Mrs. Fletcher

by Tom Perrotta

  She simply wasn’t going to do that.

  *

  And yet, for something that was totally out of the question, she found herself thinking an awful lot about it in the days that followed. His desire—the simple fact of it—exerted a kind of gravity on her that she hadn’t anticipated, and found surprisingly difficult to resist.

  He was waiting for her.

  Nobody else was.

  That had to count for something.

  It would be so easy to make him happy, which also had to count for something, because it wasn’t like she was making anyone else happy, least of all herself. Besides, what was the alternative? Updating her Match.com profile and getting some professional photos taken? Wading through hundreds of boastful profiles of guys she wouldn’t want to meet in a million years? And the ones she did want to meet, those guys probably wouldn’t give her a second look, if they ever condescended to give her a first. Months could go by before she got asked on a date. Years could pass before she went on a good one. Maybe even a lifetime.

  And the thing was, these men on the internet, the ones she was hoping to someday maybe just possibly meet, they were purely hypothetical. Julian was real. He was waiting for her. Yes, he was young—way too young, she was well aware of that unfortunate fact—but there was something to be said for youth, wasn’t there? The stamina, the gratitude, all the clichés that were clichés because they were true. Even his lack of experience was touching, because it wouldn’t last forever. And he was beautiful—there was no other way to put it—at a time when there wasn’t nearly enough beauty in her life.

  It was painful, to be offered a gift like that, and have no choice but to return it unopened.

  *

  Julian was a gentleman; he didn’t press too hard, but he didn’t let her forget, either. He texted her a question mark on Thursday night, and all alone on Friday. At midnight on Saturday, he sent a photo of himself sitting up in bed, narrow-shouldered and shirtless, with a comically forlorn expression on his face.

  No one came to my party

  She couldn’t stop thinking about him on Sunday. She thought about him on her afternoon walk—it was a mild day, and she took a rare second lap around the lake—and she thought about him while cooking a hearty dinner of roast pork, scalloped potatoes, and kale with white beans. She wished she could invite him over, set a heaping plate in front of him, and watch him while he ate. With his parents out of town, he was probably subsisting on ramen noodles or yesterday’s pizza.

  Instead it was just Eve and Brendan at the table, and Brendan seemed a little down. She wasn’t sure what was bothering him. They’d barely spoken in the past week—their schedules were out of whack—and she felt guilty about neglecting him, allowing her attention to drift into more selfish channels.

  “Did you work out today?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Mostly cardio.”

  Eve took a bite of the pork. It was perfectly cooked, tender and garlicky.

  “Were your friends there?”

  “A few.”

  “I’d love to meet them sometime.”

  “Sure.” He took a sip of water and set his glass back on the table. Then he picked it up again and took another sip. “I mean, I mostly just see them at the gym, so . . .”

  “No pressure,” Eve assured him. “What about school? How’s that going?”

  Brendan gave a listless shrug. He’d registered for two spring-term classes at ECC—Accounting Basics and Intro to Political Science—but he hardly ever talked about them, and claimed to do all his homework in the library, which supposedly explained why he never had any studying to do at home.

  “It’s kinda boring, to be honest.”

  “What is? The textbooks? The professors?”

  “I dunno,” he mumbled. “The whole place. It’s like I’m back in high school, just with all the losers. The ones who weren’t smart enough to get into a real college.”

  And whose choice was that? Eve wanted to ask him.

  “It’s not a bad school,” she said. “I had a great class there last semester. The professor was excellent, and some of the other students were really smart.”

  Brendan looked up from his plate. His face was blank, but she could sense some hostility in it nonetheless.

  “I know. You only told me a hundred times.”

  He was probably right about that, Eve realized. And guilt-tripping him wasn’t going to help. That had never worked with Brendan.

  “You know who I saw at the supermarket?” she said. “Becca’s mom. I guess Becca’s got her heart set on Tulane.”

  “Am I supposed to care?”

  “She was your girlfriend. I just thought—”

  “I’m done with Becca,” he said.

  Eve was curious about their breakup, and its role in his disastrous fall semester. It seemed like an important missing piece of the puzzle.

  “What happened to you two? Did you have a fight or something?”

  “Not really.” Brendan shrugged. “We just . . . I don’t know. We never got along that great.”

  “Well,” Eve said. “You weren’t very nice to her.”

  “Me?” Brendan looked offended. “What did I do?”

  Eve had been waiting for this opening for a long time.

  “Remember the day you left for college?” she began. “When Becca came over to say goodbye?”

  Brendan gave a cautious nod, but before she get could any further, her phone emitted a loud chirp, alerting her to an incoming message.

  “Somebody just texted you,” Brendan said. He seemed grateful for the interruption.

  Eve felt a warm blush spreading across her face. The phone was lying facedown on the table, right next to her plate. She wanted to pick it up, but she couldn’t, not if it was Julian.

  “Aren’t you gonna check?” he asked.

  Luckily, it was just a harmless group text from Peggy—a picture of her next-door neighbors’ chocolate lab puppy with a slipper in its mouth—so she didn’t have to lie. She showed Brendan the puppy, and replied with a heart emoji. Her phone chirped again almost immediately; it was Jane, adding a photo of her late and much-loved beagle to the thread.

