by Kate Russo
“Quid,” she says, then continues reading.
Emma fishes in her wallet for a pound coin.
“You look smart,” the girl says, eyeing Emma. “You read this book?”
Emma shakes her head, pushing the pound coin across the counter rather than handing it to her. She doesn’t want to make contact with those nails.
“I read Romeo and Juliet when I was in school,” Emma says.
“That one’s dumb,” she chirps back. “Bitch killed herself for no good reason. Try this.” She lifts the book. “Willy was trippin’ when he wrote this one.”
“Right. Maybe I will.”
She definitely won’t, she thinks, putting the avocado in her coat pocket.
“I’ll be done with it tomorrow.” She shakes the book. “If you want to borrow it.”
She imagines the purple rhinestone sandwiched in between the pages. No way she wants to borrow that book.
* * *
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She rinses both the new and the tainted avocado in the kitchen sink, before putting them both in the large wooden fruit bowl that lives on the marble countertop island. She grips the bowl on both sides, spinning it so that the avocados dance around inside, stopping when she feels like she doesn’t know which is which. Once they’ve stopped rolling, she points them both in the direction of the laundry room. If Theo were here, he’d tell her she’s acting insane. Whatever. He’s not here. And he never tells Charlie when he’s acting insane.
Hovering over her small notebook, Emma thinks about all the thoughts she had on the walk home, wondering which deserve to be in the jar. Only one stands out, but she’s scared to write it down. The point of the exercise, Emma knows, is for her to distinguish between mere feelings and reality. “Feelings aren’t facts,” Dr. Gibson reminds her nearly every session. “What you believe may not be rooted in truth, but actually in fear.” She’s convinced that Theo doesn’t intend to return to Rhode Island at the end of the month as planned, despite the fact that Theo has said nothing to indicate that this is true. It’s not just a feeling she has, it’s a truth so inevitable that she believes she’s powerless to stop it. Theo’s not coming home with me, she scrawls.
“Where’s the evidence?” Dr. Gibson would ask her.
“He has nothing to go home to,” Emma would answer, convinced that their marriage and his job at RISD don’t have the same pull as Charlie, his mum, and his childhood home. Hell, she followed him all the way to London and she’s barely seen him.
She folds the piece of paper and stuffs it in the jar, her eyes welling up with tears. Some facts are cathartic to write down, but not this one.
Looking out the kitchen window, she sees that Bennett has just started a new painting. Yesterday, he spent the afternoon in the garden, where he laid out a giant sheet of linen across the grass and proceeded to staple the fabric around a large stretcher a hundred or so times. The staple gun was loud, but more annoyingly, every time he fired it, he would clear his throat with a phlegmy groan—phlegm that could have tainted her avocado. She couldn’t work because she kept imagining herself chucking the avocado at his stupid face. “You won’t know I’m here.” Bull. Shit. Bennett. After he finished stretching the canvas, he coated it several times with gesso, a process that wouldn’t have bothered her except that he was humming along to music coming from his headphones the whole time. It was annoying. Today, he’s coating the canvas with a bizarre yellow wash. She remembers her painting professor advised her to start with a darker more neutral color as a wash, then paint her way to the light colors at the end. Bennett seems to be doing the opposite. Has he forgotten the basics? She wonders if the painting is a commission. Does it already have a destination or someone who desires to own it, before he’s even painted it? His career clearly isn’t where he wants it, otherwise he wouldn’t be renting out his house; still, he seems to be applying this saturated Subway sandwich yellow with all the confidence of a man who has done this a million times before to great effect. Is this the definition of success? Total abandonment of the basics and not giving a shit? What must that be like? To be so sure of your work and have others so sure of it, too?
She’s determined that if she looks back at the fruit bowl now, she won’t be able to tell which avocado is which, so she tests her theory. If she had to guess, she’d say the new one is on the left, but she knows she shouldn’t guess; they’re both just avocados.
When she turns back to look into the garden, a red-haired woman is coming through the gate carrying what appears to be a blackout curtain. Emma looks down at the sink before the woman has a chance to make eye contact with her. When she looks up again, Bennett is greeting the redhead at the studio door with a kiss—an exaggerated, heavy-on-the-tongue kiss that you only get at the beginning of relationships. Emma cringes, watching them out of the corner of her eye and pretending to concentrate on wiping down the countertop with a damp sponge. When Bennett pulls away, he looks over at the kitchen window in time to see Emma wringing out the sponge, high above the sink. Taking the redhead by the hand, he leads her inside. Emma can see through the studio window that they’re still kissing. The redhead is undoing the buttons on his shirt when he pulls back. Glancing in Emma’s direction again, he reaches for the blackout curtain, lifts it up, and runs a metal rod through it, before placing it in front of the big studio window. And just like that, Bennett and the redhead are gone. Emma should be thrilled.
