by Kristin Bair
“Stop there.”
“Stop there?” Agatha hears the tick of the clock that indicates the end of her hour.
“Yes, there’s a lot to unpack in this memory, but time’s up. We’ll start with this at your next appointment.”
Agatha swings her legs to the floor. She sits up and fingers the crease on her cheek. “You know,” she says, “therapy isn’t much different than writing.”
“How so?” says Shrinky-Dink. Agatha can tell by the tone of her voice that she’s moving on mentally and emotionally, likely already thinking about the woes and wherefores of the woman waiting in the vestibule, the one who follows Agatha in the lineup every week, the one who always wears gray.
“We both like to leave the day’s work on a cliffhanger.”
* * *
Agatha limp-hobbles through the bruised shadows toward GDOG’s House of Sin. She shouldn’t be limp-hobbling through the bruised shadows toward GDOG’s House of Sin. She should be at home resting her foot and her hands, nursing her anthrax. She should be at home moisturizing the crease on her face so that one day it will go away. She should be at home writing the thriller she has promised her agent. But here she is, doing everything she shouldn’t be doing, but not being able to help it. She has to see Dax and what he’s up to.
Plus, she needs a good, clear photo of GDOG for the reflection doll order.
Ten minutes before, she’d set off thinking stealth and Bear and creeping-into-GDOG’s-yard-unnoticed but the tools in her spy pants are clunking against one another as she limp-hobbles along. Bump. Clang. Bang. Diggity-Dang. She’s a one-woman band on a mission.
Bump. Clang. Bang. Diggity-Dang-Dang-Dang.
Her boots slush through dry leaves like brushes on a snare, and eighth-grade band flashes in her head. She on her clarinet trying to toot-tootle-toot through the 1812 Overture just moments after her secret saxophone crush whispered to the whole band that he’d had sex—actual sex—with his drummer crush the night before. What did that even mean in eighth grade? And sex with that giant-mawed drummer-girl with glisteny gums? Ew. Could Agatha’s heart hurt any worse? She remembers watching the freshly skewered girl bang away on the bass with newfound power and the band director trying to cover the battle cry of lust with audacious arm arcs and hollered 1-2-3-4s.
Poor Tchaikovsky.
When she reaches the House of Sin, Agatha smirks. It is one of a handful of Victorians in town. Purplish, asymmetrical, narrow, and crazy tall. Much more ornate than the steadfast Colonials and Capes that surround it. A turret crowns the roof. Stained-glass windows glow like paintings. It is an obvious house. A sexy house. A hey-hey-hey-look-at-me house. The perfect house for a husband-stealing, grapefruit-buttocked dog walker. An ordinary human might miss the symbolism of this story, but Agatha is a writer. Symbolism is her second language. Her husband has moved from a massive white Colonial to a towering purple Victorian. He’s replaced his Red Sox jersey with a lavender pullover, and his frightened wife with a fearless lover. This means something. Everything means something.
Agatha lifts her binoculars to her eyes. There are no curtains on the first-floor windows so she quickly spots her husband and Willow Bean. They are sitting on the couch, tossing back their heads and laughing. The two look incredibly comfortable, as if they’ve been laughing and leaning against one another for years. The goddamn Chihuahua is curled between them, its head resting on Dax’s knee. How is this possible? This snapshot. Not even three weeks since the shed incident. What could they be laughing at? A show on the television? A private joke? Her?
Agatha snaps the long lens onto her camera and takes a few close-ups. The weight of the camera feels good in her hands.
A passerby pauses, follows the direction of the camera, frowns, and moves away. Another says, “Good evening?” in a questioning tone, asking “What are you up to?” without asking “What are you up to?” A dog on a leash nuzzles her ankle, and its human says, “Can I help you with something?”
“Nope,” Agatha says, snapping another photo, “unless you’re willing to sic your pup on that woman in there.”
The dog lifts its leg and pees on the telephone pole. He and the man move on.
