by John Rector
It was unsettling.
There was a smaller store in Ashland, eleven miles north, and for a while Megan had driven there to shop. But they didn’t carry much, and the people running the store didn’t seem to want her there. They were always polite, always helpful, but she could see the way they looked at her when she came in, and how they watched her when they thought she wasn’t paying attention.
Megan tried not to let it bother her.
She understood that Ashland was a small town, and that she was an outsider, but after a while she grew tired of the stares and the whispers, and eventually she quit going.
That left the market in the plaza.
Once inside, she paced the aisles with the other shoppers, all of them quietly pushing metal carts along polished floors while familiar melodies floated softly in the air overhead. And always, whenever two shoppers passed each other, they would smile and nod, and keep moving.
Megan didn’t get it.
When someone passed her in the aisles, she kept her head down and did her best to avoid eye contact.
That seemed easier.
Once she’d found all the items on her list, she made her way to the checkout lanes at the front of the store. The clerk working the register looked like a grad student, attractive in a sullen sort of way, with green eyes and impeccably tousled dark hair.
Megan smiled and handed him a canvas bag.
The clerk stared at it for a moment, and when he finally took the bag, he held it in front of him like it was something dirty.
“I take it you don’t see many of those?”
“My first.”
Megan held up three fingers. “Always be prepared.”
The clerk tilted his head, slightly, like a puppy.
“Boy Scout salute?” She paused. “Forget it.”
He did.
Megan kept quiet as he rang up the steaks and the peppers and the Jell-O. He stopped when he reached the wine, turning the bottle over and reading the label.
“Have you tried that one?” she asked. “I thought it looked good, but who can tell?”
The clerk shook his head.
“My husband and I are celebrating tonight,” she said. “We’re taking a trip at the end of the month.”
She waited for him to respond, but he just slipped the wine into a brown paper sack and set it in the canvas bag. Then he reached for the marshmallows.
“Chicago.”
He glanced up.
“It’s where we’re from,” Megan said. “Where I’m from, at least. My husband is from Texas, if you can imagine.”
The clerk tapped a button on the register and gave her a price. She paid and watched as he tore the receipt away and handed it to her along with the now-heavy canvas bag.
He smiled. “Come again, ma’am.”
Megan’s throat tightened.
She started to say something, but instead she shouldered her purse, shifted the bag from one hand to the other, and headed for the door.
She didn’t look back.
It was the first time anyone had called her ma’am and meant it. She tried telling herself that it didn’t matter, but she knew, on some level, it kind of did.
The trip home took longer with the groceries in tow. Part of her regretted not driving, but it was a small part. The day was warm and soft, and as she walked, she could see the Institute at the top of the ridge, the long stretch of buildings bookended by two glass towers rising tall and black against the clear blue sky.
The main building, Tyler’s building, was three stories, and fronted by black glass that reflected the sunlight. Tyler had told her once that they could see the entire neighborhood from behind those windows, stretching all the way to the horizon, and that from up there, Willow Ridge looked fake, like a model of a real neighborhood.
Megan tried to imagine that as she walked.
And she thought about Tyler.
She wondered if he was up there now, standing behind those black windows, looking down on this fake model neighborhood, and seeing her.
She liked to think he was.
As she turned the corner onto her street, Megan saw a white Cadillac parked in Rachel Addison’s driveway. Rachel was out front, standing next to the car with her arms folded across her chest. Her husband was with her, bent over, digging through the open trunk.
Rachel was saying something to him, and even though she was too far away to hear the exact words, Megan could hear the sharp tone of her voice as she spoke.
Mr. Addison stood back and slammed the trunk shut. Then he leaned forward, his hands braced on the car, his head low.
Rachel’s voice was shrill, unrelenting.
Megan kept her head down and moved fast, hoping they wouldn’t notice her, but it didn’t work. Mr. Addison saw her, and the expression on his face changed, turned bright. He straightened and lifted one hand into the air.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Stokes.”
Rachel stopped talking, turned, glared at her.
Megan nodded back, silent.
As she passed, she noticed a slow smirk slide across Rachel’s lips, and for an instant, something primal flashed deep inside her.
She’s laughing at me.
Megan felt a sudden, violent rush of anger. It was so strong that for a moment she had to fight the urge to drop her bags and run across the street with her fists clenched.
Then she thought of Tyler, and the urge faded.
She kept walking.
When she got home, she locked the door behind her and carried the groceries into the kitchen. She set the bags on the counter and closed her eyes.
The anger was still there, simmering just under the surface.
She reminded herself that in a few weeks she’d be back home in Chicago, far away from Rachel Addison and the endless, soul-killing monotony of Willow Ridge.
It took a while, but eventually it helped.
3
It was almost six o’clock.
The table was set, the candles were lit, and the grill on the stove was hot. The steaks were seasoned and ready to go, and Megan had just started to cut the peppers when the phone rang.
