Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

“Is not!” I sing at his retreating back, counting the donuts remaining. He ate three. I’m taking that as another win.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  IT’S THREE DAYS AFTER we struck a deal and we haven’t agreed on a single thing since. Also, the manor is trying to kill me. All I want to do is love it, and it responds by raining plaster over me and moving the broom and dustpan so that they’re never where I last put them. Every time I open a window to get rid of the thick dust-and-lemon-Pledge cloud that hangs at nose level, I hear a rattle and glance over to watch the sash juddering back down. I’ve had two pairs of rubber gloves disintegrate on me somehow, but luckily the hoard replenishes itself and more pairs of gloves reappear on the living room mantel. Along with a bottle of ointment, which has helped heal the blisters that stupid shovel gave my fingers.

  Wesley is going room by room upstairs and getting rid of broken stuff first, or stuff that’s rusted, expired, ruined from water damage, etc. After the obvious trash is dealt with, he sorts through whatever’s left. I, however, choose to tackle the hoard all at once, which results in a million piles whose purposes prove difficult to keep straight. We keep ramming into each other at the front door and in the yard, arms too full, each refusing to offer the other one assistance if an item is dropped. I rubberneck at whatever he tosses in the dumpster, but if I pick through his half of the house in addition to mine, this clean-out is going to take years.

  Whenever I brush past Wesley, the image of him beneath the iron archway in my dream flickers to life, those eyes probing mine like I might offer the answer to a long-held question, or I remember him in the dark woods beside me, a solid protector, and it’s annoying. I don’t want to associate soft feelings with this person who scowls at me all day.

  “What do you want the sunroom for?” I can’t resist asking at one point, as we’re passing each other in the foyer.

  “Why’s my picture on your phone?” he shoots back so quickly, he had to have been already thinking about it.

  I grumble as I skulk away and he takes off up the stairs. I am incredibly glad I called dibs on the first floor, because I can’t imagine what running up and down the grand staircase is doing to his calves.

  Actually . . .

  I try to steal a glimpse, but he’s too fast for me.

  The next time we bump into each other, it’s because he’s got a busted armoire and can’t fit it through the door. I could help, but he didn’t help me when I was trying to roll up a rug and he watched me wrestle with it. So I lean against the wall and cross my ankles, observing.

  “Hmm. Having some trouble there, partner?”

  He grunts, shoving harder.

  “Please do take care not to scratch the door frame.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Why not? We need a new door frame, anyway.”

  “Okay, well. If you scratch it, you’ll be responsible for putting the new one on.” I don’t know why I’m feeling particularly argumentative today.

  “Try worrying about yourself,” he suggests. “You’re going about this so inefficiently, it hurts.”

  “I’m being thorough. What would Violet say if she saw you treating her belongings like this? So callous.”

  I think the reminder of Violet is going to stick him where it hurts, but he doesn’t care. “I informed her myself of exactly what I was going to do with her belongings. I told her several times, after she told me I’d inherit it all. At any rate, I don’t see her here. She doesn’t have to deal with this mess. We do.” I notice how he glances furtively up at the ceiling, as if the ghost of Violet Hannobar might be bobbing around up there, keeping an eye on us. Maybe she’s the one who tripped him on the stairs earlier when I hollered up that I’d discovered his little secret (it was the remnants of a bacon sandwich, to which he’d sputtered, red faced, that it was vegetarian bacon; I took a bite and spat it back out, confirming he was telling the truth).

  He’s taking forever with the armoire. He has to stop for a break at intervals, sweat rolling down his ruddy complexion, flecking his shirt. “Need some help?” I ask. I’m an angel.

  “No.”

  Lord, he’s stubborn. “I wasn’t going to help, anyway.”

  “I know. Can’t wait to see you try to drag the pool table out of the billiard room by yourself.”

  I point my nose higher in the air. It was already up in the air to begin with, because I have to yank my head all the way back to look him in the eye (it’s rude that he won’t at least slouch), but I’ve got to make myself as big as I can. An equal voice. “I’m keeping the pool table.”