When the lovers start kissing on the couch, Agatha drops the camera. The strap around her neck saves it from crashing to the sidewalk but its weight snaps her head. “Ow!” she hollers, loudly enough that Dax and Willow Bean break apart, turn to the window, but seeing nothing—or perhaps seeing and not caring—return to each other’s mouths. Hunger means something, too.
Agatha pulls the can of pink spray paint from its pocket. Somewhere in that head of hers she hears Shrinky-Dink groaning and saying “Don’t do it,” but she uncaps the can and points it at the closest tree trunk in Willow Bean’s yard. Spasms of pain from the camera snap begin to undulate down her neck. She can’t move without grunting but she raises her arm higher anyway. Fuck pain. She writes an H, the first letter in HUSSY, but then thinks of Jason and Dustin and how much she loves them and how much she never wants anything—even this terrible mess—to hurt them.
Instead of USSY, she adds EART.
HEART.
HEART instead of HUSSY.
That’s what she writes on GDOG’s tree.
HEART.
If the boys find out she did it and ask why she wrote HEART, she can fib and say it’s so they always remember how much she loves them, even when apart. Like the daytime moon.
But when Dax asks, she can tell the truth. She can tell that fothermucking SOB it’s meant to serve as a reminder of what he broke, shattered, snapped, blew up, destroyed.
Her heart.
Agatha limp-hobbles back to her car, not even trying for stealth this time. What’s the point? Bump-bump-bump. Clang-clang-clang. Bang. Bang. Diggity-dang.
Above, the stars are bright and shiny. The kind of shiny that makes her want to believe in something. Anything. Reincarnation. God. Buddha. Mother Nature. Druids. Past lives. Fairies. And wanting to believe, she thinks about Heaven’s Gate, the UFO religious cult that participated in a mass suicide back in the 1990s. Thirty-nine members believed they would get to the “Next Level” via an extraterrestrial spacecraft right after a comet named Hale–Bopp did its comet-y thing, and thirty-nine members committed suicide to do so. Suicide. The permanent choice. Thirty-nine. Thirty-nine permanent choices. Agatha scans the sky for a savior ship. If only.
She climbs into her car and picks up bobblehead Bear from the dashboard. “I did believe in something,” she says to him. “I believed in love. I believed in Dax. In me and Dax. Look where that got me.” She tries to drop her head dramatically to the steering wheel but pain ripples down her spine and she cries out. She won’t be able to turn her head for a week.
Moments later, her phone pings. The Moms. Of course, the Moms. It seems the best gel manicurist in town has moved to Utah. She’s getting married. This is a catastrophe. A travesty. A cry for next-best goes up. Sharon at Glamour Nails is very good. Tildi at Passion is highly rated. Vanilla at Sweet Spa gets many likes. But whatever you do, do not use Samantha at Nail Love. DM for details.
And so it goes.
Until you spend time in a Facebook moms group, it’s impossible to fully fathom the range of topics these Moms can discuss, argue about, champion, and/or beat to a bloody pulp.
Jaywalkers?
Yup.
The cars that nearly mow down jaywalkers?
Yup.
Moms who defend the cars that nearly mow down jaywalkers?
Yup.
Jaywalkers who challenge the cars who challenge the jaywalkers for jaywalking?
Yup.
Moms who defend the jaywalkers who challenge the cars who challenge the jaywalkers for jaywalking?
Yup.
Slow-cooker recipes?
Especially in winter.
ADHD therapists?
Taking names.
Best keratin stylist in town?
Mm hm.
Cheapest keratin stylist in town
?
Every week.
Worst keratin stylist in town?
A must.
Best cookie baker in town?
Yup.
Least painful place to get a bikini wax?
Yup.
Refreshing yoga studios?
Yup.
Kick-ass cycling studios?
Yup.
Best Disney hotels?
Bring ’em on.
Best resorts in Punta Cana?
Oh yeah.
Warmest slippers?
Yup.
Marriage therapists?
Indeed.
Divorce lawyers?
Of course.
And on and on it goes.
* * *
Back home, she uploads the photos and picks one of GDOG she’s sure will make an excellent reflection doll likeness. GDOG is looking straight at the camera. Her eyes are wide, as if Dax is telling her a delicious secret. Her mouth is slightly open.