* * *
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Back at her drafting table, she tries to focus. She’s managed to use only three of the one hundred and twenty total colors she intends for this drawing. Grabbing the caput mortuum pencil, she hits Play. She writes just the first four numbers of the sequence before hitting Pause and staring back at Bennett’s blacked-out window. Something is happening behind that curtain that he doesn’t want her to see, and after all the crap he’s subjected her to, that really pisses her off. How dare he want privacy now? She wanted privacy yesterday when he was grunting out in the garden. She takes a deep breath and turns away from the window, and then right in front of her is the crack in the wall. It looks deeper, somehow, like it’s widening. She wonders if Bennett knows about it. She’d like to stride across the garden, bang on his door, and tell him. She’d like to demand that he stop whatever secretive thing he’s doing and come over here and fix this hideous crack.
“Is it really about the crack?” she can hear Dr. Gibson asking. Yes, Emma thinks. The crack is horrible. Fact. She follows it all the way up to the high corner of the wall. Pushing her chair into the corner and still holding on to the colored pencil, she climbs up to inspect the source of the split, tracing it with her finger until the crevice drops low enough for her to step off the chair. The tip of her finger follows it as it carves its way above the drafting table and zigzags down into the far low corner on the other side of the wall. She’s sitting in this same corner, where the crack meets the molding, her head against the wall, when Theo calls.
“What’s up?” she asks, knowing that something is.
“We’re in the car. Me and Charlie and Mum. We’re on our way to Bristol.”
“What? Why?”
“Don’t get mad.” This has to be the most pointless phrase in the English language. She fumes at the very suggestion.
“Charlie wants to see Dad.” Theo’s father, Martin, is buried in Bristol. He had been a documentary filmmaker, who produced many pieces for the BBC before dying, suddenly, ten years ago, from complications after a routine heart operation. That Charlie takes after his father and is, himself, a talented filmmaker is one of the Easton family’s agreed upon lies. Charlie talks a lot about making a documentary about Martin making documentaries. He’s yet to shoot a single frame. “He wants to visit Dad’s grave and talk to him. He thinks it might help.”
“Help him with the drug problem he claims he doesn’t have? He’s stalling.”
&n
bsp; “Maybe.”
No, not maybe. Theo says maybe too much.
“There’s another rehab place just outside of Bristol, a twelve-week program. He said maybe he’d prefer it because he’d feel closer to Dad. It’s worth a try.”
“I guess,” she says, knowing full well it’s not going to work.
“We’re going to stay overnight. Visit the clinic in the morning.”
“Is Charlie packed for a twelve-week stay?”
“No.”
“Right.” She takes the sharpened end of the caput mortuum pencil and jams it into the base of the crack. “I wish you’d told me you were going.”
“I’m sorry, it just happened so fast.”
“Maybe I would have come with you,” she says, digging the pencil tip into the crevice so that bits of the plaster chip away. The maroon pigment transfers to the white surface.
“Really?”
“I’ve never seen your dad’s grave.”
“Now probably wouldn’t have been the right time.” He pauses. “I’ll call you tonight,” he says in that finalizing tone.
“Okay,” she says, even though she doesn’t want to get off the phone at all.
When the line goes dead, she lets the phone drop onto her lap, then brushes it off onto the floor. She grips the pencil with intent, like she would if she were working on her drawing. Scooting along the floor on her butt, she traces the crack with the pencil, as she had done earlier with her finger, pressing the pigment into the gap. She’s careful to keep the tip of the pencil inside the crack, not letting the drawn line stray off the predetermined path. The color coats both sides of the crevice. She shifts to her knees and then, when she can no longer reach by kneeling, stands up, continuing to follow the line up over the desk. When it gets too high, she steps back up onto the chair. From there, if she stands on her tiptoes, she can reach the farthest corner, the color stretching all the way to the end of the crack. She jumps down from the chair and steps back to look at what she’s done. The result is vulgar. The wall looks like it has a pulsing vein running through it. Tonight, she’ll sleep in one of the other bedrooms, let the vein throb in peace.
* * *
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The next morning, she wakes up thinking about the crack and wonders why she’d been so stupid to trace it. If Theo hadn’t gone to Bristol, she wouldn’t have done that. It’s his fault, she tells herself, sitting at the kitchen island with her granola, staring across at Bennett’s still blacked-out studio. Theo hasn’t even sent his usual good morning text. She could text him “Good morning,” but she’s not the one who keeps leaving. She’s right where she’s been all along, in this giant house by herself, where even the annoying neighbor has decided to ignore her. She just needs to focus. If she can forget about the loneliness and forget about the crack, she can put all her energy into her drawing. She’ll just work really hard, maybe so hard that if Theo calls she’ll be too busy to answer.
* * *
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By early afternoon, she has, technically, worked hard. She’s traced the crack with half of the one hundred and twenty colored pencils in her case. What was a small crack, no thicker than a strand of hair, now looks like a chasm; the Grand Canyon on a suburban, white wall in London. The drawing on her table remains as she left it yesterday with just three sequences recorded, plus the very beginning of a fourth. She sits on the floor, staring up at the graffitied wall, watching it like one might stare at a burning building, with a mixture of fascination and terror. Somehow, when she woke up this morning, she knew she would do this, just as she knew she’d regret it and the result would be grotesque. And yet . . .
