Agatha Arch is Afraid of Everything

by Kristin Bair

  Keeping a safe distance between herself and the Interloper, Agatha pushes through a tangle of vines so entwined she imagines they are making love. An image of Dax and GDOG and the shed explodes in her brain. Good god, she thinks, I’m a walking stereotype, a jilted wife who can’t get through a simple stalking exercise without envisioning her husband in vile acts of infidelity.

  As always, she is well prepared for her mission. Her GoPro is in place. She put fresh batteries in her headlamp. Her spy pants are packed with all the familiar necessities, though this time the Dax and GDOG reflection dolls have joined her, Dax in the left cargo pocket, GDOG in the right.

  Rounding a glacial boulder, she considers the animals loosed by the sad man in nearby New Hampshire. Is the hungry lion hunched on the other side? Will the gorilla swing down on a vine? Will that bear they promised had been eliminated storm out of a cave? Agatha runs a hand over the Leatherman Super Tool 300 EOD and takes another step.

  When the Interloper reaches her tree, she grabs something from inside the trunk, then slumps to her bum. She closes her eyes and wraps her hand around what Agatha imagines is a photograph of two young girls. She imagines the Interloper has two daughters, one still alive back home and one dead. It’s a story. A made-up story. A writer’s story. For all Agatha knows, the Interloper is gripping the last Oreo in her self-care stash.

  When the Interloper’s head bobs to her chest, Agatha sneaks closer, making her way across roots and branches and leaves, pretending she is Bear Grylls sneaking up on a rabbit he’s snared for dinner, his only hope against starvation.

  Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe.

  All goes well until she gets close to the Interloper. Then, oh. Sometimes seeing just isn’t what you imagine it’s going to be, even for Agatha. She expects to feel powerful and dominant, superior to this young woman begging for money, but instead she feels like a felled tree. Up close she can see that the Interloper’s hair is matted and gnarled. Up close she can smell her sour stink. She peeks into the tree and sees that Melody had indeed given her the self-care bags. She sees a flashlight, a jar of peanut butter, and many cans of beans with pull tops. There are bottles of water and a bunch of rotting bananas. Also two rolls of biodegradable toilet paper, candy wrappers, the coffee can with a handful of bills and coins, and a plastic bag of notes from Moms in the group. Agatha opens the bag.

  “Stay strong,” one note says.

  “Here’s a phone number for a shelter where you can sleep at night,” says another.

  When Agatha sees the filthy blanket, she knows the Interloper has no intention of using the phone number printed on the slip of paper. For some impossible-to-understand reason, this young woman would rather trudge through the most challenging terrain in Wallingford, climb this unbearably steep hill, pull this atrocious blanket from this tree trunk, and wrap it around her sad self. Agatha wonders what could drive someone to this place, all alone in the wilderness. Then she thinks of herself destroying the shed with the hatchet, spray-painting the tree in GDOG’s yard, spying, and almost cutting off GDOG’s hair. Do the Moms think the same thing of her? Do they DM one another about what could drive her to such behavior? Where will it end, for the Interloper and for Agatha?

  Without taking any photos, without turning on the GoPro, Agatha turns and tiptoes back to her hiding place. She watches a squirrel pick up a leaf, super-fast fold it many times as if an ancient origami master, then race up a tree to pack it into its nest.

  A scurry of squirrels.

  Three black-capped chickadees scamper up and down an aspen trunk, performing acrobatic feats with their strong tiny legs. Chicka-dee-dee-dee. Chicka-dee-dee-dee.

  A banditry of chickadees.

  A garter snake rustles under a mound of fallen leaves and pokes its head up near a rock.

  A nest of snakes.

  The horror.

  Agatha begins a sprint down the hill, chanting a tongue-twisting poem of sorts:

  A prickle of porcupines

  A cauldron of bats

  An obstinacy of buffalo

  A mischief of rats

  A flamboyance of flamingos

  A thunder of hippos

  A smack

  Yes, a smack,

  of jellyfish

  Ravens, a storytelling

  Bullfinches, a bellowing

  Larks, an exalting

  Cormorants, a gulp

  Lions, a pride

  Bears, a maul

  Kangaroos, a troop

  Gorillas, a whoop

  When she crashes through the last tangle of brush into the grocery store parking lot, she’s caught up in the irony of collective nouns. A maul of bears. Bah!

