The Shape of Night(9)
“Ava.”
“Ava with the mouse problem,” he says, and we both laugh.
“If you don’t want to use mousetraps,” says Emmett, “maybe you just oughta get a cat.”
“I have a cat.”
“And he hasn’t taken care of the problem?”
“We just moved into the house yesterday. He’s already caught three mice, but I don’t think even he can take care of the whole problem.” I look at the mousetraps and sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to get these. They’re probably more humane than getting eaten by my cat.”
“I’ll throw in an extra pack of ’em, how ’bout it? On the house,” says Emmett. He heads up front to the cash register, where he rings up my purchase. “Good luck, young lady,” he says, handing me a plastic bag with my traps. “Just be careful when you set ’em, ’cause it ain’t much fun having ’em snap down on your fingers.”
“Use peanut butter,” says Dr. Gordon.
“Yes, I just heard that advice. It’s next on my shopping list. I guess this is just part of renting an old house.”
“Which house would that be?” Emmett asks.
“The one up on the point. It’s called Brodie’s Watch.”
The sudden silence speaks louder than anything either man could have said. I catch the look that flies between them and notice Emmett’s eyebrows knit together, carving deep furrows in his face.
“So you’re the gal who’s renting Brodie’s Watch,” says Emmett. “You staying there long?”
“Through the end of October.”
“You, uh, like it up there on the point?”
I look back and forth at the two men, wondering what isn’t being said. Knowing that something is being left out of the conversation, something important. “Except for the mice, yes.”
Emmett covers up his consternation with a forced smile. “Well, you come on back if you need anything else.”
“Thank you.” I start to leave.
“Ava?” says Dr. Gordon.
“Yes?”
“Is anyone staying up there with you?”
His question takes me aback. Under other circumstances, a stranger asking if I live alone would put me on guard, make me wary of revealing my vulnerability, but I don’t sense any threat from his question, only concern. Both men are watching me, and there’s a strange tension in the air, as if both of them are holding their breaths, waiting for my answer.
“I’ve got the house all to myself. And my cat.” I open the door and pause. Looking back, I add: “My very big, very mean cat.”
* * *
—
That night, I bait six mousetraps with peanut butter, leave three in the kitchen, two in the dining room, and the sixth one in the upstairs hallway. I don’t want Hannibal to trap his paw in any of them, so I bring him into my bedroom. Clever Hannibal is an escape artist who’s learned how to turn doorknobs with his paws, so I slide the latch shut, locking him inside with me. He’s not happy about this and he paces the room, yowling for a chance to go on another mouse hunt.
“Sorry, kiddo,” I tell him. “Tonight you’re my prisoner.”
I turn off the lamp and in the moonlight I can see him continue to pace. It is another clear, still night, the sea as calm and flat as molten silver. In the darkness I sit by the window sipping a bedtime glass of whiskey and marveling at the view. What could be more romantic than a moonlit night in a house by the sea? I think of other nights when moonlight and a few drinks made me believe that this man might be the one who’d make me happy, the one who’d stand the test of time. But a few days, a few weeks later, the cracks would inevitably begin to show and I’d realize: No, he’s not the man for me. Time to move on and keep looking. There’s always someone else out there, someone better, isn’t there? Never settle for Mr. Good Enough.
Now I sit alone, my skin flushed from my day in the sun and by the alcohol that now courses through my veins. I reach down yet again for the bottle, and when my arm brushes across my breast, it leaves my nipple tingling.
It has been months since any man has touched me there. Months since I’ve felt even the faintest hint of lust. Not since New Year’s Eve. My body has been asleep, all desire frozen in a state of hibernation. But this morning, when I’d stood on the beach, I had felt something inside me flicker back to life.
I close my eyes and in an instant the memory of that night is back. My kitchen counter covered with used wineglasses and dirty plates and platters of empty oyster shells. The cold tiles under my naked back. His body on top of mine, thrusting into me again and again. But I won’t think about him. I cannot bear to think of him. Instead I conjure up a faceless, guilt-free someone, a man who does not exist. A man for whom I feel only lust, not love. Not shame.
I refill my glass with whiskey, even though I know I have already had too much tonight. My shin still aches from banging it on the landing last night, and this afternoon I noticed a fresh bruise on my arm, but I can’t remember when or where I got it. This drink will be my last for the night. I gulp it down and flop onto the bed, where moonlight, pale as cream, washes across my body. I peel open my nightdress and let the cool sea air whisper across my skin. I imagine a man’s hands touching me here, and here, and here. A faceless, nameless man who knows my every desire, a perfect lover who exists only in my fantasies. My breaths quicken. I close my eyes and hear myself moan. For the first time in months my body is hungry again to feel a man inside me. I imagine him grasping both my wrists and pinning them above my head. I feel his calloused hands, his unshaven face against my skin. My back arches and my hips rise to meet his. A breeze blows in through the open window, flooding the room with the smell of the sea. I feel his hand cradling my breast, stroking my nipple.