Souvenirs of Starling Falls

by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  I looked around to see if anyone had read my mind, but they all seemed oblivious to my evil. They were still talking, nodding, smiling.

  I looked down, ashamed of myself. Whatever conversation Tom, Barnaby, and Priscilla were having might as well have been happening in a foreign language. It sounded like muffled noise to me.

  Snuff. It. Down. Snuff it down, I told myself.

  This had been different from the other times.

  For instance, the part about Barnaby deserving to die and the deliciously satisfying image of his head exploding.

  That was a little extreme, I told myself.

  I tried to even my breathing. Mercifully, it seemed that I had become completely inconsequential to this evening’s social hour. The other three seemed perfectly capable of carrying on without me.

  Muffinseed, who’d been cuddled up next to me, knew the truth though. She’d hopped off the couch a moment earlier, right when the evilness had hit, smart enough to get away from me.

  I bit my lip. These thoughts that came out of nowhere were getting worse and worse, and they were starting to happen all the time.

  “So,” Barnaby continued, no longer sounding muffled to me, “how does the story reveal itself to you? Or do you methodically plot it out?”

  “Yes, Tom. Tell us how the process works,” said Priscilla, leaning in.

  “Well,” Tom said, clearing his throat, “I’ve mapped it all out… I guess outlined it, you know, or whatever, in the form of an outline, and I’ve also come up with, uh, some character developments, I guess you could call it, where I’ve figuratively sketched out my characters, as in, umm, how their appearance looks and how they talk, and come up with an idea about their habits and behaviors, you know.”

  So articulate! Look at these losers hanging on your every word. Tell us more, said the demon in my head. It sounded like me, only far crazier and more vicious. I took a sip of water to keep my mouth from talking.

  Barnaby and Priscilla nodded emphatically. Along with grocers and groomers, every small town needed its own author.

  “Do you write drunk and edit sober?” asked Barnaby, smiling a goofy, excited smile.

  “Excuse me?” asked Tom. He set down his beer, looking practically sheepish.

  “Like Hemingway. It was Hemingway who said that, right? Never mind,” said Barnaby, sensing that his comment had missed its mark. Or perhaps hit it a little too dead-on.

  “Please ignore Deuce, Tom. Tell us more of your writerly secrets,” said Priscilla, bending forward, I swear, just so my husband could see down her shirt. She reached out and squeezed Tom’s knee.

  He coughed and turned red again. “Anyway, so I’ve sketched out my characters, and now I’m starting to write it all down. Starting to, uh, get it all down. Putting pen to paper. From here it should be smooth sailing. Of course, there could be many drafts. A first draft, which could be like a, um, really like a glorified outline, you know? I think all the greats had up to a dozen drafts just for one book. Hemingway, for instance?” He nodded at Barnaby, as if to say You know Hemingway. You just mentioned him. “Nabokov. Tolstoy. James Joyce. It’s a long process.”

  I exhaled a derisive little snort, but no one seemed to notice.

  “Pen to paper? You write it? I mean, you don’t type it?” asked Priscilla.

  “Oh, well, no. I type it. I guess that’s just an expression.”

  “Okay,” said Barnaby, “so you come up with an outline. Do you mean like a timeline of what will happen? Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes. Exactly,” Tom said.

  “And then what happens after the outline?” Barnaby asked, stroking his chin-neck.

  I noticed then that his tiny head looked bigger than usual. It was practically normal-sized tonight. His eyes were buggier than ever. His goatee resembled a small, shaggy toilet seat for a miniature raccoon. His pockmarks were stretching like inky dots on a balloon. And then I suddenly understood that his head was reinflating so it could explode again.

  “Does anyone need anything?” I asked, jumping up, hoping to make the insanity and evilness drain away from me.

  “No, we’re fine,” Priscilla said, gesturing for me to sit back down. Her eyes and Barnaby’s about-to-explode bug eyes never came unglued from Tom.

