by Kristin Bair
Chapter Nineteen
Agatha steps off the pavement of the grocery store parking lot, shoves through a tangle of branches, and disappears into the copse of trees, thinking with every step about how Shrinky-Dink says she is different from other chickenshit people, how she, unlike other chickenshit people, unlike this imagined Gloria, unlike all Glorias, runs at the thing she’s most afraid of instead of cowering from it, runs at the thing with her Leatherman Super Tool 300 EOD glinting in the sun, blade drawn, mouth ripped wide with warrior cry. If it is true, and she’s not one hundred percent sure it is, what do you do with such a revelation?
It’s warm again, hot really, tank top hot, hiking sandal hot. Welcome to early October in New England. Hot, cold. Summer, winter. Hot, cold. Steaming, freezing. It’s a crapshoot.
Agatha is well prepared for this journey. Looking like some kind of adventure zealot determined to find the secret cave, the hidden grail, she’s sporting her brand-new “Fear Sharpens Us” tank, dark blue with white letters, her spy pants are well stocked, and her GoPro is firmly strapped to her head. Back home, she left a note on the kitchen table: “Braving the Krug to spy on the Interloper. If I don’t return, call Bear Grylls. He’s the only one who can save me.”
She grins at the idea of Bear’s helicopter hovering over the Krug, heat sensors pinpointing her location, and Bear, oh brave brave Bear, swinging down on a rope to save her from whatever escaped beast that New Hampshire cuckoodoodle released into the world, her world. Lion, gorilla, grizzly.
While most land in Wallingford has been overdeveloped so that as many people as possible can unpack their lives in their very own five-plus-bedroom McMansion, the Krug—a 5,000-square-acre splotch—was designated “protected forever” when the owner gifted it to the town decades before. Agatha has never spent time here; few have. It is wild and woolly, full of dark hidey-holes and ghostly glacial boulders. In some places, strange, fingerlike fronds hang from trees and scrape at your head as you pass beneath them. The hills are too steep for decent walking trails, and there are no playgrounds, skate parks, or splash pads. It isn’t a place where a mom takes her kids, unless she’s at her wits’ end and is kind-of-but-not-really hoping a bear will lunge from one of the hidden caves and devour her little miscreants. Agatha once made this joke on the Moms page and got her noggin gnawed off by the hoard of politically correct mothers who don’t believe in even joking about wanting to feed their children to bears. “What if it actually happens?” one Mom argued. To that Agatha had posted a picture of poor Basil being assaulted by bears in The Gashlycrumb Tinies. Edward Gorey knew the drill.
Trudging deeper and deeper into the forest, her steps as close to silent as a human can get on dry, crunchy leaves, Agatha realizes that the Krug would make an excellent setting for the murder in her proposed thriller. It is, after all, the most densely wooded area of Wallingford, the kind of forest in which a Mom-on-Mom crime could occur, the kind of forest in which a Mom could disappear without a trace.
Poof.
Right here at this junction, on this hill, in these woods, a story starts to take shape.
The only people who love the Krug are mountain bikers, and their narrow, rutted trails cross creeks, follow the most challenging swells, jump off crazy-high precipices, and take you up and over every boulder in the woods. The Interloper skirts most of the challenging choices, opting again and again for a work-around, but Agatha channels her inner Bear and follows the path almost religiously, even shimmying under a fallen tree on her belly instead of walking around it.
Just as they are making their way into the densest part of the Krug, Agatha turns on the live feed for the GoPro and streams it onto the Moms page. “Moms,” she shout-whispers when she is sure the Interloper is out of earshot, momentarily turning the camera’s eye on herself, “it’s Agatha Arch. I’m out here in the Krug following the Interloper, trying to figure out what the hell she’s up to.” Then she turns the camera’s eye to the Interloper, a hundred or so paces ahead.
A few minutes later, thirty-one Moms have commented on her feed. None is positive:
Esther Ma:
“Seriously, Agatha? Seriously?”
