Agatha Arch is Afraid of Everything
Page 10
With this, Agatha’s head pops off again. Only the Kumbaya Queen is trusting enough and/or stupid enough to offer her address to every Barbara, Stella, and Mary (and, yes, David) in the Moms group. Who in their right mind gives out their address publicly these days? It’s like inviting the devil into your bed. Why not just holler “Come get me!” to robbers and rapists and druggies? Or the Interloper?
Tap tap tippity-tap.
Agatha sets Dax and GDOG on the table, plucks one of the two still-green tomatoes from the plant at her side, winds up, and hurls it at the woodpecker. It hits the house just inches from her target, ruptures, and, although she won’t see it until morning, leaves a green splotch on the white clapboard. The woodpecker flees. “Clay Buchholz has nothing on me,” she says. The plant is left with two tomatoes. One still green; the other—now beautifully reddish on one side—holds tight to hope.
* * *
Frustration aside, Agatha knows she’s been handed the opportunity to end all opportunities. A chance to slip a message to the Interloper without Melody or any of her Kumbaya cronies sabotaging her efforts. She bows out of the discussion, composes a short note in her head, and prints it on small cards.
Time to move on, Interloper.
Time to move on.
She pulls a few candy bars from last year’s Halloween leftovers, peels the wrapper from the first without tearing it, then slides one of her notes between the wrapper and the candy bar. She glues it shut again.
She does this with the second. And the third.
Before going to bed, she puts Dax back into the Etsy box, tucks him in with some tissue paper, and sets him on the kitchen counter. She puts GDOG into the bottom of a wine box in the garage.
That’ll teach them.
* * *
The next morning, Agatha puts the candy bars in a red-and-white grocery bag, drops the boys at school, and drives to 164 North Circle Street. As described by Melody, the house is a white Colonial with green shutters, as New Englandy as you can get. The lawn is perfectly manicured; hostas encircle each tree. Bags of all shapes, sizes, and color are piled up on the porch. Evidence the Interloper is the Moms’ feel-good project of the month. Agatha hops out of her car and runs to the door. Before dropping her bag, she peeks into a few others. A comb, soap, toothpaste, a few toothbrushes, some hideous shirts, gift cards for the grocery, and more. She lingers just a moment too long because right after she drops her bag of tampered-with chocolate bars on the pile, Melody opens the door, pearls and toothy grin firmly in place.
Agatha freezes.
“Agatha Arch!” Melody exclaims, as if she’s been expecting her for days. Such joy in her voice. Such welcome. Such relief.
Agatha doesn’t buy it for a second.
“Agatha Arch, how are you? I’m so happy you decided to bring a little something for the young woman.”
Agatha feels the tiniest bit of shame. “It’s not much,” she says. “Just a few candy bars. Not the healthiest choice, but sometimes you need chocolate more than broccoli.”
WTF? This has got to be the stupidest thing she’s ever said.
Even so, Melody smiles and nods. “You are so right, Agatha. That is very thoughtful.”
“I have to go, Melody,” Agatha says. It is true. She hasn’t driven past the House of Sin in hours. Her dual spy missions are starting to compete for her time.
“How are you?” Melody asks, hinting at the shed incident. How does one reference another’s cheating husband? The total destruction of a shed? The wielding of a hatchet? “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”
A cup of tea? Clearly Melody has to be talking to someone else. Agatha glances over her shoulder. She is the only one there. “Excuse me?” she says.
“Tea,” Melody says. “I wish you could come in for tea.”
It takes a moment, even a few, for Agatha to register the words come in and tea, connect them, and realize that Melody, the Kumbaya Queen, is issuing an invitation to her. When is the last time someone invited her to tea? To anything? “I don’t drink tea,” she says when the putting-it-all-together process is complete.
“Really?”
“Well, sometimes I do.” She has two cups every morning. “But not today.”
“Not today?”
“Not today.”
“Why not today?”
“Because today is … don’t worry about why not today. It’s not your business.”
“How about coffee then? Or wine?”
Good god, this woman is relentless with the invitations. Agatha swings another look over her shoulder, quite positive Melody is speaking to someone else. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” Melody says.
The kinder Melody is, the guiltier Agatha feels. All she can think about is the note she’d slipped into the chocolate bars.
Time to move on, Interloper.
Time to move on.
With Melody smiling and extending invitations for tea and coffee and wine, it hits Agatha just how mean her note is. It’s fine for her to make such a choice, but if the boys find out, they’ll never again listen to a lecture about kindness and generosity. They’ll scoff when she pulls out that do unto others mumbo jumbo and may even begin to make unkind choices themselves. For Big Papi’s sake, what had she been thinking?
Agatha stares into the sea of bags and tries to locate hers. “Um, Melody, I have to go, and I have to take the chocolate with me. Clearly this young woman needs broccoli more than sweets.”
“Agatha,” Melody says, “you did a nice thing by bringing chocolate bars for this young woman. I realize that was hard for you. Skip tea if you must, but I am not going to let you take away the treat.”
