Agatha Arch is Afraid of Everything

by Kristin Bair

  Much like Homer’s muse, this Calliope is beautiful, though Agatha doubts she has the know-how to turn men into beasts. Too young, too sweet.

  “My god, what happened to you?” Calliope says, and, when she does, fifteen sets of eyes snap in their direction, all the eyes that had been pretending not to see Agatha, not to register her presence.

  “Nothing,” Agatha says, tucking her hands under the cape. “No manicure. Just my hair today.” Then, ignoring the jab of eyes and swelling tsunami of whispers, she taps into the Moms group on her phone and gets caught up in Stella Bender’s request for recommendations on where to buy a desk lamp. Agatha’s heart seizes. A desk lamp? Who needs recommendations for where to buy a desk lamp? Walk into almost any store and you’ll find desk lamps for sale. Who would need help with this simple decision? It’s like asking for recommendations about where to buy bananas. Or toilet paper.

  Yet welcome to twenty-first-century America. Agatha pounces.

  Agatha Arch:

  “Seriously, Stella? You need a recommendation for a place to buy a desk lamp? A desk lamp? Your inbox is not like every other inbox in this world? It is not inundated with emails from Pottery Barn, Crate & Barrel, and Wayfair.com? You have not passed the HomeGoods store one million times on your way to the YMCA? You never sneak away from your kid’s soccer game to pop into Marshall’s? You haven’t heard of Macy’s or Ethan Allen? How about IKEA? Have you heard of IKEA? IKEA has 45 million desk lamps to choose from. Forty-five million! It would be a perfect place to buy a desk lamp.

  “How about Home Depot? Or Lowe’s? Either of those ring a bell? Maybe you’re familiar with Staples or Office Depot? They are both office-y stores that sell desk lamps by the dozens. In fact, dear Stella, every single one of these stores sells desk lamps! And because of this, there is absolutely no reason that you need the collective advice of nearly 3,000 Moms to make this decision.

  “I encourage you, Stella, to set off on this mysterious adventure alone and see what happens. Be brave, sister! Go forth! This is your chance to see what wares you come up with ALL BY YOURSELF.

  “And when you finally get to the point where you have to make a final decision between two equally useful and almost identical desk lamps, I warn you, DO NOT POST PHOTOS OF BOTH TO THIS PAGE AND ASK, ‘WHICH ONE SHOULD I BUY?’ Believe me, sister, both lamps will give light, both will sit on a desk, and, I assure you, dear Stella, your college-bound daughter will not give a shit.

  “Good luck and happy shopping.”

  Agatha hits post as her heat lamp buzzes. Calliope lifts the lamp, then peels the cap from her head. Agatha stands, rustling in the plastic cape, and sees most of the women in the salon eyeballing her. Damn Moms.

  “Stella just needed a boost, Agatha. Some camaraderie,” the unicorn pips. She’s in the purple stage of layering. It’s quite profound, though Agatha doesn’t say so. “You’ll understand when your kids are getting ready to leave the nest for college. You didn’t need to slay her.”

  “Someone did,” Agatha says. “It’s a lamp, Bernice. A desk lamp.” She lies down on the reclining chair to have her hair washed.

  “Nothing is just a lamp,” Calliope says, upping the temperature of the water, knowing Agatha likes it hot, not warm, not extra warm, but hot. Remembering that and offering up spritely but powerful statements about life are the only reasons Agatha returns to Calliope’s chair, because, honestly, she’s a terrible hairdresser, a bloody awful one who always cuts the left side of Agatha’s hair shorter than the right or colors the top darker than the bottom or scrapes her forehead with one of her dagger-like fingernails. Agatha has considered changing stylists or salons but the gems that bubble from this young woman’s mouth keep her coming back.

  Nothing is just a lamp, which, for no reason and all the reasons, makes Agatha think about Dax and GDOG and the shed and the dogs going up the hill and down the hill for months, years, before that day.

  * * *

  “Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision.” Winston Churchill

  It’s on a sign at the post office.