  “Well,” said Tom, “like I said, I’ve also put quite a bit into my character developments, and they’re pretty strong at this point. But, uh, back to the outline, now that I’m, you know, happy with it, and I feel like I know where the story is heading, I’m putting flesh on the bones, you could say.”

  I’d never heard him talk like this. I wasn’t sure whether his regurgitated MFA babble or his blushy, stammery nervousness was more annoying. I tried to calm back down into a reasonably irritated person instead of a psychotic monster. I decided I’d have better control over my emotions if I focused on what annoyed me about him instead of my hatred toward Barnaby.

  Look at me! I’m a writer; I can’t tell you anything yet. I’ve developed characters! I’m putting pen to paper! I’ve made an outline! Now I’m fleshing it up! He thought he was so smart, yet he sounded so stupid.

  There, that was better. Bitchy but not crazy.

  I took another sip of my water, feeling like I might be regaining some control.

  “The process is remarkably rewarding,” he was telling them.

  “Have you ever considered speaking with a hoity-toity British accent?” I asked Tom. Aloud. And then I burst out laughing.

  Everyone turned to look at me.

  “What did you just say?” asked Tom. He was trying to stay composed but his nostrils were flaring and his eyes were burning straight through me.

  “Do you mean that his characters should have British accents?” asked Priscilla.

  I ignored her, focusing on Tom. “Or what about a Spanish accent like Antonio Banderas? Something fancified.”

  “What are you trying to say?” asked Tom.

  “I’m just trying to help,” I said.

  “I have no idea what she’s talking about,” he said to Barnaby and Priscilla. He twirled his finger by his ear and glanced my way a few times, in the universal symbol for She’s coo-coo.

  Naturally, that didn’t sit well with me. I yawned a big old yawn. Nice and loud and rude. I realized that even when the monsters weren’t taking over, I was starting to hate my husband. And—I knew this would be even worse tomorrow, like a hangover—myself.

  I looked over at Barnaby and saw that his head had returned to its normal pill-shaped size. My pulse seemed to be slowing back down. Fury was leaving me, shame was seeping in.

  I didn’t know why any of this was happening. Not long ago, I’d been cheerful all the time. Once I got out of Pennsylvania and moved to Seattle, how couldn’t I be?

  Daily, I’d hear, “Courtney, are you ever in a bad mood?” and “I knew I could count on you to cheer me up!”

  Back then, my love for Tom had been huge. Solid. Passionate. Respect-filled. Fun and strong. Silly and enduring. I had loved him perfectly and completely in every moment prior to our move to Starling Falls. Even during arguments, I never thought I didn’t love him. But everything inside me was turning cold and mean, and worse.

  Tonight’s madness was no exception.

  It was really getting out of control.

  Daydreams of my foot in a steel-toed boot, slamming against Tom’s shins, interrupted regular tasks like staining woodwork. One second I’d be painting on a coat of Walnut Wonder, the next, my mind would be transported to another place, the vivid image flashing before me like a brief, unexpected commercial. Must be the fumes, I’d tell myself. The sound of his voice now occasionally filled me with a dreadful certainty that he deserved to suffer. And something told me he was experiencing similar feelings for me.

  Hopscotch began whining. “I think somebody has to go out,” I said.

  “We should be going anyway,” said Barnaby.

  “Oh, already?” asked Priscilla, staying planted, looking at Barnaby like
he was deranged.

  “You’ll see us again in a couple of days,” I reminded them pleasantly.

  They got up off the couch and the four of us walked to the door. They lingered on our front porch working out the logistics of our Supper Club date. Just as it was decided that we’d stop by their house to pick them up and all walk there, unless it was raining, in which case Barnaby would drive, Priscilla said, “What’s that? Is that a package?”

  “Oh, it is,” I said, bending down to retrieve the cardboard shipping box tucked behind a planter.

  “Did you order some clothes?” she asked. Her eyes were bright and eager. She was waiting for me to open it in front of them.

  “No, just some books,” I said.

  “Books?” asked Barnaby, intrigued.

  “Books for you or for Tom?” asked Priscilla.

