All the Broken People

by Leah Konen

  I heard a crash, and jumped. Next to me, Dusty had pulled his leash from where I’d tossed it on the nightstand, and the metal hook had clanged against the hardwood floor. I inhaled deeply and knelt to scratch behind his ears. The warmth of his skin, the cotton-softness of his fur, calmed my pulse, my breaths coming slower—then my eyes landed on the floorboards, lit by the sun.

  Quickly, I pushed the bed aside. The floorboard in question was propped up ever so slightly, as if it had been opened. I racked my brain. Had I, after a whiskey or three, lifted it to check? No. I would remember something like that. Had Dusty crawled underneath and scratched around, like he always used to do in Brooklyn? Most likely. Still, I checked the contents anyway, pulling everything out, running through my list again. All there. My stomach flip-flopped, but this time not from anything I’d had to drink.

  I re-hammered the floorboard, repositioned the bed, and quickly searched the cottage. No sign of anyone here but me.

  It wasn’t possible, I reassured myself as we headed out for our walk, and I locked the door behind us, checking several times to be sure. This time, I’d made damn sure he couldn’t find me.

  After all, I’d learned a lot in the last few months.

  This wasn’t going to be like before.

  * * *

  • • •

  Light dappled the side of the road, and a breeze wove through the uneven grass of the meadow. Dusty hopped along, equally intrigued by the lack of dogs and the abundance of green. No park in Brooklyn could compare to the Walden-esque utopia before us.

  We walked slowly, Dusty wanting to pee on every stick and flower, the harsh light of day making it all feel more real. Made-for-TV movies flashed to mind, the ones I used to watch in the musty basement with my mom. The heroine’s escape from the bad guy was the climax, the triumph. You didn’t see this part, when she didn’t know how to begin again, when she wondered if Thoreau got bored, alone in the woods.

  We reached the farmhouse, the picturesque Mercedes parked next to a pickup spattered with mud. Up close, it looked as idyllic as it had yesterday, though it needed a good bit of work. A window was cracked, and the exterior begged for a fresh coat of paint. I tugged the leash, but Dusty was obstinate—he stopped in front of the mailbox to do his business.

  I heard yelling. I couldn’t make out the words, only raised voices, a screech that could be the scraping of a chair against hardwoods, a definitive stomp.

  I stiffened, rapt. Old walls were thin, I knew that. Davis and I used to exchange terse whispers in the kitchen at night. Early on, he’d laughed about it, said that in Brooklyn, you didn’t have the luxury of having a good fight. It had been funny because it had been true. Our arguments were lovely and indulgent then, full of banter, like two people reading a script for a sitcom.

  That had changed. Davis had found plenty of methods for getting his way without ever attracting the attention of the neighbors. I still don’t think the lady upstairs ever knew anything was going on.

  The front door burst open, and I heard the woman’s voice—“Don’t ever do that again!”—and I swear, I expected to see me walk out—eyes glistening, hands shaking, trying to make sense of what had happened but knowing there was no way to make sense of things like that.

  Inexplicably, Ms. Butter-Yellow Mercedes only shook her head, grinning, as if she even knew how to argue with grace. She wore her hair in a smooth ponytail this time, and her clothes were, again, all black, tight, and stretchy, sneakers on her feet. Her eyes locked on mine. “It’s you.”

  Her words caught me off guard, and I felt naked and exposed, a kid in the cafeteria not knowing where to sit. I needed to do something, so I reached for the doggie bags, but there weren’t any in the holder. Shit.

  “The woman from yesterday, right? Can I help you?”

  “My dog,” I said, finding my voice and nodding to Dusty. He pulled on the leash, wanting to say hi. “Sorry, he kind of—well—on your lawn, and I forgot the bags. I shouldn’t have let him go in your yard at all . . .”

  She marched down the path, her ponytail a pendulum. She was even more stunning up close, her smile wide and white, all teeth and gums, like the grin of a child. Her eyes were gray, her brows blond but thick, and she was probably older than me, five or ten years, maybe; it was hard to say.