  “Yeah? Along with all the pets you’ve got living in it?”

  “What pets—” I scrunch my nose when understanding dawns, and he almost grins—I can see one forming, but he tamps it down.

  The armoire door swings open, trash skidding out.

  “Oh!” I exclaim, bending to pick up a box. “Hey, I’ve seen these on commercials!” I dig a wire head-scratcher out of its packaging and inspect the thing. It looks like a broken whisk, but if I fit the prongs over my scalp, it’s . . . “Ooooh, that feels nice.” Wesley watches in bemusement as my hair becomes a tumbleweed.

  “That’s from the second floor,” he tells me, “which puts it under my jurisdiction. You can’t have my trash.”

  My inner raccoon sulks. “You can’t use my kitchen, then.”

  “There’s a kitchenette upstairs. It’s in better condition than yours, actually.”

  I press down on the armoire to make it heavier. He twists away from me, and it’s just the right angle to finally squeeze them both out the door. “Thanks!” he chirps. I make a truly ugly face at him, and it happens again: that almost-smile. He fights it and wins. I think he’s under a curse—if he laughs, he’ll die. This is a sensible explanation to me. It isn’t that I’m not a joy to be around, it’s that he’ll literally die.

  Chapter 8

  MAYBELL’S COFFEE SHOP AU has a musty odor to it, and there are a few trash bags building up along the wall.

  “What’s going on in here?” Jack asks, waltzing over.

  “I’m renovating.”

  He nods, skimming the café. “Looks bigger.”

  “I let out the seams of the walls to give us a few extra feet. I’m thinking about adding a hotel to the café. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s the best idea I’ve ever heard in my entire life.” He brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “But I’m not surprised. Your ideas consistently amaze me.” His voice drops an octave. “So when are you going to let me take you to Venice on my private jet, you beautiful genius?”

  I sigh. For whatever reason, Jack just isn’t doing it for me today. I’m finding his presence grating. “Rain check?” I propose, and his hopeful smile crumbles. He’s devastated, of course. Jack’s been chasing me for months.

  The red light on the rotary phone flashes: IRL Calling.

  “Anyway, life’s pretty hectic right now,” I tell him, swiveling to check on the batch of apple fritters in the oven. “Let’s try this again another—” Oh, that stupid red light won’t stop flashing.

  I send the call to voicemail. “Maybell!” an aggravated voice blares through the speakers.

  “Raghh, I was just about to leave, anyway! Give me a minute to wrap this up—goddamn it!” I’ve burned my apple fritters. Here! In my magical coffee shop where nothing ever burns! I whirl again and wipe away the café with a swish of my hand. Wesley’s knocking on my bedroom door.

  “Are you in there?” he asks. Rudely.

  I bolt out of bed, too fast, giving myself fuzzy brain static. Every time I’m interrupted mid-daydream, it’s an embarrassing reminder that I’ve once again lost touch with reality. I become irritable. “What?” I yell back.

  “Sorry to bother you.” His tone is testy. If I ever need a rather large stick, I’ll know exactly where
to find one. “The dumpster guys are going to be here in thirty minutes to pick up their containers, so we have to make sure we’ve got the house cleared out as much as possible.”

  “I’ve got my half cleared.”

  “Are you sure? It looks like there’s plenty of trash left.”

  I open the door. Wesley backs up two steps. “That’s not trash,” I reply nicely. “It’s all stuff I can keep or donate.”

  “That reddish-purple sofa’s seen better days. I mean, there are springs coming out and . . .” He trails off as his gaze zeroes in on my chest. Or not my chest, but my necklace. My blood can’t tell the difference and rises to the surface, splotching the area in question.

  I’m wearing Violet’s pendant, which I found under my bed along with a dust bunny and a colored pencil. It’s stamped with the number 51 to commemorate either Violet’s fifty-first birthday or her fifty-first wedding anniversary, and I rummaged up a chain for it so that I can keep something precious of Violet’s close to my heart.