Sandra Snow:
“Don’t you have anything better to do?”
Linh Hong:
“I hope you get eaten by a bear.”
Rachel Runk:
“Agatha Arch, this is nuts. Leave that poor girl alone.”
Jane Poston:
“If anyone doubted that you’re completely out of your tree, that doubt is now completely gone.”
Coco Kitty:
“Marty Snow! Marty Snow! Block this feed immediately and throw Agatha Arch out of the group. Now!”
Kelly Prescott:
“Ooh, be careful, Agatha, if that girl’s a killer, she could be luring you to her trap right this very minute. You could be walking into a setup.”
That last one gets Agatha. It’s not that she hasn’t considered the possibility of a trap, but having Kelly Prescott point it out makes it all the more possible.
She pulls the Leatherman Super Tool 300 EOD from her pocket and stares at its jumble of tools.
She tugs one.
Ruler.
She tugs another.
Bottle opener.
Another.
Phillips screwdriver.
Another.
Electrical crimper. What the hell is that?
Another, and another, and another.
Needle-nose pliers, stranded-wire cutters, C4 punch.
Where the hell is the knife? If the Interloper turns on her, Agatha is going to need the knife.
Trying to focus on the positive, Agatha bows to Bear’s spirit in the woods. Both the Grylls variety and the furry variety that used to roam these very lands. She’s quieter than a grasshopper on a leaf. Quieter than an ant on a blade of grass.
As they climb higher, she closes in on the Interloper, narrowing the distance between them to twenty-five paces. “Are you watching?” she whispers to the Moms. “I’m getting closer.”
Minutes later, maybe a half mile into the woods, maybe ten miles into the woods, the Interloper stops next to a humongous tree with a trunk broader than a pickup truck. She reaches into a hole so big it could have housed three Hobbits and a Honda Pilot and pulls out a black bag. It is the kind of bag that murderers drag out from under beds in late-night cop shows, black and canvas, long enough to hold a body, or a weapon.
Convinced the Interloper is about to pull a gun, shoot a thousand bullets into her, and leave her dead in the woods where she won’t be found for at least six years when a wealthy developer finally bribes his way to developing this land, Agatha hurls herself to the ground with a terrific thud. So much for silence.
Although she can no longer see the Interloper, she hears her whip around and imagines she is staring down the hill at the place where Agatha now lay.
“Who’s there?” the Interloper calls. Agatha hasn’t heard her voice before, but it is very, very murder-y, just like she imagined.
Agatha flattens herself in the dirt. “Be Bear,” she whispers. “Be Bear.”
“Hey?” the Interloper calls.
While Agatha is pretty sure the Interloper can’t see her in the bed of prickly bushes she’s crashed into, the panicked rustle of branches and leaves and panting lets Agatha know she’s on high alert.
As Agatha waits for her to trust the silence and continue with her task, a creepy-crawly something wriggles into her pant leg and nibbles on her ankle. She has no idea if it is a snake or an ant or a chupacabra, but does it matter? It’s a thing nibbling on her ankle.
Nibble, nibble.
Nibble, nibble.
By the time the thing reaches her knee, she knows it isn’t a snake. No slithery wrap of a tail. No horrible hiss. No rattle. She’s also pretty sure it isn’t a chupacabra.
But what?
What?
A black widow spider? A tick? Some other human-eating bug making its way toward her jugu
lar?
Good god, here she is doing everything she can to protect the citizens of Wallingford. Here she is performing a civic duty. Here she is making sure this intruder is not out in the woods building bombs, stashing weapons, making meth, or hiding stolen children. Here she is, doing Good. Good with a capital G.
And this monster tries to eat her.
She lies there, wincing, trying to squelch her fear—“fear sharpens us, fear sharpens us, fear sharpens us”—but when the thing reaches the top of her thigh and continues north toward her cootchie, there is only one option. She wraps her hands around her head to protect the GoPro, pushes off with her elbows and feet, and starts rolling down the hill. As she picks up speed, rocks and roots rip open her skin and a long, pointy branch tears a gaping hole in her spy pants. When she slams to a halt against a boulder, she raises her head and sees the Interloper standing at the top of the hill next to her tree, craning her neck.