More than anything in that moment, Agatha wants her note to reach the Interloper. She wants her and the possibility of a plague gone, gone, gone. But her boys. Her sweet boys. She can’t risk their morality, their trust, their beautiful shiny hearts, for anything. Good lord, why does no one ever tell soon-to-be moms how limiting motherhood will be to their ability to ruthlessly take down an enemy?
Agatha shakes her head.
Melody shakes hers back.
Agatha is surprised that this pearl-wearing woman is proving to be as formidable in person as David was in the online emoji war. Who knew she had it in her? Still, Agatha has to get that bag. She crouches into a gorilla-like stance and starts to circle the pile. Her bag is white with red lettering, as are at least half in the pile.
“Agatha, leave the chocolate,” Melody purrs.
“I can’t do it, Melody. I realize now that chocolate isn’t the answer. I’ll come back with broccoli. Fresh, green broccoli, full of nutrients and goodness.”
Oh, the absurdity.
Melody looks at Agatha as if she’s lost her mind, but she crouches, too. Her eyes dart between Agatha and the pile of bags, arms outstretched. “Don’t do it, Agatha Arch,” she whispers. “Allow yourself this wonderfully generous act. It will feel good. I promise.”
They circle like a couple of wrestlers, and Melody’s face contorts into a puddle of lovey goo.
“I have to take the chocolate bars, Melody. It’s old chocolate from two Halloweens ago.”
“It will be fine. Chocolate ages well.”
“Not American chocolate. I’m sure it’s dry and flaky by now. Besides, the Interloper needs nutrients, not empty calories. Broccoli will be a much better choice.”
“Nonsense,” Melody says, and she starts to hum “Kumbaya.” The air burbles, and waves of rainbow-y love waft toward Agatha. A tsunami of kumbaya is headed straight for her. Her knees wobble, but she holds on. She must resist.
“Let the goodness out, Agatha Arch,” Melody says.
“I’ll come back with broccoli,” Agatha says. “That’s much gooder than chocolate.”
Gooder? Gooder?
Did Agatha, brilliant scribe of the written word, just say gooder?
“No!” Melody says. “Leave the choc
olate.”
Right then a gaggle of Moms appears on the street calling “Balderdash! Balderdash!” The search party. They’re moving slowly, stretched in a line across the road, heads shifting from left to right, the end pieces crouching to look under pine trees and rhododendrons. “Balderdash!”
Taking advantage of the distraction, Agatha leaps gazelle-like across the pile of bags. She grabs the smallest, lightest one and bolts for her car. Melody’s voice closes the distance between them. “Agatha! Agatha Arch! No!”
But Agatha has a head start, and before Melody can reach her, she jumps into her car, whips it into gear, and peels away, kind of. Behind her, in the rearview mirror, she sees Melody standing in the middle of the street, hands raised to the sky. In front of her, the line of Moms sweeps the street looking for Gem Lily’s pooch. Each wears a pale blue T-shirt with a photo of Balderdash on the back. It’s almost more than she can bear.
A few blocks down North Circle Street, Agatha pulls over, rips open the candy bars, and eats them faster than you can say, “Interloper, Interloper, Interloper.” Then she tosses the mean-girl notes out the window and waits until a brisk wind whisks them away.
Bear’s feet are poking out of the tissue box where she’d stuffed him the day before. “Oh, be quiet,” Agatha says to him and pushes him deeper into the box with the tip of her finger.
* * *
Agatha’s agent messages her on FB. Who does this? Agatha never reads FB messages. No one reads FB messages.
But because it’s her agent, she reads. “Agatha? Agatha? Trying to track you down. Holler when you come up for air.”
Chapter Thirteen
Agatha drives the boys to Taco Bell. They love Taco Bell. They love tacos. She orders their usual, then adds, “One enchilada with refried beans.”
The boys look at each other, then lean as close to the front seat as their seat belts allow.
“Mom, are you okay? You just ordered something with refried beans in it,” Dustin says.
“Hush,” she says.
“Mom, you don’t eat refried beans,” he says. “You’re afraid of refried beans.”
Agatha considers the foolishness of this statement coming from her ten-year-old’s mouth. A ten-year-old shouldn’t have to say “you’re afraid of refried beans” to his mother, to anyone.
“Mom?” Jason says.
She pulls to the pickup window, pays, and takes the food from the clerk. She parks in the lot, then pulls her enchilada from the bag. The wrapping crackles. She hands the rest to the boys.
“Mom?” Dustin says. His voice carries the trepidation of someone trying to talk a loved one off a ledge.
“It’s just beans, right, boys?” Agatha says.
“Yeah,” the boys say. They unclip their seat belts and stick their heads into the front seat.
Agatha unwraps the enchilada. The beans are leaking a bit. She grimaces at the dirt-colored mush. With a deep breath, she pulls bobblehead Bear from the tissue box and stands him up on the dashboard once again. He’s never banished for long. She gives his head a firm tap, and he nods encouragingly. “Fear sharpens us,” he whispers.