  “Don’t jump, Dusty,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s okay.” She looked from Dusty to me. She was a couple of inches taller than me, and she smelled of warm earth with a note of something biting. Dirt stamped her knees, and there was a crunchy green plastic basket sitting in front of the overgrown flower beds behind her. Before she’d been arguing, she’d been gardening. “You must be renting the cottage?” she asked. “The place that Jennifer—” She paused abruptly. “The Clarks’ place, the ones who went to Phoenix.”

  I nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “I’m Vera.” She stuck out her hand. Her fingers were short and a little stubby, probably the one thing she worried about when she made a mental list of her flaws. Unlike my acne scars, stubby fingers were a decadent flaw to have. “Nice to properly meet you.”

  I hesitated only a second, suddenly nervous, before I said, “Lucy.”

  “And who’s this?” she asked.

  “Dusty.” I smiled. It was hard not to smile when talking about Dusty, even now.

  Vera’s voice morphed into full baby-talk mode. “Aren’t you just da cutest with your fluffy wittle head and wet wittle nose.” She looked up. “Boy or girl?”

  “Boy.”

  “Who’s a good boy?” Vera asked, as Dusty tried his best to lick her chin. “Dusty’s a good boy, that’s who.” She stood, her pants now covered in Dusty’s white fur. “How long are you staying?”

  It was strange. Only minutes ago, she’d been fighting with whoever was in that house. Now she was carrying on like nothing was the matter. My cheekbone lit up, not with pain so much as awareness of all that had transpired. Could it be so simple; could you argue and yell and walk out and meet your new neighbor?

  I raised my hand, blocking my cheek. The sun was too bright; the kind of day that uncovered secrets, melted away snow hiding a dead body, penetrated the dermatologist-approved concealer and revealed something nasty. “I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s just month to month right now.”

  Vera’s expression went sour. Was she trying to avoid looking at the bruise, or had she not noticed? Her face brightened again, a light on a dimmer, turning up and down at will. “Well, hi, neighbor,” she said. “Welcome to Woodstock. You from the city?”

  Reluctantly, I nodded.

  She smiled matter-of-factly, then looked down at Dusty. “Oh, and you don’t really have to use the bags around here. No one does. Between the deer shit and the bear shit, it’s not a big deal.”

  I nodded, skin prickling at the thought of bears casually waltzing by. She stared, as if waiting for me to say something next. “We should probably get going,” I said, tugging on Dusty’s leash.

  “You should come over for dinner,” she said suddenly, her smile turning on again. “You just got in, and I know you don’t have groceries in the house. Unless you’re the kind of person who does that first thing, and in that case, I hate you. Please share your secrets to perfection with the rest of us.”

  The sound of my laugh surprised me—it had been a long time since I’d heard it. In another time and place, the answer would have been easy. I’d have suggested we get a drink, and we’d have met at some cocktail bar with exposed brick and bartenders who read Bukowski, ordered concoctions made with ridiculous things like absinthe rinses and egg whites. By the end of the night, we’d have been great friends, having exchanged everything from the number of nights per week we slept with our partners to the unbearable pain of a UTI. In this world, however, the thought was unnerving. What if she posted something about me to Facebook or Instagram? What if it had been so long since I
made a new friend, since I expanded my circle beyond Davis and Ellie and the world we’d created together, that I forgot how? What if my internal compass was so fucked, I’d completely lost any sense of who I could trust?

  “I didn’t go shopping yet, but I really—”

  Vera cut me off. “Good. Then I don’t have to hate you. Come over. Eight thirty. You’re not vegetarian or gluten-free or allergic to any other wonderful things, are you?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “You don’t know if you’re allergic or you don’t know if you want to come?”

  I laughed again.

  “Look,” she said, “I’m the kind of person who cooks way more than I need to. If you find yourself in need of a hot meal, come over. You can meet John, my husband, and I promise we won’t be screaming about the laundry.”

  It shocked me, the way she casually admitted she’d been fighting with her husband. It made me feel like I was the messed-up one, not her.