  R.I.P. Horace, Eve wrote. He was a sweet dog.

  By the time she looked up, Brendan was already at the sink. He rinsed his plate, and stuck it in the dishwasher.

  “Good dinner,” he said, and then he was gone.

  *

  Julian didn’t text her at all on Sunday night. Eve tried to tell herself she was relieved, that he’d finally gotten the message implicit in her silence, but she couldn’t stop checking her phone, and had an unusually hard time falling asleep.

  Monday’s silence was even worse. She wondered if something was wrong—if she should maybe give him a call, make sure he wasn’t sick or depressed—but the clearer part of her mind understood that this was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. They were in a battle of wills now, and Eve just needed to hold out for a little while longer, until the window of opportunity closed, and they could both get on with their lives.

  Stay strong, she told herself. Don’t do anything stupid.

  She followed this wise counsel until about eleven thirty that night, when she slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs in her nightgown and slippers. After a brief stop in the kitchen, she grabbed a fleece from the coat rack and pulled it on as she headed out to the van.

  The back streets of Haddington were desolate at that hour, uninhabited except for a lone coyote prowling on Lorimer Road. It was scrawny and dejected-looking, all ribs and tail. The animal stared forlornly at Eve as she passed, as if it would have appreciated a ride across town.

  She’d only been to Julian’s house once before, on the night she drove him home from Barry’s bar. It was a nice place, a brick-fronted ranch with a picture window and a wide front lawn. All the lights were off.

  The garage door was open, just like he’d promised, but Eve parked in front of the house, right behind the Volvo. Leavi
ng the engine running, she grabbed a small, red-and-white picnic cooler off the passenger seat and carried it across the lawn and up the steps to the front door. The cooler had two Tupperware containers inside—one with leftover pork, the other with potatoes—along with an ice pack and a post-it note telling him to have a great day. She left it on the welcome mat, where he’d be sure to find it in the morning.

  *

  Eve struggled at the bowling alley on Tuesday, regressing from an unspectacular 98 in the first game to a truly abysmal 77 in the second. Her teammates patted her on the back, telling her that she would bounce back next time, because everyone had bad days and you never stayed down for long.

  “I hope so,” Eve said. “I don’t think I can do much worse.”

  As the afternoon wore on, she found herself glancing at her phone with embarrassing frequency, and feeling deeply resentful of Julian. How could you not acknowledge a gift of food left on your doorstep? It seemed a little rude, and totally unlike him (more like something Brendan would do, now that she thought about it). She wondered if her original intuition had been right—maybe Julian was sick and bedridden. Or maybe he’d left the house through the garage, and hadn’t even noticed the cooler, though that seemed unlikely, given the location of the Volvo. Unless he’d gone out on his skateboard; that was another possibility to consider. She kept on telling herself that she had better things to think about, but her mind refused to believe it.

  The mystery was resolved that evening, when she got home from work and found the picnic cooler resting on her welcome mat. It seemed like a sweet, thoughtful gesture until she slid back the lid and saw that the food was still there, untouched inside the Tupperware. Even her post-it note had been returned, its banality and fake good cheer impossible to miss now that it was directed back at her:

  Have a great day!

  She hadn’t meant to offend him. She’d thought of the food as a peace offering, a clever way of breaking her silence—letting him know that he was on her mind—without actually saying anything that would get her into trouble. But to him—she could see it so clearly now—it had been a taunt. She’d walked right up to his front door—so close, right there—but hadn’t gone inside. She’d withheld herself, and given him some greasy leftovers instead. No wonder he was upset.

  My bad, she thought.

  *

  Eve couldn’t sleep. Her brain was foggy. She stared at her message for a long time before pressing Send.

  I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.

  It was 2:14 in the morning, but Julian answered right away.

  Why didn’t you come in?

  Lights were out. Didn’t want to wake you.

  I’m awake now

  It’s late. I have to work tomorrow.

  I cant stop thinking about u

  Then, because she didn’t respond:

  My parents get home on Thursday

  Then, in case she hadn’t done the math:

  Tomorrow’s our last chance

  Then, because she still hadn’t responded:

  I want you so fucking bad I’m going crazy

  Eve stared at her phone. She could feel his desire all the way from outer space, bouncing off a satellite, beaming straight into her hand.

  He was still waiting.

  He’d been waiting all week.

  That had to count for something.

  All right, she told him. You win.

  I do??? What’s the prize???

  Eve was suddenly exhausted.

  Go to sleep, Julian. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Garage Door

  Eve felt surprisingly alert and well rested in the morning. She’d only slept for a few hours, but it had been a deep and restorative sleep, the best she’d had in days. All the agitation she’d been feeling—the cumulative weight of her indecision—had fallen away. What remained was a fizzy, almost buoyant feeling of anticipation.

  I’m doing this, she told herself. It’s going to happen.

  She knew she’d be working late, so she chose her underwear with care, in case she decided to head straight to Julian’s from the Senior Center. It wasn’t too elaborate—just a red lace bra and matching panties—but it looked pretty on her. She knew he’d approve.