  Did she think since I wasn’t the writer that I also couldn’t read? “For me.”

  “Have you been to the new and used bookstore downtown?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but they didn’t have what I was looking for.”

  “Then you should tell Frank Bittler. He’ll order what you need. They’ll bring new books in for you, if you place a request,” said Priscilla.

  “I thought it would be easier to just order what I needed online,” I said.

  “But you need to support local businesses,” Priscilla reminded me with a sad frown.

  Unable to endure keeping our new besties in the dark any longer, Tom broke in: “She’s gotten really into Feng Shui. These are probably more books about that. Right, Court?”

  I glared at him. It was none of their business.

  “Feng Shui. Now there’s something you don’t hear much about anymore,” said Barnaby, king of keeping up with trends.

  I shrugged. I was surprised he even knew what it was.

  “So, is your house kind of… laid out using Feng Shui right now?” asked Priscilla, her wide, pretty, flat face with its blatantly obvious expressions scrunching as she tried to make sense of the mismatched furniture and disjointed arrangements.

  “No,” I said, humiliated. “Just the opposite. I want to arrange things in a way that feels more comfortable, and I need a little help with that. So far it’s not really coming together.”

  “Maybe some of the crystals and healing incense you ordered will help,” said Tom. He patted my arm. There was no way the McGhees were going home now.

  “Tom! You’re teasing!” exclaimed Priscilla.

  “Am not,” he said to her.

  “Courtney, is this for real?” she asked. Her eyebrows were so far up that her forehead was getting pushed into her hairline like a crinkled white field of linen. What I’ll say in her defense is that she wasn’t particularly judgmental. I felt in that moment that she was truly just curious about this foreign, un-Pottery Barn world we were talking about. Honestly, I didn’t feel criticized; she seemed to delight in everything about us.

  “I’m just trying to make our home cozier. You know. A little more tranquil and relaxing,” I said. Because it still wasn’t any of those things. Even though we’d cleaned it and were settled in, it wasn’t like our old apartment. It was ten times bigger, had been vacant and crawling with spiders and mice for years, and had both electrical and plumbing issues that affected the decisions I’d come to take for granted in Seattle. Ironically, problems I hadn’t had since childhood had returned. Should I make some toast? Not if the microwave was going, or we’d blow a fuse. Should I take a shower? Not if the washing machine was running, or there wouldn’t be enough water pressure and hot water to rinse my hair.

  “Well… Let us know how it goes,” said Barnaby, giving the shipping box I was holding a little pat pat pat.

  “I can’t wait to,” I said, smiling a stiff, plastic smile.

  “See you soon,” said Priscilla. And then she noticed something else on the porch. A thick manila folder resting on one of the cushions of our wicker loveseat. “Deuce!” she exclaimed. “You set this here?”

  “Oh, I guess I did,” he said. “That must have been a couple days ago when we stopped by and I put it down when I tied my shoelace.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Priscilla picked it up and handed it to Tom. “It’s that packet of information about your house that Tom let us borrow that first morning,” she said to me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You were still asleep,” she said. “After you two spent the night at our house? The three of us all took another tour after breakfast. Deuce wanted to see the basement and get another look during the day.”

  “Really?” I said.

  She nodded. “Thanks, Tom. It was interesting reading! Though I’m sure it has nothing on your novel.”

  “You ought to scan that all in and give a copy to the Starling Falls Historical Society,” Barnaby told him.

  Priscilla yawned daintily and covered her mouth. “We’d better go, I suppose.”

  “Good night, you two,” said Barnaby.

  “Good night,” Tom and I said, waving like a couple and then turning to one another in contempt as soon as our door closed behind us.

  “So! Imagine that! They did have our packet,” I said. “Our secret packet that’s no one’s business but ours. All this time that I’ve wondered about it and looked for it, they’ve had it.”

  “I would have told you, but I knew this was how you’d react.”

  “They get to read our secret packet, before I’ve even seen it?”

