by Ellen Datlow
On the wall, her family writhed and shrieked.
Standing on the edge of the sink, Jameson picked at the mold that touched the ceiling. The lump in Roxanne’s stomach tightened. He was practically face-to-face with Sean. Yet he didn’t appear to notice anything. She relaxed at the thought that Jameson was simply too dumb to see the grotesque miracle right in front of his face.
When the water was ready, she poured some over the coffee crystals and offered Jameson the cup. She considered pouring herself one too when Jameson said, “Your family got sick. Isn’t that right?”
Roxane held herself very still. She turned to him and leaned on the counter, trying to effect a relaxed air.
He knows. The bastard knows. He’s playing with me.
“Yes,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
He frowned with concern. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“It’s fine. But I’m curious about what made you think about it.”
He turned the tape measure nervously over and over in his hands. “My sister and the kids went apple picking and ate a bunch of them. Got real sick. Maybe the apples were bad or maybe it was pesticide. Anyway, they ended up in the hospital.”
Roxanne raised her eyebrows in feigned concern. “I hope they’re all right.”
“They’re fine. Though little Andy had to stay an extra day on account of he kept throwing up.”
“But he’s better now?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hill. He’s just fine.”
“How wonderful.”
Her mind raced. Was this part of his game, bringing up pesticide? She looked back at the garlic salt on the shelf, thinking, I have to know. I have to be sure. What if he really is just an idiot?
Jameson said, “I hope you don’t mind something.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, this job is so odd that I mentioned it to a couple of folks, including Jeff Delano. Do you know him? He was in school with us too. These days, he’s a cop.”
“No. I don’t know him,” said Roxanne quietly.
“He helps me out with jobs sometimes. You know, on the weekend for extra money. Jeff might come by in the afternoon. That is, if it’s okay with you.”
Roxanne sat down at the kitchen table wondering what it would take to get her family’s bodies exhumed. Not the word of an idiot, certainly, but perhaps the testimony of a busybody cop.
“It’s perfectly all right,” she said.
“Did you hurt your hand?” said Jameson.
She looked down at her fingers. There was mold under her nails and smeared on her fingertips again. Using dish soap, she washed them in the sink and said, “How funny. I must have touched the wall when I came in.”
“You’ll want to be careful. Mold like that is bad for you.”
Yes. He is playing. Being coy until the police arrive. I should have seen it coming.
She wished she’d followed her instincts and simply abandoned the house, letting the realtor deal with repairs and the sale. She could have flown to Paris days ago instead of being trapped at home between a dimwitted monster and her screaming family. Still, she wasn’t caught yet.
While Jameson made drywall calculations in his book, Roxanne put the stew on the stove over a low flame.
She said, “Do you like stew, Mr. Jameson?”
He glanced at the pot. “Call me Billy.” “Thank you, Billy. Call me Roxanne. So, do you like beef stew?” “I do. A lot.” “Then you’ll have to stay for lunch.” “Thank you, Roxanne. That’d be nice.” “What time did you say your policeman friend was coming by?” “This afternoon sometime.”
She glanced at the kitchen clock and said, “Maybe we should eat an early lunch so we’ll be ready for him.”
Jameson said, “I wouldn’t mind that. I didn’t get any breakfast.” “Then we’ll feast as soon as possible.”
He bustled around her in the kitchen while she stirred the stew on the stove, careful not to let it burn on the bottom. When it was warm and the comforting smell filled the kitchen, Roxanne took a bottle from the cupboard and poured the whole thing into the stew.
“What’s that?” Jameson said.
She stirred the pot, relaxed and resigned. Jameson had won their little game. The police were on the way.
“Just something to add a little spice to our lunch,” she said.
Roxanne ladled out two bowls and they sat together at the table. Jameson dug his spoon in eagerly and ate big mouthfuls of the stew. Roxanne left her spoon beside her bowl and stared up at the wall where her family screamed at her.
Jameson cleared his throat. “The other day, when I first got here, I saw a bunch of travel brochures in the living room. Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, I am. Paris.”
Jameson stopped eating and leaned back in his chair.
“Wow. I’ve never been farther than Galveston. Will you tell me about Paris?”
