On the ferry, Cass imagines her family from an outside perspective, a family in a photo, the yellow bruise of time spreading on their outlook. There is a palpable distance now between the wife and husband like the volcanic islands that rise from the Penobscot Bay between here and Portland. Once they were connected, but a substance pooled between them—ash, water, blood, tears—time’s inevitable insults.
Cass stands at the front of the boat, both hands on the railing. She imagines the breeze is a windstorm. The only thing to do is wait for relief from nature and the energy for renewed effort. Alice, sharp as a satellite, sees the storm approaching. She watches her mother’s eyes but says nothing. The chill follows them all the way home as the boat docks in the terminal and cars file off the ferry. With the baby asleep, the car ride home is quiet. As though all of them have seen a ghost in their dreams. Or the devil.
Cass sits in the back with Sam. He has fallen asleep on her chest. It seems wiser to sit with him in the back, forming a human seat belt, than risk waking him up while transferring him to the car seat. She watches Ryan as he drives, his forearm resting on the wheel, a repose that is defiant. He scans the road like a predator. The strength of his gaze, the breadth of his hand—he has this edge on her. He takes his phone with one hand and Cass grows alert, watching his fingers move across the keypad. She clocks the shape, the movement he makes, and thereby sets his changed passcode to memory.
She repeats these four numbers to herself like a lullaby she sings to her baby. She holds Sam close as the car winds along the bay back to home and its promise of safety.
* * *
It’s Monday now. A day has passed, and the chill has begun to thaw at the Connors. Ryan is doling out smiles again on a limited basis, enough to make his distance felt but to offer the glimmer of forgiveness. Cass sprints from her afternoon class to school pickup. At three o’clock, a crowd of moms descend on the Bayside School, looking like a swarm of aliens in their post-workout spandex. Ghouls and goblins dangle over the front door in preparation for the upcoming holiday. The kids emerge in a throng of tangled hair and unrepentant exuberance. You can almost feel their energy, see their spirits like auras around them. They are caught between childhood innocence and adult awareness, and they grasp both sides with the fervor of falling climbers.
Cass sees Nora and, on instinct, tries to dodge her. The prospect of conversation—even with friends—feels like an invasion, requiring that she answer honestly to questions like “How are you?” or worse, pretend all is well and walk away with the knowledge that she is a liar. But Nora, all smiles, approaches before she can avoid her.
“Where the hell have you been?” says Nora.
“What? Oh, we went to the beach for the weekend,” says Cass. Not enough time or energy to conjure anything more delightful.
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” says Nora. She bats off a child’s cello case with the skill of a major-league player. “What’s going on? You’re tiny.”
“Really? Do I look thin?” Cass says. She knows she’s in a wretched state when even this comment fails to cheer her.
“Very.” Nora is one to talk. She looks typically flawless. Her bright blue eyes peer out from the fringe of her bangs and a nest of carelessly draped scarves. She looks chic in a corduroy skirt that would be too short on any other woman. The fact that three kids came out of this body seems wholly impossible.
“I guess stress is the best diet.” No smile for what would usually be welcome information.
“Cass, what’s wrong?” says Nora.
“Nothing,” says Cass.
Nora frowns, waits for the truth.
“Just going through some shit at home.”
“Some shit? Or some little shit?”
Cass sighs. She hates to admit that Nora was right. This woman, who is barely more than an acquaintance, sees through her bullshit. They have known each other only a year and yet, by virtue of their recent move, this makes Nora Cass’s closest friend in Cumberland.
“Sorry to hear that,” Nora says.
Another child swipes past her. Now it’s one of Cass’s on a mission for frozen yogurt. Cass expertly denies this request without missing a word of conversation.
“I could be imagining it,” Cass says.
“Is that what he told you? That’s like right out of a textbook.”
“Seriously. It could be nothing.”
“It never is,” says Nora.
The kids surround their mothers, this time with more fervor. They’re clamoring for something sweet, and they will not be dissuaded.
“Can Jake and I go to the park?” says Pete.
“Can I go get ice cream with Laura?” says Alice.
“We can go to the park for a while,” says Cass, “but we need to be home by five.”
“We’ll talk later,” says Nora.
“Yes. Please,” says Cass. She is grateful for Nora’s warmth, grateful for a friend amid such isolation. Cass starts to gather her children.
“Wait. Take this,” says Nora. She reaches into her bag, fumbles for something.
“It’s okay. We’ve already tried it.”
“What?”
“Couples counseling,” says Cass.
“No, not that,” says Nora. She is still riffling through her bag. Keys. Lip gloss. Wallet. “Remember last year when my housekeeper was stealing from me? Bags, shoes, jackets.”
“I think so,” says Cass. “We had just moved here.”
“This guy helped me through it,” says Nora.
“A shrink?”
“Oh, no. Much better.” She smiles. “An amazing hacker.”
“Oh.” Cass plants her feet to steel herself against the tugs of her children. She waits for her to elaborate. Nora has her full attention.
“He can clone a phone,” Nora whispers.
“What does that mean?” says Cass.