  Vera shrugged. “And if you don’t, no big deal. We’ll just eat too much and drink too much and it will be all your fault.” She nodded down the road. “I’m going for a run. Don’t give me your answer now. I’ll hopefully see you at eight thirty.” She turned and headed off, and I watched as her walk quickly broke into a jog. She was captivating, that’s for sure, an enigma of a woman. Still, I shouldn’t get too friendly with anyone right now. I didn’t know who I could trust anymore.

  Dusty pulled, trying to go after her, but there were things I wanted to do today, things that needed checking, arranging. I tugged at the leash and turned on my heel.

  I jumped. A gray-haired woman stood there, lines etched at the corners of her mouth, eyes deep-set and deep brown, eyes that had most certainly been considered beautiful once. “Sorry,” I said. “You startled me.”

  She wore a maroon sweater that had to be too hot for this weather, and faded jeans—she looked to be in her late sixties. A medium-size dog, about twice the size of Dusty, was tethered to her; he bounded toward us and sniffed at Dusty’s nose.

  “This is Dusty,” I said, the usual protocol.

  “Did she bother you?” She pursed her lips, like she’d tasted something bitter.

  “Huh?”

  She pointed up the road to where Vera was still in sight, running, her pace quick, purposeful. “About the dog. I saw that he went on her lawn and all. She really doesn’t like dogs. She’s never been friendly to Pepper, at least.”

  “Oh,” I stammered, pulling Dusty a little closer to me. “She didn’t seem to—”

  “If she bothers you, you just let me know,” the woman said. “I’m Maggie, I live down the road. Next door to you, I believe. Neighbors have to look out for each other, you know.”

  “Lucy,” I managed. I took her hand in mine; it was clammy and cold. She smiled, and I noticed one of her teeth was gray—dead.

  “You should watch out for them,” Maggie said suddenly.

  I pulled my hand away and took a quick step back. “What?”

  “Vera and John can be very charming,” Maggie said. “But they only really care about themselves.”

  THREE

  At first, only the tiniest things seemed to go missing.

  An invoice for one of my freelance clients. The leftovers of an expensive meal I’d wanted to reheat. A favorite pair of socks. My bright blue Sharpie. The scarf of my mother’s. Gone, or so I thought. In a different place altogether. The invoice, tucked underneath a stack of books. The leftovers, turning moldy in the cabinet instead of in the fridge. The socks, in the bottom of Dusty’s bin of toys. The Sharpie, inexplicably dropped into my hamper and put through the wash. My mom’s vintage silk scarf—tucked away in the drawer next to threadbare dish towels, one corner having been used to sop up a mess in the kitchen, permanently stained.

  Things so small, so insignificant, I half thought I was going crazy. Maybe I was just forgetful, flighty, as Davis was always implying.

  Except things had never been misplaced when I was on my own—only after I moved in with him.

  Now, afternoon bleeding quickly into evening, rain tapping lightly on the roof of my new cottage, I moved from room to room, noting what was what and where, writing it down in my composition notebook.

  Living room: trail map and History of the Catskills (on coffee table), encyclopedia set missing the letter H (in bookshelf), and on and on. Kitchen: tea tin (four packets of Earl Grey, two of mint), scratch pad (opened to a shopping list: bananas, black beans, coffee), utensil drawer (surprisingly, a complete set), knife drawer (six knives, red Lucite handles).

  Perhaps these behaviors had always been there, brewing, but it wasn’t until Davis that they rose to the forefront—an attempt to control the uncontrollable. I’d started writing things down to preserve my sanity, to help me understand.

  And when I had, it had slowly become clear, a Polaroid sharpening into focus. I wasn’t flighty. My brain was not a sieve.

  These were punishments. Tiny ones, sure. Suited to my own tiny crimes. For not laughing at one of Davis’s jokes when we were at a party together. For asking him to do the dishes more. For writing that note to him—yes, in bright blue Sharpie—about the faucet that was always dripping.