Agatha jumps up, reaches through the gaping hole in her britches, and pulls the humongous human-eating bug off her upper leg. Who knows what the hell it is, but while Agatha screams, the Interloper makes her escape, stomping over the hill like an angry boar and disappearing behind a curtain of dark fronds.
She is gone.
With her thigh wagging about, Agatha makes her way up the hill once again to the Interloper’s tree. The canvas bag is lying on the ground and Agatha ever so carefully unzips it, praying she isn’t about to set off a bomb and be blown to bits. Inside, she finds a bottle of water, a pen and notebook, and some food. No body. No bones. No weapons.
There must be another hiding place, but Agatha is too spent to look for it. She switches off the GoPro, turns, and heads for home. Half an hour later, when she plunges out of the woods, shaken, dirty, bloody, panting, and stinky, she sees Melody Whelan leaning against the bumper of her car, knitting. Melody looks up and shakes her head. “How could you, Agatha Arch?” she says, gesturing to Agatha’s gear and filth.
“How could I not?”
* * *
That night, she downloads the GoPro video feed of the Interloper to her computer, then uploads it to the cloud. Unable to resist, she shares a couple of screenshots on the Moms page. Recriminations fly like cannonballs:
Melody Whelan:
“Agatha Arch. Really? Doesn’t this young woman have it hard enough?”
Erin Abel:
“Where do you get all the money for this high-tech equipment? As far as I know, you haven’t sold a new book lately.”
Ouch.
Priya Devi:
“Marty? Can you delete Agatha’s post please? It is offensive and breaks the rule of posting offensive material to this page.”
Agatha Arch:
“What is offensive about this? No one is naked. No one is having sex. I’m not inciting violence. I’m not advocating for an overthrow of the Wallingford government. I’ve simply posted photos of an outsider who is doing suspicious things in our forest.”
Grainne O’Neill:
“You are infringing on this young woman’s privacy. That is offensive. None of these photos show anything suspicious. All I see is a sad, lost girl. That should be private. You of all people should recognize this.”
Bridget Weller:
“Don’t you have anything else to do in your life than follow people who do not want to be followed?”
Agatha Arch:
“Nope. I’ve got all the time in the world right now, thanks to my husband. On some nights, no meals to cook or kids to care for. All the time in the world.”
There is a pause in the posts here. In a different moment, Agatha might have picked up on the fact that at least a few of the Moms are feeling for her. She might have recognized the possibility of that zephyr of friends she secretly longs for. A genesis. But it is not a different moment, it is this moment, and Agatha charges like a gladiator at the enemy, sword drawn. Thirty minutes later, Marty Snow pulls her post.
* * *
“You followed the young woman into the Krug?”
“I did.”
Shrinky-Dink stares so hard at Agatha that she knows she’s supposed to be deducing something profound. “What?”
“You do see how fear motivates you, right?”
“Motivates me?”
“To act, not hide.”
“This again?”
“Yes, this again. It’s important.”
“I followed the Interloper into the Krug. Big deal. Someone has to keep an eye on her.”
“But you, Agatha Arch, are terrified of the woods, the dark, strangers, getting lost, too many trees over your head.”
Agatha had forgotten about the too-many-trees-over-her-head fear. “So?”
“You went into the Krug anyway.”
“So?”
“You are not the chickenshit you profess to be. You are a warrior. A fierce warrior.”
Agatha pulls Bear from her purse and sets him on the table between them. “You hear that Bear? I’m a fierce warrior.” She flicks his head but because of the accident and the duct tape neck brace, it doesn’t bobble as it should, just wags back and forth the slightest bit.
Shrinky-Dink smiles. “Hi, Bear. Good to see you again.”