She can hear Dr. Gibson’s voice in her head. “What bothers you about it, Emma?”
“It’s pulsing,” she’d tell her. “It’s alive.”
All sixty colors together have coalesced into a thick, purplish-brown, like a bruise.
“Except, it’s not, really? Is it?” the doctor would probably ask. Sensitive, not confrontational.
“It looks like it’s rotting,” she’d explain. “Only living things can rot.”
The Crack, she thinks—a proper obsession deserves a proper noun.
* * *
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Starving, she stands in the kitchen, staring at the avocados. It’s definitely the one on the left, she thinks. She knows she’s not really going to eat it. Maybe if she gets good news from Theo, like Charlie’s checked in to rehab, then she’ll challenge herself to eat the fucking thing, but she can’t be brave all the time. Now, it’s Charlie’s turn.
She opens a cabinet and pulls out a box of Ritz Crackers, a little taste of home, although they’re not as salty in the U.K. and always taste a little bit stale. From the fridge, she grabs a block of cheddar cheese, which she slices on a big wooden cutting board while staring out the window, watching the sun shimmer through the newly budding tree branches. Bennett’s studio is still blacked-out. She’s beginning to wonder if they’ll ever resurface, when the studio door opens and the redhead appears. She spots Emma in the window and gives her a big wave, but Bennett is quick to come up behind her, clearly embarrassed.
Emma smiles back, weakly, but doesn’t wave. She doesn’t want them to see her cheeks flush from finally being noticed. She continues to chop her cheese into rectangles and arranges them on the cutting board in a herringbone pattern.
Bennett and the woman seem to be having a disagreement on his front step, but Emma can’t quite hear what it’s about. “Just ask her,” she thinks she can hear the redhead saying.
“No, let’s not bother her,” Bennett replies, dismissively.
“She’s right there!” She points to Emma at the window, but Emma pretends not to notice.
The redhead goes back inside and comes out again a few seconds later with a balled up duvet and cover. She walks defiantly across the yard with the huge wad. She waves again at Emma as best she can with her load, beckoning her to the back entrance.
“Hi,” she says, chipper, as Emma pulls open the door to the garden. “I’m Claire. Sorry to bother you. Emma, right?”
Emma nods, yes, and leans against the entrance, making it clear to Claire not to cross the threshold.
“Is there any chance we can borrow the washer and dryer? We had a red wine incident last night and this duvet has absorbed easily half a bottle of pinot noir. A good one, too!” She slaps at the duvet, like it’s been naughty.
“Okay.” Emma stands upright with a groan, pretending that Claire is putting her out, even though she’s relieved to once again have human contact. Being annoyed is better than feeling alone. Anything is better than feeling alone.
“Thank you, you’re a star,” Claire says, barging right in. “Bennett said not to bother you, but I was sure you wouldn’t mind. You seem like a reasonable person.”
Emma stifles a laugh. If Theo were here, he’d howl at the thought of anyone thinking she’s reasonable.
Claire stuffs the duvet and its dark blue cover into the top-loading drum, then locates a bottle of bleach and pours in a capful. Emma stands silently at the edge of laundry room, wondering if this woman knows what bleach is.
“He says this is one of those industrial American type washers.” Claire stares at it, confused. “There’s so many buttons on here. You’re American, right? Do you know how this thing works?”
“Um, kinda. I’ve only used it once. I think it’s probably a heavy load, right?” She points to the spot on the dial that reads: “Heavy.”
“Maybe I should ask?” She breezes past Emma to the back door. “BENNETT!”
Emma watches from behind Claire, as shirtless Bennett appears at the door of the studio in a pair of jeans covered in paint. Throwing a T-shirt over his head, he pulls it down quickly when he realizes Emma is looking. “Yeah?” he asks, embarrassed, running his hand thro
ugh his hair.
“IS IT A HEAVY LOAD?” Claire shouts from the door.
“Give me a sec,” he says, flustered, looking at the floor around him for his sandals. He slides into them and strides across the garden, head down, hands in his pockets.
Claire returns to the laundry room. Putting her weight onto the washer, she peers into the drum for answers.
“Do you mind?” Bennett asks Emma before stepping into the house.
She gestures for him to come on in. It’s not like she really has a choice. “You always have a choice,” she remembers Dr. Gibson saying. How come it never feels like it? She looks over at the avocados. They’re currently pointing right at her, so she takes a step back.
Bennett looks into the drum. Then at Claire. “Did you put bleach in here?”
Emma can tell he’s pretending not to be upset.
“I put in laundry soap,” Claire replies.
“This laundry soap?” he asks, grabbing the bottle of bleach.
“Bollocks.”
“Right.” He shakes his head, closing the drum, then sets the washer to Heavy Load, Hot. “Sorry, Emma. We’ll get out of your hair for now.”
She can’t stop thinking about the sixty colored lines she’s drawn on his bedroom wall. She really shouldn’t have done that.
“Nice to meet you, Emma,” Claire says, wrapping her arms around Bennett’s waist. He flinches, like he’s being attacked, but gives in and puts an arm around her.