Darling Rose Gold(33)

I climb the first rickety step. The wood immediately cracks and gives way, taking me with it. I shriek and thrash my arms, trying to keep my balance. Turning on my heel, I flee the yard and cross the street back to my own sidewalk. I stand there for a minute, hands on knees, huffing more from shock than exertion. I glare at the house. It glares back.

Point taken.

I march down the sidewalk, trying to look braver than I feel. Curtains are pulled aside as I walk. The faces staring out at me are haggard, and their eyes burn into the back of my head after I pass. None of them has come to our house or otherwise acknowledged me. A crone pushing a cart crosses the street when she sees me coming.

When I pass each house, I bend to pick up the newspapers, then toss them in the oversized trash bins. I don’t mind doing my part to save the neighbors from reading this filth. The news is all lies and sensationalism. We won’t encourage them with our money or eyeballs. I made sure Rose Gold didn’t have a newspaper subscription the day I moved in with her.

Deadwick is old now—just a handful of kids here to replace the diseased and dying. No hope, no verve, no ambition in this town. Just row after row of deteriorating houses with owners to match. One by one, we’ll all fall down.

A window opens. A bag of trash flies out of it, exploding on the lawn ten feet in front of me. I cast a scathing look toward the window, though I can’t see who threw the bag. I keep walking.

I’m determined to stay positive today, so I try to focus on what I once loved about this town. Deadwick’s population has hovered steady at four thousand since the nineteen seventies. Newcomers were noticed and typically welcomed twenty years ago. While the rest of the country worried about unmarked white vans, Deadwick’s parents didn’t have to fret over the safety of their children. Most adults knew the name of every kid who sailed by on his or her bike, and who that kid belonged to in case tattling became necessary.

I made a splash when I moved into the town house—I’d grown up on the old side of Deadwick, so I was a newish face on the newer side. My neighbors were just happy I’d replaced the Gantzers, who had kept to themselves in a community that emphasized togetherness. The Gantzers had never participated in the town Easter egg hunt or made dinners for grief-stricken families. Plus, their cat, Dante, had antagonized the neighborhood dogs. I made mental notes of what was expected of me as I rubbed my pregnant belly. I have always been a good neighbor.

My community participation paid off when my own time of need came. I’m not sure how I would’ve gotten through Rose Gold’s childhood without my neighbors stopping by to drop off casseroles and cheer me up. There was always someone to rub my back, to sigh sympathetically, to bounce an idea off of when the doctors wouldn’t listen.

By now I’m standing at the entrance to Walsh’s. I lift my head, straighten my shoulders, and plod through the doors, ignoring the growing knot in my stomach. I guide a shopping cart down the first aisle, gathering the items on my list. No one pays me any attention. I don’t recognize most of their faces, thank God. The coil in my stomach loosens a little.

I approach the deli counter. Ancient Bob McIntyre is working the slicer. Bob is harmless. I will start with him.

“Hiya, Bob,” I say to his back. Hiya? A bit much, even by my standards.

Bob turns, a grin on his face, until he sees me. A crease forms between his skimpy eyebrows. “I heard you were out of prison,” he says.

“You heard right,” I say. “I’m planning a Thanksgiving dinner for my family.”

“You’re living with Rose Gold now?” he asks, arms crossed.

“Sure am. How’s your family been? How’s Grace?”

“She’s fine,” Bob says. “What can I get for you?”

“A pound of honey ham. For sandwiches,” I add. “I’ve already got my turkey.” I pat the twenty-one-pound Butterball strapped into the child’s seat in front of me. I’ll plump my daughter up one way or another.

“I see a turkey, all right,” Bob says under his breath. He pulls the ham from the display window and turns back to the slicer.

I almost laugh. If this is the worst insult Deadwick’s residents can lob at me, I’ll be fine.

“What puzzle are you working on these days?” I say to Bob’s back. Bob is a puzzle fanatic.

Reluctantly he answers, “A thousand-piece of the solar system.”

I resist a pun about his abilities being out of this world. Bob is not in the mood to pal around. He hands me the bag of sliced ham.

“Well, it’s good to be home,” I say.

Bob snorts. “Have a nice day.”

I wave goodbye and keep walking. Not a horrible start. Baby steps.

I force myself to take my time in the store. I catch a few dirty looks and hear a lot of whispering out of earshot, but I keep packing produce into bags, pretending I don’t notice any of it. I have as much of a right to be here as they do.

I’m searching for the stuffing when I find a store employee crouched down, restocking shelves. I tap him on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” I say, then stop short when I realize who it is. “Josh Burrows.” I cross my arms.

He glances up, rodent eyes searching my face, trying to place me.

Josh Burrows: the little boy, now young man, for whom I wished a low SAT score, early male-pattern baldness, and a lifetime spent with exclusively feline company. I have resisted the urge all these years to look him up, to find out what sort of psychopath he’s grown into.