  “Is the post office allowed to hang such offensive signs?” Agatha asks. She needs stamps, the flower kind, not the flags. She isn’t into the nationalism of flag stamps, the ones that yell, “I am an American. Look at my flag.” Plus, even though she will never admit this to Kerry Sheridan, she really likes flowers. Hydrangeas are her favorite, the pale blue blooms especially so, but almost any flower pleases her. “Isn’t there a law about signs like that?”

  The postal clerk in the black beret turns and looks at the sign. He mouths the words as he reads it. “What is offensive about that? Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

  “That statement makes it seem as if a human can just decide not to be afraid of something.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s not true. You can’t just decide not to be afraid.”

  “Who says?”

  “I say.”

  The man in line behind Agatha clears his throat. He’s slumping under the weight of three large boxes.

  The postal clerk shakes his head. “Why can’t you just decide not to be afraid?”

  “Fear is fear. It’s not easy to kick it out of your life.”

  “Churchill didn’t say anything about courage being easy. He just said it’s a decision.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Listen, if you don’t like the sign, don’t look at it.”

  “There should be a law about signs in government offices.”

  The clerk’s eyes move to the picture of Bear Grylls on Agatha’s T-shirt. “Pretty sure he’d like the sign.” He gestures at Bear with his thumb as he looks for flower stamps in the stack. “He’s not afraid of anything.”

  Agatha shrugs. “Leave Bear out of this.”

  “I’m just saying it’s probably not cool for you to flaunt a Bear Grylls shirt and then complain about a sign like that.” He hands her a pack of flag stamps. “We’re out of flower stamps. Sorry.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Agatha doesn’t believe him, but pays and turns to go. “I’m going to write to someone about that sign.” She lifts her phone and snaps a picture.

  “You do that,” says the clerk, and he turns to the man behind her.

  * * *

  Just after posting a photo of the Winston Churchill quote on Infidelity: A Still Life, Agatha hears the TreeLife truck pull into the driveway.

  The bearded guy knocks. “Good morning. We’re here to trim the oak, as promised. Can you please move your car to the street? We don’t want to damage anything.”

  Agatha picks up her keys and heads outside, only to find three more densely bearded men in the driveway. She can’t tell one from the other. By the time her car is well out of the way, the cherry picker and the chipper have arrived. More bearded men emerge from the vehicles. She’s sure she’s in some kind of comedy skit about beards, but no one laughs when she says so. They’re very serious about their facial hair.

  Back in the house, her IG followers hug her in the best virtual way:

  “Bullshit.”

  “Clearly Churchill was never cheated on.”

  “Burn the sign!”

  “Bullshit!”

  And so many .

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Agatha! Agatha Arch! Come out here this instant!”

  Agatha peeks out the window though she doesn’t have to. She’d know that squeaky squawk anywhere. It’s Kerry Sheridan, and she’s hopping mad.

  Kerry knocks. “I’m not going away. Better open this door.”

  Agatha opens the door. “What is it, Kerry?”

  “Thomas, my sweet Thomas, has poison ivy! Look at him!” She pulls her sweet Thomas into view and spins him around and around. “It’s all over his hands and arms. His face.” She cups his chin and lifts. “It’s everywhere.”

  Agatha clears her throat. It is everywhere. Poor sweet Thomas looks like a sunburned puffer fish. “Oh, t
hat’s terrible,” Agatha says. She means it. “And?”

  “And it’s your fault, Agatha. This, this, this …” Kerry waves her arms at the mess of weeds and grass that used to be the yard surrounding the shed. “This atrocity.”

  Back to that word.

  “How is this my fault?” Agatha says.

  “You know very well that this atrocity is full of poison ivy. Thomas lost his lucky baseball in there two days ago and went in after it, even though I told him not to. ‘You are not allowed in that mess of weeds, Thomas,’ I told him. But did he listen? Does he ever listen?” She looks from Thomas to Agatha and waits.

  “No?” Agatha says.

  “No, he did not. You know very well he did not listen. My boys listen no better than your boys. They do exactly what they want when they want. Thomas dug around in that mess until he found that ball. He came home itchy and red. Now he’s on steroids. Steroids, Agatha! He’s allergic to poison ivy.”