“Hey, Megs.”
Tyler’s voice had a tired tone to it, and Megan could tell right away that something was wrong. She wiped the blade of the knife clean with a dish towel and slid it back into the block beside the stove. Then she leaned against the counter and waited.
“It looks like I’m going to be here for a while,” Tyler said. “I’m really sorry.”
“What happened?”
“There’s a problem in the lab. It’s a long story, but they asked me to stick around.”
“What kind of problem?”
“You want the details?”
“No, I guess not.” She reached out and turned the heat down on the grill. “It’s just disappointing. I had a surprise waiting for you.”
“Don’t remind me. It’s been on my mind all day.”
Megan smiled. “Not that surprise.”
“Really? Now I’m intrigued.”
“I made dinner tonight.”
Tyler paused. “You cooked?”
“That’s right.”
“Like an actual meal?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” she said. “I’ve got candles on the table and a bottle of wine ready to go, too.”
“Save the wine until I get home. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”
“That bad?”
Tyler started to explain, but he stopped himself. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I ruined your surprise.”
“I’ll keep everything warm for you.”
He made a soft sound. “Everything?”
The hint in his voice was more than obvious, and Megan smiled. “Why not? It’s a special occasion, after all.”
“Yeah? What’s the occasion?”
“Our trip,” she said. “I know, it’s dumb, but I want to celebrate. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
Tyler was quiet.
The silence dragged on for too long, and a cold spot formed in the pit of her stomach.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Tyler said. “Let me wrap up here, and I’ll head home as soon as I can, okay?”
The tone of his voice had changed, and Megan didn’t like it. All at once her legs felt heavy. She pulled a chair away from the table and sat down.
“What happened?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
She let the silence hang between them, and she closed her eyes.
“We’re not going are we?”
“I never said that.”
“You told me that weekend would work—” Her voice cracked. “You said you could take the time off.”
“Can we talk when I get home?” he asked. “I can explain everything then.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened.” Tyler’s voice was barely above a whisper. “They changed the schedule, and now they need me here that weekend. I don’t know what it’s about, and they didn’t go into specifics.”
“But your office? They’re moving your office.”
“Apparently that doesn’t matter.”
Megan wanted to say something else, but she didn’t know what, and she was afraid if she opened her mouth she would start to cry. So instead, she grabbed the wine bottle off the table and reached for the corkscrew.
“We’ll talk when I get home,” Tyler said. “I’m not in the most private place right now.”
Megan pulled the cork on the bottle, then picked up one of the wineglasses and filled it.
“Megan?”
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll talk when you get home.”
Tyler hesitated. “This doesn’t mean we can’t go at all. We’ll have other chances.”
She lifted the wineglass and took a long drink, feeling it burn all the way down.
“Are you there?”
“I’ll see you when you get home,” she said. “I need to finish cooking dinner.”
“Okay.” He paused. “Megs, I’m really sorry.”
Megan hung up and dropped the phone on the table.
She stayed there for a long time, emptying and refilling her wineglass while the relentless pulse of the grandfather clock ticked softly away in the next room.
She burned the steaks, but it didn’t matter.
After finishing the first bottle of wine, Megan pulled the cork on the second. She started to refill her glass, but then she changed her mind. The air in the house was thick with smoke and the smell of burnt meat. She could taste it in the back of her throat, making it hard to breathe, so she got up and grabbed the bottle and carried it outside and sat on the porch steps.
The neighborhood was quiet.
The evening sun was leaning toward the west, and the moon was rising in the blue east. It hung there, weightless and thin, a pale sliver in a slowly darkening sky.
She lifted the bottle to her lips and drank.
“Good evening, Mrs. Stokes.”
Megan glanced over at the house next door and saw Edna Davidson standing in her front yard. She had one end of a rope leash in her hand, and she was struggling to wrap a yellow chiffon scarf over her hair. At the other end of the leash was the oldest brown poodle Megan had ever seen.
His name was Mr. Jitters.
“Hi, Mrs. Davidson,” Megan said. “Off for a walk?”
“Hope to be,” she said, still struggling with the scarf. “If I can get myself situated.”
“Would you like some help?”
“Oh, I think I can manage.”
Megan took another drink and watched the battle.
Once Mrs. Davidson had the scarf in place, she bent down and whispered something to Mr. Jitters. Then she looked up at Megan and smiled. “You have a good night.”
Megan held up the bottle. “I plan to.”
Mrs. Davidson’s smile faded. She turned back to Mr. Jitters, lying on the grass. “Come on, time to go.”
Mr. Jitters didn’t move, so she pulled him along, gently at first, then harder. The dog whined as she dragged him across the grass toward the sidewalk, but eventually he gave in. The gears clicked into place, and his small legs moved in a quick brown blur beneath him.