“I haven’t been there yet.”
“Yeah, but you know a lot more about it than I do.”
“I suppose I do.”
Roxanne sat quietly, a finger on her spoon, her mind racing for a way out, but her mind was blank. The police were on the way. If she ran, Jameson would no doubt stop her. Yes. That’s exactly what he’ll do, she thought.
Jameson said, “Jeff would love this stew. Can we save him some?”
She didn’t think about it for long. “What do you say we finish it ourselves and I’ll give him the recipe.”
“Sure. But you’re not eating.”
Roxanne looked at the mold on her fingers and up at her family. She picked up her spoon. “I wasn’t sure I was going to, but I think I will after all.”
With a half-full mouth, Jameson said, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get to Paris?”
She thought for a moment. “I’ll check into my hotel and go out onto the balcony where I’ll have a view of the Eiffel Tower. I’ll breathe in the air and think, I’m free.”
She took a bite of the stew. It was just as good as she remembered.
They ate and talked like old friends until the pot was empty.
The Party
Paul Tremblay
“I’M leaving my purse under the seat. Don’t let me forget. Ugh, we’re so late,” Jacqui says. She proclaimed they were going to be late every five minutes during the drive down from their apartment near Central Square in Cambridge; you’re not driving fast enough the unspoken accusation.
With the prophecy fulfilled, they exit the car. Frances says, “It’s fine. No one is late to a party.”
“Look at all the cars parked on the street and driveway. Everyone is here already.”
Jacqui is a generally charming, but socially anxious, extrovert. When the anxiety builds toward a boil, Frances has found asking a simple, borderline annoying question helps Jacqui to release some of the steam. “Who is everyone?” Frances asks.
Jacqui smirks and narrows her eyes. “I know what you’re doing. Thank you and you can stop.” She clutches the bottle of merlot Frances picked out. Neither of them is sure if it will be to her boss’s liking.
“I’ll answer for you: work people. People you see and talk to every day. People who like you and admire you and on occasion steal your lunch from the office fridge.” Frances takes Jacqui’s free hand (her fingers are shockingly cold) and leads her up the long, woods-flanked driveway clogged with SUVs and luxury sedans.
Jacqui wriggles her hand free, nervously adjusts the scarf hanging loosely around her neck, and says, “I didn’t want us to be the last people here. Everyone staring at us as we go in. Maybe we should stay outside—you can have a smoke—until someone else shows up and we’ll sneak in behind them.”
Frances runs a hand through her shoulder-length, graying hair. “Oh, we’re definitely the last ones here.” She tries to say it with a smile, or to pluck one from Jacqui.
“We should go home,” Jacqui says. “We have this bottle of wine.”
“I don’t li
ke wine.”
“I meant for me.”
They have been living together for almost a year, dating for nearly two. They met when Jacqui tornadoed into Frances’s House of Brews, a small café by day and specialty beer bar by night. Jacqui ordered a large black coffee to go and accidentally left her phone and purse on the counter. When she returned twenty minutes later, Frances was sitting at a small table with the phone and purse along with pastries on two small plates. She had taken off her apron and put on a black blazer in an attempt to look more like the owner and less like she’d been behind the counter for the prior sixty hours the place had been open. Jacqui missed her conference call and they sat and talked as she finished her coffee. Jacqui returned later that night for a free beer at Frances’s insistence. Frances is fifty-one years old, which is fifteen years older than Jacqui. There are times when that gap feels like an epoch. She knows Jacqui’s anxieties are the root of how she is reacting to their lateness and it’s not that she’s embarrassed to be seen with an older woman at a work party. However, Frances is tired of the it-doesn’t-matter-if-they-stare-at-us conversations and tired of her own teen-like insecurities that pick and nag and doubt and never seem to go away.
“Can’t go home now. The Work People—” Frances pauses here, accentuating the playful, purposeful nickname, “—have seen us already.”
Jacqui surprises Frances by laughing. As though reading her mind and purposefully tweaking it, she says, “You’re my old lady,” and hauls up Frances’s hand for a mock chivalrous kiss.