  No one is waiting to share her preoccupation. The Dax and GDOG dolls are shaken but silent. So what of a group of friends?

  A devour

  A rebuke

  A censure

  A stricture

  But better,

  A soul

  A luminescence

  An aurora

  A syzygy

  * * *

  High Priestess Jane Poston and her dazzle of zebras cross Main Street with their heads high, their manes shiny and keratin-smooth, and their colorful stripes breathtakingly lovely. As good, law-abiding Moms, they stay in the crosswalk, swishing back and forth between the lines, and when they make it to the parking lot, they disperse as if they’ve found a good watering hole. A pot of water buffalo now.

  Minutes later, safe in their cars, they sing the praises of Salon Brava, then their favorite lunch spot. Photos of the roasted salmon with autumn vegetables inundate the Moms page.

  Priya Devi:

  “Major shout out to Dalton’s today! New tablecloths are to die for!”

  Agatha guffaws. The new tablecloths are hideous. Purplish things with putrid orange pumpkins. In response, she posts a photo of a man falling to his death when he sees a woman in a pumpkin costume.

  The Moms bombard Agatha with frowny faces and continue their mission to lift Dalton’s to new heights.

  Blonde Brenda What’s-Her-Name:

  “The walnut/goat cheese salad has been seasonally updated with mandarin oranges and pine nuts. Heavenly.”

  Agatha posts a photo of oranges dancing in a conga line.

  phyliss-with-one-l-and-two-esses:

  “agatha arch, quit it. you’re just jealous you weren’t invited to the salon + lunch outing.”

  Agatha posts a photo of a troll sobbing under a bridge.

  phyliss-with-one-l-and-two-esses:

  “i said quit it!”

  Agatha posts a photo of Bam-Bam banging his giant bone into the earth.

  To Jane Poston’s photo of a bowl of three miniature scoops of sorbet, she adds a cartoon of a deer pooping in the woods.

  And as a final comment, she posts a photo of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders doing their thing. “Go Dalton’s!” she writes. “The restaurant of choice for divorcees, old ladies, and Wallingford Moms!”

  * * *

  Later, sipping tea on the porch and waiting for Susan Sontag to appear, she considers Phyliss’s comment about jealousy. Is she right? Is Agatha jealous of the camaraderie these women seem to find in one another and this group? Does she really want to be part of the swishing tail of the dazzle, dutifully following High Priestess Poston hither and thither? Does she really want to share photos of salmon and sorbet?

  She searches for the collective noun for skunks.

  Surfeit.

  Yes. And no. And maybe. But rather than admit such complexity, she’d rather get sprayed by a skunk.

  * * *

  “When I was a girl, before my father tossed me in the deep end and before beloved Susie died, I dreamed of effervescence. I was strong and powerful and unbreakable.” Agatha’s voice trails off. She is lying down again.

  “Life is hard,” Shrinky-Dink says. “And wonderful.”

  An effervescence of friends.

  This is a good one. Maybe the best.

  Chapter Twenty-Thr
ee

  The 3,000,000th “IS THIS YOUR CAT? post pops up in the Moms group just minutes after Agatha wakes from a dream about being stuck in a submerged vehicle with High Priestess Poston. Unable to access her dual steel-headed hammers and gasping for air, Agatha had turned to find the High Priestess relaxing next to her in Coop wearing some kind of fancy, blue-lit underwater breathing apparatus on her head like a giant bubble. Agatha was drowning. The High Priestess was not.

  Agatha squints through soggy, drowning-next-to-HP eyes at the image of the cat on her phone. Like seventy-five percent of the lost cats in Wallingford, it is black with a bit of white at the neck.

  “OMG,” she types, “is this Tuxedo?!” Because they’re all named Tuxedo and she’s grumpy from the dream.

  Phyliss isn’t amused. “agatha, that is not funny. someone is missing this darling creature and you should not poke fun.”

