Goodnight Beautiful(17)

I’m in the bath, a chorus of bubbles popping at my neck, a chill in my bones. Everything is cold. The air, the water, Sam.

Three days now he’s been in a state. Grouchy, short, showing exactly zero interest in my (fake) volunteer position. I thought he’d be at least a little curious to hear about the interesting pieces of trivia I picked up as the town’s newly anointed resident expert, but I got barely a half-hearted grunt the other morning when I asked him if he knew that in 1797, Chestnut Hill came within one vote of being named the state capital. And then the incident with the Post-it note. It was stuck to the front door, neon-green paper and fat Sharpie letters so I’d be sure to see it on my way out. Can you move your car up. Patients need room.

That’s it. Not even the common decency of proper punctuation. It wouldn’t have been that big a deal if that note hadn’t basically been our only communication all day, as apparently he also wasn’t in the mood for happy hour. (A headache, he claimed. I recommended two glasses of water and a good night’s sleep, choosing to stay silent on the fact that his headache probably had something to do with the two cans of beer I heard him open downstairs, where he stayed for an hour after the Somber Superintendent of Schools left, forlorn as usual, at five thirty.) It pains me to say it, but it’s a side of him I haven’t seen before, and which I don’t particularly like: trudging around, all Eeyore-eyed.

But too bad. I’ve decided I’m not going to allow Sam’s crankiness to get me down.


Reasons to Remain Happy Despite Sam’s Mood: A List in Descending Order

It’s true what they say: hard work pays off, because as of yesterday morning, I am the fifteenth-ranked reviewer on Amazon (suck it, Lola from Pensacola!).

It’s been raining all morning, and surely no fake tour takers are going to show up at my fake job, allowing me a well-earned afternoon of self-care, leading me to the top item on my list, the best reason of all to stay on the bright side:

President Josiah Edward Bartlet, the essence of humility.





The West Wing, my god. It’s Sam’s all-time favorite show, and now I can see why. I have never seen it, and I decided to turn it on this morning after he went to work, take a look at the pilot. Three hours later I couldn’t be any more invested in the conflict between Jed Bartlet the president and Jed Bartlet the man. I’m going to cheer Sam up with the news at happy hour tonight. I did it, I watched season 1. You’re right, it’s genius.

I pull the plug in the bathtub and stand up, my skin prickling in the cold air as I reach for the towel, reminding myself that whatever is going on with Sam probably has nothing to do with me. After all, it’s not only me he’s being weird around, it’s them, too: our patients. Distracted, unfocused. Yesterday’s one o’clock was a new woman named Pamela—a therapist herself from twenty miles east, thinking of sending her troubled son to boarding school. Twice he called her Marlene before she corrected him, and I could feel all three of us cringing through the remaining thirty-two minutes of the session.

I brush my hair in the mirror, noticing the gray, reminding myself to take care of that. It’s a fear of mine: coming here and letting myself go, just like a local. I should try something bold—bright red, maybe, like Agatha Lawrence. I found four boxes of her hair color—Nice’n Easy in Flaming Red—in the bathroom closet, and I’m thinking I’d look good as a redhead as I go to the window and thumb away a circle of mist, checking in on Sidney, the friendly neighbor. The Pigeon, as I’ve come to call her, like those annoying birds that can’t take a hint. She’s everywhere: Hi neighbor!-ing from behind the potato chip display in the middle of the produce section; strolling across the bridge with that weird-looking dog two days ago, as Sam happened to be on his way out of work, stopping to say hello, all doe-eyed.

My instinct was right: the two of them dated in high school. I found out during stop number two on my cultural scavenger hunt, the Free Library, where I discovered the shelf of Brookside High yearbooks, every issue since the school was built on a cornfield in 1968. (I googled it, by the way, and the closest brook is a good three miles away.) I almost missed noticing them above the magazines, the high school name printed on the spine in the year’s most popular font. I couldn’t resist taking an armful of yearbooks to a square wooden table, cramming myself onto a chair meant for a child, discovering photos of Sam’s dad, the ruggedly handsome math teacher; Margaret, the beloved secretary with the pretty smile; and then Sam himself, his first appearance on page fourteen of the 1995 edition, all chisel-cheeked and red-lipped.

Stats. That’s what they called him, and it doesn’t take being voted Most Likely to Be in the CIA like Becky Westworth, class of ’95, to figure out that this refers to the number of girls Sam slept with—including, it appears, Sidney Pigeon née Martin. She was very much his type: short legs, mousy brown hair, a little chunky. (I’m kidding, of course. She was adorable and thin.)

There’s smoke coming from her chimney, and a light’s on upstairs. I imagine her in the living room, watching the morning shows, folding laundry. I’m about to turn away when I notice the car in the driveway, parked behind Sam’s. A dark green Mini Cooper with a white racing stripe, which I’ve never seen here before.

I hang up the towel and pull on the robe I found in Agatha Lawrence’s closet when I moved in (what can I say? It’s from the Neiman Marcus cashmere collection), knowing I should forget I ever saw that green Mini Cooper and keep with the plan: fresh sheets on my bed, West Wing episode six, two Oreos waiting patiently for me on the bedside table. But before I know it I’m dashing to the stairs, toward the study, moist footprints trailing behind me on the wood floors. Exactly what everyone around here needs.