  I watch the muscles in Wesley’s face go lax, the raw grief he exposes for only a second before sending it back into hiding.

  “Anyway.” He clears his throat. “Thirty minutes.” His eyes drag down my outfit. “Not too late to add more to the dumpster.”

  Message received, and unheeded. I’m wearing gems from my hoard haul: cowboy boots, a turquoise bolo tie, a rhinestone peasant top, and gold culottes. I can’t imagine wasting all these interesting statement pieces. Everything I’ve ever heard about fashion sense is wrong. Less isn’t more; more is more. “What?” I say sweetly, adding a sun hat with cherries and a veil to my ensemble. “I told you these clothes were still useful. And you said nobody would ever wear them. Pah!”

  He winces. “It hurts to look at you.”

  “You made me burn my apple fritters, so we’re even.”

  “When did I do that?” He perks up, sniffing the air. “You made apple fritters?”

  “Here.” I hand him the hat. He eyes it like I’m offering a dead skunk, not taking it from my hands. I try to put it on his head, but he’s too tall. I play a game of horseshoes, which one of us finds very amusing.

  It lands on his head after seven tries. “Need to get a picture of this.” I dig out my phone.

  “Another one for the collection?” He isn’t being mean, I think, but he does take the hat off and pushes my phone away. “I don’t like having my picture taken.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just don’t.”

  “Are you in witness protection?”

  He shakes his head, walking away. It’s been less than three minutes and he’s already done with me. “Why is that where your head goes?”

  I follow him to the house, trying to catch up but never quite able to match his pace. It’s like he’s trying to escape or something. All the more evidence that he’s in witness protection.

  I pounce on him in the kitchen, which is starting to resemble a kitchen again. Wesley’s only half-hidden by boxes and storage tubs, 80 percent of which are filled with plastic ladles and spatulas. I don’t have the heart to get rid of good ladles and spatulas. Or the salmon dish towels, which are a little bit moth-eaten but could still be useful if I ever need to clean grease off the bottom of my car. And a few broken cups, which I can give a second life to with a craft project of some sort. I’ll get into the world of mosaic-making.

  “What’s that?” I poke at his thermos of sweet tea.

  “Poison,” he mutters. “So don’t drink it.”

  “I’m not going to drink your tea. Imagine that: me putting my mouth on somebody else’s thermos.” I glance at the lid and imagine it. “Chill out.”

  “If you knew it was tea, why’d you ask?” He turns to lean against the counter. The window above the sink is right behind him, transforming whatever’s written on his face into an indecipherable silhouette.

  “There’s nobody else around here to talk to. I don’t know how you can be so quiet all the time, unless you’re arguing. You’re the most argumentative and the least talkative roommate ever.”

  He doesn’t reply, face tilting up. I think he’s underlining my point. And surveying me, it feels. My skin goes hot and itchy.

  I don’t like loaded silences. When someone is quiet I tend to assume they’re thinking unpleasant things about me, so I have to stem that flow by distracting them with conversation. Conversation proving I am an all-around great person and definite friendship material. “I don’t know anything about you, really,” I ramble. “Which is weird, don’t you think? If we’re going to be living together for . . .” I haven’t considered how long we might be living together. If neither of us ever wants to give up Falling Stars, we could be puttering around the estate together as geezers. He’s already grumpy as a young man—I can’t imagine what kind of sunshine his nineties have in store for us.

  Still no reply.

  “Silent treatment again?” I shift into a defensive pose, arms crossed. “Very mature.” I think he knows that lounging in front of the window turns his face to shadow, all the light hitting me and lighting me up instead. Vulnerability and uncertainty creep in.

  “You should see what your face looks like,” he muses after a spell. His voice sounds different. Smokier. The volume hasn’t changed but the words register in my ears as coming from point-blank range; we’re not close at all and yet we could be standing in a tight closet, his mouth right above my ear. A shiver rolls down my spine. I hate to think what my face looks like now.