Megan watched them go. Then she set the bottle on the steps between her feet and leaned back, resting her weight on her hands. Soon, she thought, the sun will go down, and the lights along the street will come on. The windows in the houses will glow bright, and the entire neighborhood will burn into evening.
It was the same thing every single night.
She thought about that for a while, trying to picture what her life in Willow Ridge would be like five years down the road, ten years, twenty years.
For all she knew, she would be living in Willow Ridge for the rest of her life. Sure, it was possible they’d move back to Chicago someday, but what if they didn’t?
What if this was their last stop?
In a few decades, she could be the one wearing a chiffon scarf over her hair and dragging a half-dead dog along the sidewalk.
The mental image made her laugh, and she reached for the bottle and took a drink. She’d long since stopped tasting the wine, and she knew from experience that that wasn’t a good sign, but she didn’t care.
Tonight she was taking a break from caring.
Megan started to take another drink, but then she heard laughter to her right and lowered the bottle. Mrs. Davidson was standing on the corner across the street. She was talking to Rachel Addison while Mr. Jitters sniffed at the grass by her feet. From where Megan sat, it looked like Rachel was doing all the talking.
Once again, she got a flash of her future.
She saw herself, fifteen years on, living in the same gray house with a husband she rarely saw, surrounded by unchallenging people in a cookie-cutter neighborhood. Maybe she’d be less like Edna Davidson with old Mr. Jitters, and more like Rachel Addison, growing rainbows of roses in her garden, and desperately trying to seduce other women’s husbands.
In a few years, maybe she’d be the neighborhood whore.
This time, Megan didn’t laugh.
Down the street, she watched Rachel whisper something to Mrs. Davidson, then reach out and touch her arm before throwing her head back, cackling at the sky.
Megan heard the sound in her bones.
When the conversation ended, Mrs. Davidson continued down the sidewalk, dragging Mr. Jitters behind her. Megan watched until she turned the corner.
Then she looked back at Rachel.
She was standing at the edge of her yard, stacking planter pots, one inside the other. When she finished, she picked them up and carried them around to the far side of her garage.
Megan lifted the bottle and drank, grinding her teeth.
When Rachel didn’t come back outside, Megan stood and corked the bottle. She left it sitting on the porch steps as she crossed the yard and walked into the street.
Behind her, the setting sun burned red and the evening shadows stretched long and dark toward Rachel’s house.
Megan didn’t know what she was going to say to her when she saw her, but she didn’t think it mattered.
She knew how the conversation would go.
4
There were two ceramic turtles on the porch, one on either side of the door. Their shells were polished, dark and smooth, and painted a deep green. Megan stared at them for a moment, then wiped the bottom of her shoe on one before reaching out and ringing the doorbell.
No one answered.
She glanced over her shoulder at her house, and for the first time she wondered if she was making the right decision. The answer seemed obvious, but she rang the doorbell again anyway.
This time when no one answered, she reached out and knocked. Then she heard a voice coming from far off to her right.
“I’m in the garage.”
Megan turned from the door and started down the steps. Her foot missed the last one, and she stumbled fo
rward. For a second, she thought she was going to fall face-first into the grass, but she caught herself before she went down. She straightened up and looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but the streets were quiet.
She was alone.
Megan’s heart was beating hard, and she could taste the peppery combination of warm wine and stomach acid in the back of her throat. She tried to swallow it away, but it didn’t help.
She took a deep breath, then followed the path around the house to the garage. The large overhead door was closed, but the side door was partly open, and a pale fluorescent light leaked out onto a thin cement path and a line of square hedges.
There was movement inside the garage, and when Megan stepped through the door she saw Rachel Addison in her gold sundress, standing on a wooden ladder next to a long metal workbench. She was stacking red clay pots on the top of a tall row of shelves that ran along the back wall from one end of the garage to the other. The shelf to Megan’s right was lined with ceramic lawn gnomes and several coiled garden hoses.
Everything was perfectly organized.
Rachel had her back to the door, and when she didn’t turn, Megan coughed, loud.
Rachel jumped at the sound, and the ladder wobbled under her. She reached out and grabbed the shelves for balance. One of the clay pots slipped out of her hand and fell, shattering on the cement floor.
Rachel looked back at Megan, standing in the doorway.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
Megan started to apologize, more out of habit than actual regret, but then she remembered why she was there, and she didn’t say a word.
Rachel climbed down the ladder and stood over the broken pot, frowning.
“These aren’t cheap, you know.”
When Megan didn’t say anything, Rachel shook her head then bent down and began picking up the bigger shards and dropping them into a metal bin. She took a plastic dustpan and hand broom from one of the shelves under the workbench and swept the smaller pieces into a pile.
Megan watched her work, ignoring the sour taste of wine in her throat and the way the room gently swayed around her.