  You win, she thought.

  She could see it in her head, a romantic scene from a foreign movie. A beautiful woman of a certain age pulling into a dark garage, the door sliding down behind her. She tiptoes through the silent house, heading upstairs, into a candlelit bedroom where a sensitive young man awaits her. She stands in the doorway, basking in his appreciative gaze, and slowly begins to unbutton her blouse . . .

  This is the prize.

  Her clothes on the floor. Their bodies coming together.

  But then what? What would happen when it was over, when she got dressed and went home? That part of the movie was a black hole, the one thing she couldn’t afford to think about if she was going to make good on her promise—to do the thing she badly wanted to do—because he was waiting for her, and it was their last chance, and she was the prize.

  *

  It helped that it was the second Wednesday of the month—the day of the March lecture—which meant that she was a lot busier than usual, taking care of the last-minute tasks that were normally the responsibility of the events coordinator. She had to run to Staples to pick up the hard-backed poster to place near the main entrance—she’d forgotten all about it—and stop at the supermarket to buy cookies and soft drinks for the reception. She had to set up the folding chairs in the lecture room and make sure the sound system was working, all the while fielding several calls from the guest of honor, a New Hampshire–based journalist named Franklin Russett, who’d written a book called Sweet Liquid Gold: In Praise of Maple Syrup. Mostly, though, she was trying to drum up an audience, buttonholing every senior she saw, reminding them of the start time, and talking up the speaker, who was in high demand on the regional lecture circuit.

  She was glad that Amanda wasn’t here for this. Franklin Russett and maple syrup represented everything she’d hated about the lecture series, and had hoped to disrupt. But they’d tried it Amanda’s way, and it hadn’t worked. A lot of seniors had been upset by Margo’s presentation—they’d found it disturbing and inappropriate and even appalling—and the complaints had made it all the way to the Town Council. Eve knew the entire program was under the microscope; she needed to repair the damage that had been done to its reputation and protect the funding that had allowed it to become such a beloved institution in the first place. All she wanted was a return to form—an upbeat talk about an insipid subject, a reasonably pleasant evening that no one would ever have to think about again.

  *

  There were four rest rooms at the Senior Center—the main men’s and women’s rooms, an employees-only facility, and a spacious, wheelchair-accessible bathroom that was in almost constant use throughout the day. It was the go-to spot for diabetics to inject themselves with insulin, and for people with ostomy pouches to attend to their sanitary needs. Sufferers of constipation or diarrhea also appreciated the privacy afforded by a single toilet and a locked door, as did a large group of people (mostly men) who liked to hunker down with a crossword puzzle while nature worked its leisurely, unpredictable magic.

  This popularity had a downside, however. The toilet in the accessible bathroom was notoriously temperamental—easily blocked and prone to overflow—and it had been malfunctioning with increasing frequency in recent months. Eve had formally requested funding for a replacement, but the council was dragging its feet, as usual. So she wasn’t exactly surprised when Shirley Tripko—a grandmotherly woman who looked like she wore pillows under her clothes—approached her a couple of minutes before seven to let her know there was a “problem” with the handicap rest room.

  “Would you mind informing the custodian?” Eve asked. “I have to introduce our guest speaker.”

  “I already informed him.” Shirley’s voice was tense, a little defensive. “H
e needs to talk to you.”

  “All right,” Eve sighed. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “He said right now.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Shirley bit her lip. She looked like she was about to cry.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “I just flushed. That’s all I did.”

  *

  Eve stood in the doorway of the accessible bathroom, trying not to breathe. The toilet hadn’t simply overflowed; it appeared to have erupted. The custodian, Rafael, was gamely trying to mop up the mess.

  “Did you try the plunger?” she asked.

  Rafael stared at her with dead eyes, his face partially concealed by a surgical mask. He was also wearing rubber boots and dishwashing gloves, the closest the Senior Center came to a hazmat suit.

  “No good,” he said in a muffled voice. “Better call the plumber.”

  Eve groaned. An after-hours emergency call was a huge—and expensive—pain in the ass.

  “Can it wait until morning?”

  Rafael cast a wary glance at the toilet. It was filled to the brim with a nasty-looking liquid, still quivering ominously.

  “I wouldn’t,” he said.

  A wave of fatigue passed through Eve’s body. A phrase she’d never spoken out loud suddenly appeared in her mind.

  Shit show, she thought. My life is a shit show.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  *

  She calmed down a little once she got the introduction out of the way and returned to her office. On the bright side, there was a full house in the Lecture Room; her advance work had paid off. And the toilet thing was manageable. All she had to do was call the plumber and get the problem fixed.

  It’s okay, she told herself. It’s under control.

  Her usual contractor—the ironically named Reliable Plumbing—didn’t return her call, and Veloso Brothers said they couldn’t get anyone there until ten at the earliest. Eve didn’t want to wait, so she tried Rafferty & Son. She made the call with some trepidation, fully aware of the thinness of the ice she was standing on, asking a favor of a man whose late father she’d banished from the Senior Center not so long ago. Luckily, George Rafferty wasn’t a grudge-holder. He was cordial on the phone, and said he’d be right over.