As she fills in the Etsy form, Agatha notes how strange it is that she’s come to a point in life in which she is ordering voodoo dolls, officially reflection dolls, in the likenesses of her husband and his lover. Will the dolls even work? If she sticks a pin in Dax’s arse, will he flinch? If she dangles GDOG over the edge of the balcony, will adrenalin rush her veins? Does any of it matter?
Agatha goes to the order page at Etsy, attaches the photos of Dax and GDOG, and pays the fee, along with expedited delivery charges. Then she opens her Hard Truths file and scrolls to the vole post that she never really deleted in Shrinky-Dink’s office. She closes her eyes and for the millionth time imagines herself and Dax as the little rodent-y creatures shunning the sexy vole sashaying past their home. “Begone!” she whispers. “Begone.”
Chapter Eleven
“You haven’t died of anthrax,” Shrinky-Dink says at Agatha’s next appointment.
“Not yet,” Agatha says, moving only her eyeballs as she speaks. Her neck hurts that much. “They say the official incubation period for pulmonary anthrax is one to seven days, but I suspect that’s a conservative estimate.”
Shrinky-Dink nods. “Let’s hope for the best.” She’s so matter of fact it stings. “What’s wrong with your neck?”
Agatha turns at the waist like a marionette and tells her about the spy pants and taking photos and the kissing and the snap of the camera strap and the spray paint. She does not mention the voodoo dolls.
“Spying is not what I meant by ‘try out a new hobby,’” Shrinky-Dink says.
“I figured,” Agatha says.
“Nor is graffiti.”
“I figured that too.”
“You do smell better though. Note even a hint of skunk now.”
“Thank you.”
“And your hands are healing nicely.”
Agatha holds out her hands, palms up, and studies them. “Yes.”
“Rather pink though.”
“The paint. It’s messy when you’re moving fast.”
“Mm hm. How’s the toe?”
“Getting there.” Agatha slides her foot out of the flip-flop and waggles her big toe. Less like an overripe avocado, more like a dill pickle.
“So now just the neck?”
“And the anthrax.”
“Right.”
Agatha is quiet.
“And the heart,” says Shrinky-Dink.
Agatha nods ever so slightly. “And the heart.”
* * *
Later that evening, Agatha shovels shrimp lo mein into her mouth with a pair of the boys’ Red Sox chopsticks, notes the cultural misstep of that combo, as well as how quickly dinner on boys-with-Dax nights has become an informal, almost slovenly affair, and, when the carton is empty, pulls the fortune from her cookie: “Conquer your fears. Otherwise, your fears will conquer you.”
“Bloody hell.” She crumples the fortune and tosses it over the railing into a forsythia bush. Dustin would yell at her for littering but he isn’t here and Agatha can’t see how littering is really littering if it’s on your own property. She tucks away the guilt, nibbles the stale cookie, and opens the Moms group on her phone.
Agatha Arch:
“Moms, I need an exterior house painter. Best recs. Go!”
Agatha doesn’t need a house painter. The house was painted two years ago and will be good for four or five more, depending on the number of nor’easters that hit. But if sticking Dax in the wallet means one less silky muumuu-maxi for GDOG, bring on the brushes.
While she waits for the Moms to pounce—they adore “Go!” posts almost as much as “Look at this!” posts—Agatha combs the feed looking for contenders for her annual “The 12 Days of the Wallingford Moms”:
Lauren Stage:
Best place to buy a mattress? Go!”
Boring.
Sandy Stone:
Favorite orthodontist? Go!”
Equally boring.
Lauren Stage:
Electric toothbrush for sensitive gums? Go!”
Seriously?
Dolly Eggers:
Favorite venue that can handle 50 to 60 guests for my baby’s first birthday party? Go!”
Aha! Agatha saves the first birthday gala post as “Dolly’s Diamond” and wonders if any of the many Moms who host these supersized parties for their one-year-olds realize the absurdity of such events.
Lauren Stage:
Best vibrator? (TMI?) Go!”