“You will get everything he gets. You will see everything he sees.”
“You’re kidding,” says Cass.
“Swear to God. Modern technology, baby.”
“Is that legal?”
“If it’s not, it should be. He’s doing a public service. He’s like Robin Hood for jilted housewives.”
“How does he do that?” Cass asks.
“He can basically break into anyone’s phone as long as he’s on the same network. He can get you anything you need. Texts, emails, calls. Apps, accounts, porn, purchases, chats. All communication.”
Cass begins to nod, a smile gracing her lips for the first time in as long as she can remember. She is feeling lighter now, so much so that when her kids tug her again, she takes their hand and matches their excitement. “Thank you, Nora.”
“Anything for the cause,” she says. “One more off the streets for our children.” And then, before they part, she adds, “You know I’m always here to talk. You can call me at any hour. Show up on my doorstep.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“It’s a standing offer.”
Cass smiles and hugs her friend. She wants to convey her gratitude—not only for the referral but for taking her to heart, for seeing the anguish in her eyes and treating her like a sister. Feminism, bitches.
* * *
It’s nighttime now. The house is quiet. Everyone is asleep. Cass lies in bed, waiting for full respite. She can hear the release of tension when her children and husband enter deep sleep. In. Out. In. Out. An intake and an expression. When she hears these sounds, she stands and pads down the hall and texts Nora’s referral.
“Nora said I should get in touch.”
This seems the best way to begin. He responds in under a minute. “Glad to help a friend of Nora’s.”
“Looking for the same kind of thing. Someone to help me organize my computer.”
“Text me your address,” he writes. “I can meet tomorrow.”
They arrange to meet the following night. He says he’ll text her when he’s close and to look for a blue Toyota.
Cass goes to sleep with the prospect of relief. To know Ryan’s moves when he does, to have proof of her suspicions—feels like nothing short of a cure. A headlamp in the lightless cave she currently inhabits. Could it be salvation for their marriage? She wonders if she will miss the search, the deduction and the inference, the quest that has been her mission, the fear that has been her companion. She wonders if she will feel remorse, if this crime has its own retribution. But contrition is canceled out by the perks of incentive. And guilt is quickly usurped by the thrill of potential. Making a clone of Ryan’s phone feels like salvation, tantamount to being inside his head, and right now, she needs this insight more than she needs water. This is what all women need, she decides. Perfect information. And so tonight she falls asleep, dreaming of perfection. No nightmares this evening. No thoughts of her namesake, Cassandra.
* * *
It’s afternoon, and Cass is feeling better. It’s the last week of October, and the leaves are vibrant—red, orange, purple, and yellow of the highest magnification. The air is cool and grazes her face like cold water. Cass loves nothing more than to find an hour in between her classes to steal kisses from her son, to squeeze his pliant tummy, to traipse with him up ladders and down slides like a busy penguin. His favorite game is a version of cat and mouse, except here with a surrogate monster. Amnesty is won, in this case, simply by repetition. In it, he runs up the slide, arms out, escaping from Cass’s monster, and then, once atop the jungle gym, he invites her to join him.
“Be a nice monster now!” he yells. At which point she heeds the call and sprints up the slide, transformed. Would that she and her husband could achieve the same role reversal.
Cass knows, now from experience, how rapidly time passes, and so she holds this time sacred and makes sure to spend time alone with each of her three children. It is not always possible to stanch the flow of her students’ queries and deadlines, but thanks to the phone, the invention that brings the office to the playground, she can, if necessary, take a work call while climbing up a jungle gym ladder.
Now she coyly mutes her phone while Sam sprints down a ramp to announce his triumph. Another child approaches—a sturdy boy with a thicket of curls followed by his father. The father has large pronounced eyebrows that immediately conjure a raccoon. He has long, dark hair that is either badly in need of a wash or intentionally dreaded. He looks like a guy she remembers from college with similarly unfortunate hygiene whom Cass and her friends used to refer to as “Dreaded Danny.” This man now stands in front of Cass, smiling at her as though she is a dear acquaintance.
“We should have a playdate,” he says.
Cass has not heard him. She is still focused on the call she missed, wondering if it was important—and watching her son and another little boy. They are staring each other down like miniature cowboys, trying to assert climbing rights to the same ladder.
“For them.” He nods at the kids.
“Sure. That would be great,” she says.
“Not that the two of us don’t deserve to run around in a padded room together.”
Cass looks more closely now. Is this guy funny or creepy? She instinctively discounts anyone who wears sunglasses while they’re talking. She sees it as a sign of disrespect for one person to remain obscured during conversation. His eyebrows are unusually large, circling his eyes like a nocturnal animal.
“Funny,” she says and tries to laugh.
“I’m Aaron, your next-door neighbor.” He removes his sunglasses now, as though he has just remembered. “A.k.a. the creepy dad at the playground. Sorry about that. I’m basically blind.”
“Oh. No worries,” says Cass.
“We met when you were moving in,” he says. “My son is two also.”