Agatha preens. She loves when Shrinky-Dink plays along. It makes her seem more human. More like the rest of them.
“What happened to him?” Shrinky-Dink says. She reaches out and touches his neck.
“Accident.”
Shrinky-Dink fingers the deep bite mark in his boot. “And this?”
“A moment of weakness.”
The chime chimes.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, are you eating?”
“Eating?”
“Yes, eating. Meals, snacks, you know, eating. You look a little skinny.”
“It’s not easy to eat without the boys around. I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Try.”
“Okay.”
“Are you writing?”
Agatha drops Bear back into her purse and snaps it shut. “Scribbling in my journal. Playing with a few things.”
“Have you gone up to your office yet?”
“No.”
“So no deep writing?”
“No deep writing.”
“No thriller?”
“Not yet, though I do have the beginning of an idea.”
* * *
Later that day Agatha stands on the third step of the back staircase and looks up. The red door actually stings her eyes. She thinks about her favorite Shirley Jackson quote: “As long as you write it away regularly, nothing can really hurt you.” This had always worked for her. Get hurt. Write your way through it. Death. Heartache. General malaise. Politics. First-world problems. Arguments with store clerks. Highway stress. Fears. Kid problems. Write and you shall be free. Write and the most unmanageable becomes manageable. She knows she should write about Dax and GDOG and the shed and the tree and the dolls and the hair. She knows she should climb those stairs and face the page. “Go up,” she says, but good gracious, she just can’t.
The desk.
The desk.
The desk.
* * *
Then a letter arrives. From her agent.
A handwritten letter.
It seems impossible in modern-day society that anyone, especially her agent, would take time to write and mail a letter. But there it is, a bright white envelope lying on the weedy black mulch under Agatha’s mailbox, a bold handwritten address on the front.
What kind of madness is this? Is her agent retiring? Is she going to dump Agatha? Break up with her? Good god, there is no way she could take that rejection right now. One shattered relationship is enough.
Agatha carries the letter into the sunroom, then digs Dax’s beloved mail opener from a drawer. She slices open the envelope and takes out the letter: bright white paper with loopy cursive words running up hill.
No sign of an assistant’s help on this. And the voice? The voice is all agent, and it feels as if sh
e is standing right there in the room, an intense but loving look on her face. Agatha remembers their first meeting in New York City after her agent had read and adored her first novel. She’d hugged her, then pulled her into a full face-to-face grip. “I want it,” she’d said. “And every book after.”
The letter reads:
Heelllllooooo? Heellllloooo, Agatha?
You still there? Listen I know you’re up against something big. Maybe in life? Maybe in the writing? Whatever it is, I’m here. Waiting for the next installment. Take your time. I’m looking forward.
* * *
Tap tap tippity-tap.
Chapter Twenty
Agatha fidgets under the heat lamp and listens to the gaggle of women gobble on about this, that, and the other thing:
“Have fun tonight.”
“Are you excited about the wedding?”
“My fifth,” hands on swollen belly. “Gender reveal party tonight.”
“Pink at the Garden. We have amazing seats.”
“Adele has a new album coming out?”
“I need my autumn colors.”
“Yes, a mimosa, please. Skip the orange juice.”
“A rainbow, please. I want to look like a unicorn on ecstasy.”
So much gets shared at Salon Brava, private things, announcements, secrets, complaints, pleas, and decrees. While a handful of men dare to venture in—the brave, the desperate, the clueless—it’s mostly women in tinfoil folds, plastic caps, eyebrow dye, lash serum, and various other states of disarray. Delighted to be out of the public’s gaze while they primp and pluck and gussy up, the women get peeled, massaged, threaded, blinged, volumized, moisturized, and more, moaning happily, breathing, dropping the façade.
“Perhaps a facial?” Calliope asks, pointing at but not touching the crease on Agatha’s cheek. “And a manicure, for sure.” She grimaces while delicately fingering the tender scars that decorate Agatha’s hands.