Score. After saving Lauren’s vibrator post for the carol, Agatha also saves Elizabeth Kingly’s most recent inquiry. Undeniably one of the year’s best.
Elizabeth Kingly:
“OK, ladies, a bit of an embarrassing question, but you all know best and I know you are discreet. What is your favorite method of birth control? We’ve been using condoms, but they’re ruining a bit of our fun. Go!”
Tessa Rivers:
“IUD!”
Sandy Stone:
“Nuvaring.”
Dolly Eggers:
“The pill.”
Wanda Watson:
“Having four kids under the age of 5. I don’t have enough energy to wave goodbye to my husband let alone spread my legs for him.”
Rachel Runk:
“Pull-out method!”
Tessa Rivers:
“You’ve got to be kidding, Rachel?!”
Elizabeth Kingly:
“Rachel, DM me!”
Agatha is not sure if Elizabeth wants a direct message from Rachel for a how-to on the pull-out method or if she just wants to tell her she is batshit crazy, but either way, her Go! post will get high honors in this year’s carol.
Minutes later, the recs for a house painter start to pour in. Big Al of Big Al’s Painting Crew is cheap but always leaves a few drips. Duncan Weber is great for spot jobs. Cyrus Little is awesome but oh my god so pricy. Isai Corona—also known as the Tush—is affordable, efficient, skilled, and responsible. He is also hot, seven Moms report. Very, very hot, three Moms add. Agatha texts him immediately.
* * *
Agatha’s agent comes for her on Instagram. “Where, oh, where, is Agatha Arch?” she posts, tagging Agatha, with a photo of a world map with a smiley face plastered on it.
Agatha tags her back in a Where’s Waldo? post.
* * *
The first late September chill hits just days after the nor’easter, and the leftovers of summer begin to decompose in the dirt. All those lilac petals and forsythia blooms, discarded fortunes and marigold dust mixing up with the carcasses of bees and beetles, deer dung and turkey feathers, even those sad little tufts of rabbit fur left over by the ravenous fox.
Agatha sniffs at the early autumn rot and shifts the ice pack on her neck. The nail of her big toe has fallen off and there’s no sign of a new one growing back. The skin is smooth and shiny; still bruised and tender but far less painful.
Tap tap tippity-tap. The woodpecker continues its work. Agatha lifts her binoculars. Seven holes and counting. Bastard.
She so wants to spend the day loun
ging in misery. Eyeballing the remains of the shed. Crying about that day … this life. Wallow-wobbling in woe-is-me. She glances at the tomato plant. The hopeful tomato is now ever so slightly tinged with red. Prick.
She throws on her spy pants, hops in her car, and heads to Apple54. On the way, she’s sure she feels sad enough to join the Interloper in her life on the road, to squat in a carbon dioxide–soaked patch of grass and hold out a can for small change. For one brief moment, it seems like a fantastically uncomplicated existence.
But the moment she spots the Interloper in the distance that fantasy explodes. Hang out with this coo-coo-cachoo in the newly brisk air for hours on end? No, thank you. She takes a deep breath and pulls off the road to consider her options:
Turn around and head home without further action.
Pull into the grocery parking lot, take photos, and study the Interloper from afar.
Pull up next to the Interloper, roll down the window, say hello, and give her some cash.
Option #3 gives her palpitations, but it’s the only way forward. Agatha cranks up her go-to brave song—the theme from Rocky—and envisions herself in a dumpy pair of gray sweats and a headband running up those famous Philly steps.
Thump-thump-thumpy-thump-thumpy-thump-thumpy-thump.
Thump-thump-thumpy-thump-thumpy-thump-thumpy-thump.
She plucks Bear from the dashboard, gives him a loud smooch, and apologizes for biting his foot. He bobble-nods his forgiveness.
She pulls a dollar from her wallet and sets it on the passenger seat. She needs to be ready. No fumbling when she comes face to face with the Interloper. She must appear strong and not-to-be-fucked-with. First impressions are everything. She practices.
“Hello, Interloper,” she grunts.
Too tough.