“Right. Of course. Gray house. White shutters.” She smiles as though she really cares, like it’s all coming back to her. In fact, she does not care at all and does not want to talk to him any longer than she has to.
“Your light is on a lot,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“The light in your bedroom window. It’s on at all hours.”
“Oh,” she says. “You noticed?”
“Be hard not to.” He gestures at his nearby house, the distance between his and her bedroom windows.
“Insomniac,” she admits.
He nods. “Card-carrying member.”
“I’ve tried everything,” she says. “Working, reading, laundry. I try to make the time productive.”
“Our washer-dryer is broken,” he says.
“Oh,” she says. “That’s too bad. You can borrow ours if you need to.”
He smiles, tilts his head in a show of appreciation. “You should text me next time. We’ll keep each other company. We could even call each other. Like kids with Campbell Soup cans.”
“Funny,” she says.
“Or we could just exchange numbers.”
She smiles as though she did not hear. “Maybe next time.”
Aaron forms the tight, admonished smile to which men are accustomed, the same smile men make in bars when an advance is rebuked by indifference. “Till then,” he says, saving face. “Don’t forget. Delicates for denim.” He takes his son by the hand and heads out of the playground.
Cass smiles politely at the eccentric exit. She watches him leave, slightly unnerved. His gait is odd, distinctive. Large rhythmic strides like he’s walking to the beat of music. Then she focuses her full attention on her son. Cass and Sam spend the next hour playing on the slide, hurling themselves through space in a simple celebration of being together.
EIGHT
It’s ten o’clock, and the house is back in its sleep cycle. Children breathe in and out, their breaths marking the seconds between life and its adjournment. Ryan is deep in sleep, a pillow over his eyes. Cass stands in her bedroom, checking the window. Finally, the sound of tires on gravel. A blue Toyota pulls up to the curb. Cass leans in to the glass and then silently leaves the bedroom. The stairs are cold through her socks as she hurries down to meet him.
A plump man in his midthirties sits at the wheel. He has the thick jaw, stout comportment, and feline eyes of a Russian. Cass slips into this stranger’s car, breathless with excitement. She is unsure where to look and so she looks out the window and focuses on a tree whose drying leaves dangle from their branches like a scab on an elbow.
“You have it?” he asks.
She hands him the phone.
“You know the password?”
“Two. Zero. One. Zero.” She is touched and furious as she realizes Ryan has used their anniversary as his new passcode. “Fucker.”
“What?” says the man.
“Oh, it’s just … he used our anniversary.”
The man removes a wire from his bag, connects one side to his computer, the other side to Ryan’s phone.
“This is legal, right?”
He does not answer.
It occurs to Cass that they have not yet exchanged names, and she wonders if Nora has, in fact, given her access to a world that is darker than she’d realized.
“Are you a former spy?” she asks.
He does not answer.
She regrets both the tone and question. She realizes this is the one question you should never ask a spy, particularly if you want that spy to give a clear indication. She decides to remain silent. She has learned this lesson. Frivolity is not becoming for a woman her age, not in this situation. It is time to replace frivolity with focus. She watches his computer power up, its green light flickering in the dark car. “How long does this take?”
He does not answer. The light glows on his face. He unhooks the wire that connects the phone and the computer. Disappointment drops from Cass’s head to her stomach.
“Did it work?”
“I have what I need,” he says. “I’ll reach out in a couple of days and tell you where to meet me.” He returns the phone.
Cass sits for a moment, unsure whether to shake his hand or say thank you, a
nd then she opens the door and gets out of the car and hurries back across her porch to her sleeping family.
Cass returns to the house, her thoughts speeding.
Tomorrow, Ryan will leave for his trip. Would that she had the tools in time to follow him on his journey. She imagines a world in which she owns this power of observation, imagines an end to lies, to uncertainty, humiliation. She imagines how Pandora felt, offered the chance to see the future, not with psychic power, but knowledge of all things, from all perspectives. Of course, she knows there is a price. How do you go on with daily life when you know how you’re going to die? Wait? Avoid? Resist? Resign? Kill time? What did Pandora do? Look away? Lean in? Open her eyes?
* * *
It is afternoon, and a new car is idling in front of the Connors’. The house has not seen this much activity since the day a moving truck transported their life from Brooklyn. Ryan is getting ready to leave, still upstairs, packing. The kids are waiting near the door with the nervy, unsettled energy of animals before a rainstorm. They get this way before goodbyes—when Ryan and Cass go out at night or before he leaves for a trip—as though they can tell the future by reading their parents’ expressions.
Ryan rushes down the stairs and drops his bag at the door. The kids surround him and intercept, making heartfelt pleas to be brought along, last requests for presents.
“Why does everyone look so serious?” he says.
“They miss you when you travel,” says Cass.
“I’m only gone for a week,” he says. “I’ll barely have time to put down my bags and buy presents.”
“You said we were going to take me,” says Pete.
Occasionally, this happens: Ryan finds himself in a corner, a cage of his own construction, when one of the many plans he suggests gains its own momentum.
“And I meant it. Tell your mom to book the tickets for Christmas vacation.”
Poison Page 9