  “And you should learn the rules of capitalization,” Agatha writes, as if that will ever happen.

  In any other conversation, their tiff might distract from the topic at hand, but nothing—absolutely nothing—blazes brighter in Wallingford than the passion of cat people.

  Melinda Bates:

  “Oh, this sweetie-magoogle-toogle of a feline. Where do you belong, sweet thing?”

  Agatha Arch:

  “The cat isn’t reading the posts, Melinda. No need to address it directly to her. Believe it or not, cats don’t read.”

  Ava Newton:

  “Is kitty-kitty OK? Is she hungry? Thirsty? Ill? Lonely? Does she need a little rub behind the ears?”

  Agatha Arch:

  “Ava, Ava, Ava. I’m pretty sure if Coco is posting this, she’s also taking care of the cat’s basic needs. She doesn’t have the nickname Coco Kitty for nothing. As far as I know, she hasn’t let one of the many lost cats she’s saved starve. Coco, weigh in here?”

  Coco Kitty:

  “I am taking good care of her, Agatha. Thank you.”

  Agatha Arch:

  “”

  The wild tagging begins as Wallingford’s cat passionistas pull together to get this little kitty home, the great meow crescendoing via the FB waves.

  Wanda Watson:

  “Mary Waters, is this Tuxedo?”

  Esther Ma:

  “Barbara Bancroft, is this your missing kitty?”

  Linh Hong:

  “Darlene Smith, this cat looks just like yours! Is Blackie safe in the house?”

  A frenzy of “Blackie? Blackie? Is she safe?” posts follows.

  Sheila Craft:

  “Coco, important question. Does this cat purr? My neighbor, Julie Pastor, has a cat that looks just like this but it doesn’t purr. Some kind of vocal cord injury at birth. It’s a silent cat.”

  Kerry Sheridan:

  “Oh, poor, poor kitty. No voice. Julie Pastor, I didn’t know.”

  Coco Kitty:

  “Yes, lots of sugary purrs, especially after the saucer of warm milk.”

  And that is it. The saucer of warm milk stirs the cat passionistas into such an orgasmic state that Agatha has to sign off. She moves to the kitchen, makes a cup of tea, and tries to quell the burble-gurgle, burble-gurgle, burble-gurgle sounds left over from the nightmare. The sound of herself drowning and HP Poston laughing.

  * * *

  Agatha pulls up behind GDOG’s silver Volvo Xwhatever in the after-school pickup line, and even before she taps the horn, Willow Bean’s eyes shoot to the rearview mirror. She knows when Agatha is close, senses it. It’s hard not to when Agatha oozes jealousy and hate like some people ooze sweat.

  When their eyes lock, Agatha winks and gives her the royal wave.

  It is Tuesday, and on Tuesdays the boys take swimming lessons after school at the Y. In their former life configuration, Agatha used to pick them up at school, buzz through Dunkin’ for a coffee (her) and donuts (them), then take them to swim. In their present life, Tuesday is a Dad Day so the dog walker fills this role, though she skips the Dunkin’ stop and provides organic apples for the boys instead.

  The line creeps forward, kid after kid tumbling from the mouth of the school into a waiting car, heading for dentist and doctor appointments, piano lessons, soccer practice, Girl Scouts, and/or any of the zillions of activities available to overscheduled children these days. Finally, Agatha sees Dustin and Jason poke their heads out of the door. Principal Bandolino is between them, a hand set lightly on Jason’s scruff, knowing he’ll bolt to the playground given half a chance.

  When the boys clear the door, they both turn their heads to see Agatha’s car. They know she’s there, as she is every Tuesday—daylight moon—and both grin as if they’ve just spotted a bowl of chocolate pudding with a thousand marshmallows stuck in it.

  She waves at them, rolls down her window, and yells, “Hi, sweeties!” Technically she’s not supposed to get out of her car in parent pickup line—school rule—but technically Willow Bean is not a parent, so neither is adhering strictly to the rules. She throws Coop into park, leaps out, and smothers the boys in a hug. Mucky hands squeeze her hard. “Mom, take us to swimming!” they yell.