  “Stop calling it a secret packet,” he said. “It’s just a packet. Say it with me: A packet. Try it, Courtney. Say it. A packet.”

  “Stop it,” I said.

  He snort-laughed.

  “And,” I said, “you’ve never ever mentioned that they had a second tour?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “The bizarre, impossible thing is, I knew. I knew all along.”

  “You did not.”

  “But I did!”

  “You’re a joke.”

  “What’s happened to you, Tom?” I asked him. “Since the moment we moved here, I don’t feel like I even know you.”

  “What now?” he asked, his tone implying he was accustomed to and bored by my predictable, angsty insecurities.

  “Why did you tell them about the Feng Shui and the crystals and incense?” I asked. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging on the wall, and I was embarrassed at how ugly I had become. Especially compared to how perfect Priscilla had just looked. My hair was a mess and my shirt had a stain on the front of it. Buried, forgotten feelings of my youth resurrected themselves. Once again I was the irritating girl that no boy would ever like. The pizza face with oozy zits and gullible, zany beliefs and ideas.

  “Are you ashamed?” he asked me.

  Yes. I’m ashamed, I thought. “Not at all,” I said. “But it’s none of their business.”

  “If you want to have a conversation about something, let’s talk about how rude you were tonight.”

  “Rude?” I asked. Of course I knew what he meant. Even I thought I sounded like I was lying.

  “Yes. Rude,” he said.

  I was following him to the kitchen. As usual, he was on his way to the refrigerator for a beer. I realized he was drinking about a six-pack each night, usually starting around nine or ten and going until long after I fell asleep. “You know, you’ve started drinking a lot,” I said.

  “Are you going to start in on me about that, too?”

  I took a deep breath, suddenly feeling too defeated to fight. “I’m just concerned,” I said. “And it’s expensive. Between that, and the dinners with the McGhees, and the trips to the laundromat…”

  Tom had recently stopped doing laundry at home. He said it was because it was so much more efficient saving it up and doing it all at once. So this meant now it was my chore, since the original reason he was going to handle it—so I didn’t have to spend time in our creepy basement—had been removed. At first I thought he was j
ust being lazy, but when we blew a fuse and he became enraged about having to go downstairs to change it, I began to wonder if the laundry switch-up was more about avoiding the basement than avoiding that chore.

  “We’re not spending that much,” he said.

  “We sort of are, though. Keep in mind, neither of us is working right now.”

  Everything stopped. The refrigerator was open and Tom’s hand had just closed around a bottle of beer. And then that bottle was cracking down on the edge of the kitchen table and he was screaming in my face, “I’m working! I’m working!”

  The bottle was in his hand, with jagged pieces of it on the table and the floor. Glass and beer were everywhere.

  He’s going to kill me with that bottle, I thought. The dogs were right beside us, and Muffinseed gave a warning bark that sounded hollow and far away. I thought Quiet, Muffinseed. Save yourself. Save Hopscotch. Don’t worry about me.

  “You don’t take me seriously, but they do,” Tom said. He pointed what remained of the broken bottle in the direction of Barnaby and Priscilla’s house, but not exactly. A sudden urge to giggle came over me, but I fought it off. I thought it would be hilarious to give his arm a little push and say, “Their house is more that way, Mr. Hemingway.” If I had I suppose he might have killed me. That’s just the kind of moment it was.

  The house suddenly felt very hot and smelled wretchedly musty. The ever-present tinge of mouse pee, which I didn’t usually notice any longer, suddenly became stifling. The too-high, too-dark corners of the room seemed to be receding. I didn’t know what to say or do next, so I did nothing but stand there and shut my mouth. Everything changed that night. I’d never before kept my mouth shut out of fear.

  We stood there for a while. Breathing. Calming down. As if we were recovering from some normal activity we’d gone through together, like sex or a morning run. I don’t know what Tom was thinking, but in my head, along with concerns about the dogs being scared, was the sad realization that I’d become one of those women they’re always trying to save with signs in restroom stalls.

  Chapter 7