  Thomas moans. His face is an over-boiled beet. One eye is swollen shut; one arm is in a sling. “Oh, Thomas,” Agatha says. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Arch. It’s not your fault.”

  Kerry bristles. “Not her fault? Thomas, this is most certainly Mrs. Arch’s fault.”

  Thomas moans again. “Mom, can I go home now?” he says.

  “Yes, go on. I’ll be there in a minute.” Kerry waves at Thomas. “See, Agatha? See?”

  “I’m sorry Thomas is hurting, Kerry. Truly I am. But you can’t know that it was poison ivy in my yard that did this.”

  “I can’t? Really, I can’t?”

  “No, he could have gotten it anywhere.”

  “Where, Agatha? He’s been at school and home and in your … your … wilderness.”

  “Maybe there’s some in the field at school.”

  “There’s not.”

  “You know this?”

  “I know this. If there was, every boy in fifth grade would have poison ivy. They don’t.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “I know this for a fact. I called the school nurse.”

  Agatha looks at the remains of the shed. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Kerry.”

  “I want you to clean it up, Agatha. It’s simple. Please. Just clean it up.” She turns and storms off down the steps.

  * * *

  Tap tap tippity-tap.

  * * *

  Rachel Runk :

  “Ladies, I just saw Balderdash on the corner of West and Grayson streets! I’m in my car. Can’t stop. Too much traffic. Someone get there. Who’s close? Quick! Call Willow Bean!”

  Melody Whelan:

  “On my way! I’m just down the street.”

  Jane Poston:

  “I’ll call Willow.”

  Of course you will, Agatha thinks, then turns on her blinker to head for Grayson. Like Melody, she’s close. Just three intersections away. Two right turns, one left. Physically, a hop, a skip, and a jump.

  Emotionally, she might as well be on Neptune.

  While heading to Grayson will mean helping Balderdash get home to sweet, old, hanging-on-for-dear-life Gem Lily, it will also mean meeting face to face with GDOG for the first time since the shed incident, a personal sacrifice for which Agatha doesn’t feel the least bit prepared.

  “Leap into a volcano spewing hot lava in order to save the world?” she says to Bear. “Or jump into a waiting helicopter to save myself?”

  Save the world? Save myself?

  “C’mon, Agatha,” he says. “It’s time to save the world.” Oh, that accent.

  “Bastard,” she says. “I knew you’d say that.” As she pulls into a spot on West, she swears she hears Shrinky-Dink cheering from the shrinks’ section of life. “Oh, for Big Papi’s sake, all of you!” She jumps out, bumps both swollen elbows, hollers in pain, then whips her head around, looking for the damn pooch in every direction at the same time.

  Nothing. Nothing but a steaming pile of dog poop right smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk with GDOG and her gorgeous grapefruit hips leaning over it. Willow glances up. “Agatha,” she says. “You came to help.”

  “I came to help Balderdash. And Gem Lily.”

  GDOG straightens. “I get that, but you’re here, and I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “Why?” Agatha looks at everything but GDOG. The sky, the blue Prius, the stop sign, the steaming pile of poop.

  “I’ve been wanting to apologize for how things happened the day of the shed incident. We’re both women, members of the sisterhood …”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. The sisterhood? What sisterhood? The one in which the sisters steal one another’s husbands? That sisterhood? Agatha wants nothing to do with it. “Willow, this isn’t the time.”

  “No, no, it’s not, is it? We have to move fast to find Balderdash, but please know that I’m sorry and I’d like to talk.”

  Thankfully, Melody appears beside them. She points at the pile, cheeks shining. “Is this Balderdash’s?”

  “It is,” GDOG says. Her voice is breathy and excited. “I’d know his BM anywhere.” She squats and holds her hand just inches above the pile. “It’s still warm. He can’t be far.”