  The rain had stopped, and it was after seven by the time I got to the bedroom, which I’d saved for last. It was clear of any paraphernalia, nothing there besides furniture. I tossed the notebook onto the bed and dragged my bag into the closet. A small dresser hugged the wall inside. I filled the drawers with black tees and denim shirts, light sweaters and layers. The smaller underwear drawer sat on top. When I tried to pull it open, it stuck, creaking, but I tugged harder and it gave. A dusty furniture brochure sat within the drawer, had probably been in there since the piece was made—the fifties, the sixties—who knew.

  As I grabbed the brochure, a stack of photos fell from it, five of them, glossy, “Catskills Photo” printed on the back. Every picture showed the same man. All were extremely close-up, so close they almost seemed intimate, snatches of brown hair and a salt-and-pepper beard catching the light. He was rugged, with deep-set eyes and a strong chin, the kind of guy who made you think, They don’t make men like this anymore.

  I shoved them back into the brochure and tossed it back in the drawer. I added my bras and underwear and the scarf of my mother’s, then slammed the drawer shut. The photos were nothing, the odds and ends of a life left behind. Probably the boyfriend of the last tenant. Grabbing my notebook, I marked them down anyway. Bedroom closet: five photos in top drawer of dresser (all of one man). Then, with my phone, I took a photo of the list I’d made for each room, just in case.

  Situating myself on the bed, I took a deep breath, trying to reassure myself that there was no way Davis could find me. I had a fresh SIM card, which meant a new number, my social media accounts were deleted, and my old email would only be accessed when I was logged in to the VPN, a necessary risk for work. Even my new home was like a fresh start—filled with perfectly impersonal items, things that weren’t even mine, as if here, I could become someone else altogether.

  If I were Ellie, I would have been freaking out. My best friend couldn’t go even a day without posting something to Instagram. But Ellie would probably have found a way to handle all of this differently. She was always good at difficult things, a friend who’d understood so clearly how to be there for me, never bringing up my parents unless I wanted to talk, inviting me over on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day to ply me with plotless buddy comedies and wine, take my mind away from it all.

  Still, I can’t say how she would have handled this. This was different from my parents; no one knew what was happening except Davis and me. Basic logic, therefore, made him my only ally. Even now, I half wanted to call him, all, Babe, isn’t this crazy? Can you actually believe this is happening to us? I wondered if he would answer or if the phone would just . . . ring.

  I opene
d Instagram instead.

  I typed Davis’s handle into the search bar, and he instantly popped up. His account was public, but he hadn’t added anything in three days. The thought of him, plotting ways to fuck with me, made my skin crawl. The thought of him, wasting away in our apartment, alone, did, too.

  I scanned through his posts: Us at the dog park. Hiking in the Poconos with Ellie, sweat on our foreheads. Sunbathing in South Beach. Laughing at some sort of inside joke. In the beginning, I was always laughing when I was with him. Always. I hovered over the Message button—there was so much I wanted to say.

  I won, fucker!

  You didn’t think I could, but I did.

  I miss you, and I hate myself for it.

  I’m scared, terrified.

  You’ll never see me or Dusty again.

  Are you okay?

  On cue, Dusty nuzzled me, staring at me with his big puppy eyes. It’s not worth it, he seemed to say. It’s not worth the risk.

  Quickly, I closed the window. It was only seven forty-five now, and the hours before me seemed suddenly endless. I grabbed my notebook and began another list, one of to-dos.

  —Figure out money/bank

  —Fix phone

  —Buy real food

  —Get food and treats for Dusty

  —Pitch new articles

  —Write ones already assigned

  I let the pen drop and checked the time on my phone again. Only a couple of minutes had passed. There was a shush of wind outside, and my skin pricked, my downy hairs standing straight up. My eyes flitted to the window—I had that sensation again of being watched—and I peered around the drapes, but there was no one there. I breathed deeply. I was simply being paranoid; after all, being alone wasn’t a skill I’d had to cultivate in Brooklyn. There was always a press party or a dive bar trivia night with Ellie. Before Davis, there’d been the endless barrage of dates. Good and bad, funny and excruciating. OkCupid in the old days and Tinder and Bumble just before Davis had come along. So many ways to fill your time with other humans. Brunch the next day to trade bad-date stories.