* * *
The seventies-style ranch sprawls atop the private hilly lot like an inkblot. Twin floodlights illuminate the cobblestone walkway at the end of the drive and the home’s dark brown exterior, which shows if not its age, then its yearly battles with the extremes of New England weather. Rigorously landscaped shrubs flank the front entrance.
Frances says, “Cute, but smaller than I imagined.”
“Wait until you see inside. She’s shown me pictures.”
“I bet she has.”
“You’re not funny.” The front door is ajar, leaking conversation and laughter from the party. “I guess we just go in.”
“This is your party. You can cry if you want to.” Before following Jacqui inside, Frances looks behind them. Beyond the floodlights and walkway there is only the dark. She cannot see the street or the length of the drive. It’s a silly thought, one reflecting her own unspoken anxieties of having to be on, of having to—in her mind—justify who she is to a group of strangers, but it’s as though nothing exists beyond the house and this point in time.
* * *
Frances says, “That’s what I call an open floor plan.” From what she can see from the foyer, the only walls in the house are the exterior walls. An expansive kitchen, dining room, and living room flow into each other and overlap, the boundaries ambiguous and arbitrary. The interior is brightly light, almost garishly so. Yellows and golds mix with copper and other earthy tones. Elegant, modern light fixtures drop from the ceiling. The massive kitchen island is quartz-topped and has a deep farmer’s sink. The wall to their left is all windows and glass, floor to ceiling, offering a view of the lantern-lit backyard. Bookshelves ivy the rear wall in the living room area. Well-dressed revelers fill this space, everyone drinking and showing their teeth.
One of the guests rushes over, gives Jacqui a hug, waves hi at Frances, and within the same breath of the greeting, offers to take their coats and wine. The rules of the party house always to be fumbled through and figured out as one stumbles along, Frances is about to ask if they should take off their shoes, but the younger woman disappears with her arms full of their coats. Jacqui is stunning, as always, in her little black dress. Frances wears her threadbare blazer over an untucked, white button down, and her best skinny jeans.
An older man in a gray suit appears next to them with a tray of red-tinged drinks in tumblers. He explains that it’s a cocktail made especially for the party: Four Roses bourbon, Campari, sweet vermouth, and orange zest. Frances asks if the drink has a name. “It’s called simply ‘The End.’”
“As in, if you drink one it’ll be the end of your night?” Jacqui accepts a glass with a little bow of thanks.
“Festive,” Frances says. She declines as she’s driving. She asks if there’s any beer, the hoppier the better. The man points her to a lonely table set up against the wall of windows.
Upon returning to Jacqui’s side after the beer run, Jeanne Bishop, the owner of the house and the CFO of Jacqui’s company, stands in the middle of the great room and taps her glass with a fork until the party quiets. She says, “Thank you all for coming. I’m generally not one for speeches.” The party laughs at the irony or self-deprecation as they are supposed to. Frances is self-aware enough to know her predisposition to not like Jeanne Bishop isn’t entirely fair, but thinks, not without some satisfaction, that she is made of sharpened, uncompromising angles, and that she sounds as dry-cleaned as she looks. “I’ll keep it brief and to the point. Eat, drink—” Jeanne pauses to sip deeply from her half-empty glass, “—and fuck, for tomorrow we die.”
The party in the great groom roars and claps its approval.
“Is the head of HR here? I’d like to lodge a complaint,” Frances whispers into Jacqui’s ear.
“I don’t think that line was in Corinthians,” Jacqui says. She’s clearly more relaxed having walked through the pre-party fire of anxiety, and she links arms with Frances.
At the physical contact, Frances smiles, she can’t help herself. “She’s using the new living translation.”
“Why are we here again?”
“She’s your boss.”
“Right. You should’ve told me to say no. Really, you’re supposed to protect me from things like this.”
“I failed. That toast was kind of weird, right?”
“Rich white people are weird. She’s not like that in the office.”
“Do you mean she’s not rich and white, or she’s not drunk in the office?”
“Shh. We should go say hi. Those are the rules, right?”