  I have no response to this, so I stomp off. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure I hear a dark laugh curling after me.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  I’M STARVED FOR HUMAN attention and Wesley’s the opposite of a warm friend, so I call my mother. When she doesn’t answer, I find Ruth’s phone number on Violet’s calendar, which still clings to the fridge in the cabin. The box for April twenty-eighth is scrawled with unsteady writing that unintentionally carries into the twenty-ninth: Dr. Porter 1:45.

  I wonder if anyone’s canceled Violet’s appointment with Dr. Porter. It’s unnerving to think about her standing here marking the calendar with April plans that will never come to fruition.

  “Hi, this is Maybell,” I practice while the phone’s still ringing. “I’m calling to check in!” I don’t know why I’d check in with the home health aide of my dead aunt, or if she’d care, but it’s too late now.

  She doesn’t pick up. I’m both relieved and disappointed.

  I poke around drawers and cabinets in the cabin. Fold my laundry. Tweak the arrangement of hoard baubles on a shelf in my room. It was ludicrous of Wesley to think we should throw out the snow globes that lost their water—they look like magic crystal balls now.

  I pick up an old note I brought with me when I moved here: it’s from Violet, one of her rare responses to my holiday cards. I’m so happy to hear from you! I hope you enjoy your holidays and are doing well. Love, Violet. This note proves I wasn’t a total letdown. She still loved me. Or maybe she was just saying that . . . maybe she was just being nice . . . except she left me the house, so she probably did love me . . . except she left it to Wesley, too . . .

  I’m still carrying the note around, lost in my daydreams, when Wesley’s voice blooms unexpectedly over my shoulder and I scream. “Aghhh!”

  He jolts back. “Jesus.”

  “Stop sneaking up on me! For the love of god!”

  “I’m not! I’ve been standing here for like five minutes. How did you not hear the microwave beeping?”

  I’m in the kitchen, evidently. Wesley’s eating leftover DiGiorno, shoveling it into his mouth while it’s still steaming.

  “Oh.”

  He jerks his head at my note. “All I was saying was that I wrote that.”

  “You what?” I flip the note over, as if there might be a second one on the b
ack.

  “I wrote that on Violet’s behalf. I remember assuming it was for one of Violet’s old-lady friends, because of the name Maybell.” He shrugs.

  “What’s wrong with the name Maybell?”

  “Never said there was anything wrong with it,” he replies lightly. “Anyway, got a couple moving trucks coming to haul furniture and big-ticket items away to auction. Violet was a packrat, but lucky for us she had some good stuff hidden here and there. The jewelry should go for a high price, especially, and if we’re thrifty we might be able to use all that money to fund renovations.”

  “I’m going to advertise an estate sale,” I inform him. “For the items that you thought were too inconsequential to take to auction in Maryville.” I try not to come off as accusatory, but it’s a sore subject. I get the feeling Wesley wages an eternal battle between needing to be the wallpaper and having to be the centerpiece. He takes charge in situations even when he doesn’t want to and I do. Let me be the centerpiece! I’d love the opportunity to shine. “There’s so many products still in their boxes, brand-new, that it’s stupid to not try to sell them.”

  “Here?” The pizza he’s holding up goes sideways, a mushroom sliding off. “An estate sale here?”

  “Yes.” I can’t resist. “Your expression. It’s like if a person could be crispy.”

  “Crispy?” He makes a face.

  “There’s your other expression. You have two of them. One is crispy and the other is sour milk.” I point, grinning. “Wait. That’s a new one. Mystified.”

  It’s like he waves a wand over his face, how rapidly it goes blank. “Your expression is—” he begins, then clams up.

  “Go on,” I dare him.

  “Never mind.” His cheeks are turning pink. Not mystified, not sour milk, not crispy. One might almost think Wesley Koehler has become embarrassed.

  It makes me want to poke the bear. “What were you going to say?”

  “Nothing.”

  He stomps off, and I laugh. He stomps harder.