She picks up the enchilada, closes her eyes, hovers it just inches from her lips. She knows Jason, Dustin, and Bear are cheering her on, but the only thing she hears is that serial killer guy in that movie sucking his teeth and talking about fava beans. “Give me the bag!” she hollers. “Give me the bag!” She grabs it from Jason, shoves the enchilada into it, and tosses it into the backseat. “You two eat it. You love enchiladas.”
Jason puts his hand on his mom’s shoulder. “Mom, that was so awesome. You almost did it.”
“Yay, Mom!” Dustin yells.
Agatha wipes sweat from her forehead. She’s nauseated and dizzy. But, yeah, she almost did it.
“What do you always tell us, Mom?” Jason says.
“Try again,” Agatha whispers.
“Try again,” the boys say in unison.
“How about next week?” she says, pretty sure she won’t be able to try again for at least a decade.
“We’ll be here.”
* * *
When Agatha wakes all alone to the first stink bug post of the season, just a month or so after the shed incident, she knows for sure Dax is never coming home. It is a strange way to have your fate confirmed—the appearance of a prehistoric-looking bug that reeks when squashed—but there it is. Each September since moving to Wallingford, the two of them had waited impatiently for the first panicked “OMG! Look at this! What is it?” post on the Moms page when the insect appeared on a windowsill or lampshade. Each September they’d read that initial post aloud to one another, then giggle and guffaw.
As is often the case, this year’s post is written by a New England newbie. Nothing is different, except that Dax isn’t there to share it. Agatha is alone when she reads it out loud. She doesn’t giggle or guffaw.
Susan Snow:
“Yikes, found this in my house today! What is it?”
She attaches the photo, and the Moms begin …
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug! Do not squish! They smell like grass!”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Looks like a stink bug to me.”
“Definitely a stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug. Flush the fucker!”
“Stink bug.”
“Definitely a stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug. Don’t squish it. The scent will attract more stink bugs.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug. Pick it up gently. Place it outside far from your house.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug. Don’t smoosh it!”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug. Whatever you do, DO NOT SQUISH!”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug. Squish it! I love the smell.” (There’s always one.)
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
“Stink bug.”
…
* * *
“How about walking up to her and saying, ‘Hi. How are you?’” Shrinky-Dink says.
Agatha is incredulous. “Are you out of your mind? Ask the Interloper how she’s doing?”
“Agatha, you just shake hands with her. If it’s hot, you say, ‘Good gracious, you must be sweltering out here. I brought you a cool beverage with ice. It will refresh you.’”
“I would never say good gracious.”
“It’s my turn of phrase. Put your own spin on it.”
“I would never say cool beverage.”
“What would you say?”
“Cold drink.”
“Use that.”
Agatha nods.
“If it’s cold outside, you say, ‘Good gracious, you must be freezing. Here’s a hot coffee. It will warm you up.’ Then you invite the young woman to sit, encourage her to tell her story, give her a candy bar or an apple, buy her lunch, show good listening skills, and perhaps even offer sympathy.”
“This is what a nice, somewhat normal person would do,” says Agatha.
“Yes.”
“I am not a nice, somewhat normal person.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I’m not. Even before Dax ruined my life, I could not have done what you’re suggesting. I’ve always been not nice. Not normal.” She means this about herself, though she’s never said it out loud before. Saying such a thing out loud about yourself is almost the same as throwing yourself in front of a moving car because you have to live with the consequence forever. In this case, she’d have to live with knowing that she’d known she wasn’t nice or normal but hadn’t made any kind of conscious decision to do anything about it. She thought about her imagined zephyr of friends. If only she were a little nicer or a little more normal, it might be hers for the taking.
“First,” says Shrinky-Dink, “Dax did not ruin your life. He’s thrown a wrench into it, for sure, but it is your life. And it has been your life all along. Second, you could do what I’m suggesting but you are choosing not to.”
“Wrong on both counts.” Agatha puts both hands on her chest. Just talking about communing with the Interloper is sending her heart into some kind of syncopated rhythm. “This beggar,” she says, “could sneak into my home in the middle of the night, kill me, and eat me with fava beans.”
Shrinky-Dink clucks and raises her eyebrows. “So could the grocery store clerk or your accountant or your agent. Anyone could kill you and eat you with fava beans if they really wanted to.”
Agatha stares at her. “This is not helping me.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“It’s not. Those people don’t have a motive.”
“And this young woman at Apple54 does?”
Agatha looks up at the ceiling. “Maybe.”
* * *
Agatha leaves Shrinky-Dink’s office, drives across town, parks in the grocery store parking lot, and blows her horn at the Interloper. She’s nowhere near ready for “I brought you a cold beverage with ice.” She’s at the I-want-to-put-you-on-notice stage of things and nothing can deter her.
She grabs her camera from the passenger seat and takes a few dozen photos. She turns up her music. Disruption is everything.