* * *
They wait politely in an informal greeting line that has gathered around Jeanne, who wears a red sequined gown. Another man in a gray suit carrying what looks to be a straw-woven picnic basket comes by asking for cell phones. Most of the people around them hold up empty hands, signifying they’d already complied with the demands of the basket.
Jacqui looks at Frances expectantly, or is it questioningly? Frances cannot tell. Earlier, Jacqui made a show of leaving her purse and apparently her phone under the passenger seat. Did she know this phone request would be made? Frances says, “There’s no way in hell I’m giving up my phone.”
Jeanne steps between them and says, “Putting phones out of reach is one of my office rules when we have meetings. I’d rather people fully engage with one another without distraction. Hello, my dear.” Jeanne hugs Jacqui quickly. “I’m so glad you made it.” She holds Jacqui at arm’s length and drinks her in. Jacqui apologizes for being late, muttering something about the drive being longer than they anticipated. Jeanne turns her attention to Frances and says, “I’ve heard so much about you, Frances, it’s wonderful to finally meet.”
They hug and Jacqui widens her eyes, clearly enjoying Frances’s discomfort.
“It’s very nice to meet you too, Jeanne,” Frances says. “I’m sorry about the phone thing. But if something goes wrong at my café, like if it catches fire or something—” she laughs at her own joke that she knows isn’t all that funny, “—I need to know.”
“Of course, of course. But, even if it did go up in flames tonight, god forbid, we know it wouldn’t matter since the world is ending tomorrow.” Jeanne laughs.
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” Frances drinks from her beer bottle. She’s either not in on the joke or is the butt of one.
“Oh Jesus, Frances, I’m sorry.” Jacqui nervously darts her eyes between the two women. “I don’t
know how I forgot, but I did. I didn’t—” she pauses, gestures at Frances, and speaks directly to Jeanne, “—I didn’t tell her there’s a theme to the party.”
Jeanne’s rigid posture momentarily curls. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Yeah, you didn’t tell me?” Frances’s voice goes higher pitched than she intended. She did not want to sound so obviously hurt.
“Surprise? I’m sorry. I feel awful. Jeanne, I don’t think I’ve told you, and it’s not a big deal, really, but I tend to stress out and my brain can shut down before—before gatherings like this—”
“Oh, Jacqui, I’m sorry, I had no idea.”
“No, it’s okay, please don’t apologize. I’m fine. It just takes a little extra work to get me to the party. Once I’m there, I’m always fine, and I have a great time, and I’m usually the last one to leave, right, Frances?” Jacqui grabs Frances’s hand and squeezes.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Jacqui, and please let me know if you need anything. And, yes, Frances, the theme of the party is the end of the world. We’re not celebrating apocalypse per se, and I don’t mean it to be morbid, but think of this as more a celebration of living in the here and now. Now that I’m talking about it this way, it’s a terrible theme, isn’t it?”
Frances says, “No. Not at all. Maybe we’ll try it out at my café sometime. Offer to serve everyone their last cup of coffee or pint of beer.”
Jacqui says, “Ugh, I’m the worst. I’m sorry to you both.”
Jeanne fusses and insists Jacqui stop apologizing. Frances does not.
After a silence of some length that wilts polite smiles and glows with the embers of confusion and resentment, Jeanne says, “I am disappointed no one dressed up like Mad Max or Imperator Furiosa.”
Frances says, “If I’d only known. I’m big into cosplaying.”
Jacqui rolls her eyes, and says, “Your home is absolutely gorgeous, Jeanne. I can’t stop looking at that wall, all those beautiful windows.”
“Thank you, Jacqui. You’re too kind. It was a lot of work. Worth it in the end, I think. But—” she pauses to sip, and, while swallowing, points a thin finger, “—with all that glass, we’ll be totally exposed tomorrow when the world ends. Maybe we’ll be kept as pets, like fish in an aquarium, and they’ll watch us as we either slowly starve or go mad. I’m just kidding, sorry. We’re not planning on staying in this room. Too exposed. Okay, I’ll stop joking. I do get into the spirit of my themes. Perhaps too much. Jacqui, I’m guessing you did not mention to Frances my offer to stay the night? I have plenty of room and it’s such a long drive back to the city. And for what?”