  Willow Bean’s voice floats into their circle. “Hello, boys! Hop in! I’m taking you to swimming today.”

  “No way! We want Mom!” they yell.

  Agatha feels Mrs. Bandolino’s hand on her shoulder. “Agatha,” she says. Her voice is calm and even, as always. Agatha loves that. She reminds her of her fifth-grade teacher who let her explore the world the way she needed to, whether that meant climbing a tree or lying in a pile of dirt or jumping in puddles to measure how high the splash rose.

  Agatha pulls back. “Boys, go on with …,” she says. “With …” Brazen hussy is tickling the tip of her tongue, sitting right there, wanting to deliver its sting. But these are the boys. Her boys. She wants them to shine and show respect no matter what nonsense the world or their father introduces. She clamps her lips together and keeps that brazen hussy in. “Go with Willow,” she says.

  “But, Mom,” they say, again in unison.

  “Go. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

  “But …”

  Agatha opens the back door of the dog walker’s car, eyes down. “Go. I love you two birds.” She smooches the top of each of their heads as they climb in.

  GDOG is working hard to meet Agatha’s eyes. A thank-you, she presumes, for not making a scene. Or at least not much of a scene. Agatha avoids them. Mrs. Bandolino’s hand stays on her shoulder. She wishes she could keep it there all day.

  As the Volvo pulls away, both boys wave wildly at Agatha through the rear window. She is crying again. And the cars behind her are beeping. Children are lined up in the hallway. Dentist appointments are looming. The clock is ticking.

  Agatha shakes free of Mrs. Bandolino and raises her arms at the line of cars. “Be quiet!” she yells at them. “All of you, be quiet!” She knows there are at least a dozen FB Moms in those cars, witnessing Agatha’s weak moment. “Be quiet!” she yells again. Then she leaps into Coop and pulls away. She rolls slowly over the speed bumps, tears obliterating the signs warning about children crossing.

  * * *

  The grass and weeds in the yard around the shed tickle Agatha’s calves. Dax is pissed.

  “C’mon, Agatha, get this cleared,” he insists, as if he gets to insist on anything.

  “Did Kerry call you again?”

  Dax doesn’t answer.

  “Did she? She’s been hounding me about this every damn day.”

  “She sent me a photo of Thomas’s poison ivy. He looks like he has the plague.”

  “Oh, for Big Papi’s sake. He’s fine. It’s almost gone.”

  “It’s not just poison ivy, Agatha. The buckthorn and knotweed are raging out here. Hire someone. Let me hire someone. Heck, get out there and do it yourself.”

  “Tell me, Dax,” Agatha says, “what exactly is buckthorn?”

  Dax sucks in a breath and pats his belly, a telltale sign he doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking
about. Agatha has seen it a million times. It used to be endearing. Not anymore.

  She smiles. “Thought so.”

  “I know what poison ivy looks like, Agatha, and there’s enough of that out here to strangle an elephant. Our boys are going to get it, and then you’ll be sorry.”

  “The boys don’t go in there.”

  “Of course they don’t! It’s turning into a jungle.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “They used to play here all the time. They want to again. This was their baseball field with the Sheridan boys.”

  “We have enough land around this house to fit four baseball fields. They do not need this particular spot.”

  “It’s their favorite. The boys have played here for years. The shed was always second base and you know it.”

  Agatha rolls her eyes. Damn Sheridans. “Those Sheridan boys can walk an extra fifty feet to play ball.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “You don’t get to make a point, Dax. We’d still have a shed and a beautiful swatch of yard and the perfect second base for ball games if you hadn’t done what you did. This is not your concern. This is not your home. Take care of the yard at the House of Sin if you’re compelled to take care of something. The end.”

  * * *

  Agatha posts a photo to Instagram of the note taped to her front door: FEAR SHARPENS US.

  3,639 people like it.

  She creates a hashtag: #fearsharpensus.

  Instagrammers start using the hashtag to share their triumphs over fear.

  Some seem small but loom large. One man walked around the block all by himself. Another went to the dentist for the first time in seventeen years. One got dressed and combed her hair.