifted and the sky is breathtakingly clear. The sea stretches out to the horizon, every ripple silvered by moonlight. I think of the full bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet, and wonder if another drink might help me sleep through the rest of the night, but now I’m too comfortable sitting in this chair and I don’t want to get up. And the view is so beautiful, the sea stretching out like battered silver. A breeze wafts against my cheek, brushing across my skin like a cool kiss, and I smell it again: the scent of the sea.

    Instantly the house goes quiet. Even the mice in the walls fall still, as if something, someone, has alarmed them. Hannibal gives a loud hiss and every hair on my arms stands up.

Someone else is in this room.

I scramble to my feet, my heart hammering. The chair keeps rocking back and forth as I retreat toward the bed and scan the darkness. All I see are the silhouettes of furniture and Hannibal’s glowing eyes, reflecting the moonlight as he stares at something in the corner. Something I cannot see. He gives a feral growl and slinks away into the shadows.

For an eternity I stand watching, listening. Moonlight floods the window and slants across the floor and in its silvery glow, nothing moves. The chair has stopped rocking. The smell of the sea has vanished.

There is no one else in the room. Just me and my cowardly cat.

I scramble back into bed and pull the covers up to my chin, but even under the duvet I am chilled and shaking. Only when Hannibal at last emerges from under the bed and lies down beside me do I stop shivering. There is something about a warm and purring cat pressed against you that sets the world right, and with a sigh, I bury my fingers in his fur.

The mice are once again skittering inside the wall.

“Tomorrow,” I murmur, “we need to find another place to rent.”





Three


Three dead mice are lying beside my slippers.

Still groggy and hungover, I stare down at the gruesome gifts that Hannibal has delivered during the night. He sits beside his offerings, chest puffed out in pride, and I remember the property manager’s remark yesterday when I told her my cat liked to hunt.

He is going to love it here.

At least one of us loves it here.