  Agatha wonders how Dax, the man who refused to get a dog because he didn’t want to pick up dog poop, the man who insisted he got nauseated just talking about dog poop and therefore could never ever have a dog, how he would feel if he saw his lover holding her hand just inches above a stray pile of the stinking stuff. She hums Huey Lewis’s “The Power of Love,” then says, “Really? Seriously, Willow? You can tell Balderdash’s poop from any other dog’s?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “No time for debate now,” GDOG yells. “Divide and conquer!” She pushes off and heads down an alleyway between two houses. “Go!”

  For the next ten minutes, Agatha, GDOG, and Melody run between houses and behind sheds. GDOG stops traffic with her hips and lies down on the street to look under cars. “He loves shady spots!” she hollers.

  Agatha dives under a thicket of bushes, banging the shit out of her bruised knee. He’s not there.

  When they’ve covered every inch of the West/Grayson intersection, they meet again at the pile of poop.

  “He’s gone,” GDOG says. She sniffles. Tears well in her eyes. She snaps a photo of the poop with her phone and uploads it to the Moms group. “This is Balderdash’s,” she writes. “If you happen upon another pile, let me know asap.” Then she pulls a plastic bag from her pocket and scoops the poop. The consummate dog walker.

  “Don’t lose heart, Willow. Balderdash was here and he’s still alive,” Melody says. “We’ll get him home.”

  GDOG nods. “Thanks for helping me, Melody.” She looks at Agatha. “Thank you, too.”

  “I was close. That’s all.”

  “Still.”

  Agatha’s phone buzzes. Anti-canine-fecal-matter activist Winky Moran is upset about Balderdash’s pile of steaming poop. “I sure hope you’re cleaning up that mess before heading off on your merry way, Ms. Bean,” she writes.

  “Of course,” GDOG writes.

  This is not Winky’s first such rant, nor will it be her last. She’s a big believer in what she calls “home pooping” for dogs, a philosophy that insists dogs poop only on their home lawns in order to save civilization. Most, even Agatha, have learned to tune her out, but David Watkins has a special knack for egging her on.

  David Watkins:

  “People, do not be alarmed, but just hours ago I watched a rabbit poop on my lawn! This hopping beast did not pick up its own poop, nor did it have a human attached to it. Advice before my lawn dies, my family perishes, and our entire street is wiped out?”

  Sandra Locke:

  “Last night there were seven deer in my yard. Seven! ALL OF THEM POOPED! Save us!”

  Candace Smith:

  “And what of the grasshopper in my garden this morning? Its imperceptible poop must be m
ore lethal than any of us can comprehend.”

  This rather formal Brit wins the prize. Grasshopper poop.

  Winky Moran:

  “You’ll all be sorry.”

  “I need to call Gem Lily,” GDOG says to Agatha and Melody. “She’s going to be devastated. Again.”

  Agatha turns to walk to her car.

  “Hey, Agatha,” Melody calls. “Ready for that lunch yet?”

  Agatha pretends not to hear.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Agatha shields her eyes from the blinding sunlight in the Krug, a reminder that all too soon fall will smash to its magnificent end and another horrid New England winter will begin. Leaf peepers around the world wax poetic about autumn in New England but anyone who lives in the thick of it knows that old-fashioned autumn is a thing of the past. A pre–global warming delight. In a good year, autumn—the beautiful bright-blue-skied brilliant-yellow-and-orange-leaved autumn that makes those peepers ooh and aah—now lasts no more than a couple of weeks. “It’s so brief, it doesn’t even deserve to be called autumn anymore,” Agatha once told Dax. “It ought to be aut.”

  Dax had laughed and laughed. He used to do that all the time at things said, laugh and laugh.

  Winter haunts Agatha. All those people skating around on frozen ponds and lakes, daring Mother Nature to melt a single spot under the bustle of berry bushes so they all plunge to their frigid deaths. But with Dax gone and the boys now a part-time gig, the thought of a dark freezing winter terrifies her even more. It’s not the heavy hauling tasks that scare her. She’s more than capable of moving patio furniture to the basement and she builds a much better fire than Dax ever could. She can salt walkways and call the plow guy. But how will her feet stay warm in bed without Dax to tuck them under? Who’s going to drink Earl Grey with her after the boys are asleep? Who will investigate when she hears a mouse, an annual visitor in a house as old as theirs?