by Ali Benjamin
The ones who breathed on your neck, whose breath you can still feel, even today. The ones who followed you down the street late at night, a little too close, maybe oblivious, maybe to see if you’d get nervous, maybe for more sinister reasons.
The ones who pressed you against the wall of a dark room, saying please please please, can’t you just please.
The ones who blocked the door.
Morning, dim and formless. The clock radio. The static. Zo gone.
Another day.
The smell of butter, clank of the radiator, crack of the egg. The old Pontiac, still needs a muffler, tosses a newspaper in a blue plastic bag.
One last red pill in the bottle. Ethan sets it out on the table for Alex, then pulls out a red Sharpie. He starts to write “ADDERALL” on his wrist, then thinks better of it. What would Shreya say, if she should see it at drop-off? He can just imagine her gossiping to the other parents: And I have it on good authority that they drug their child, she’d say, shaking her head at this, the latest evidence of their shameful parenting.
Ethan changes the A on his wrist to an R. Instead of writing the name of Alex’s medicine, he writes, instead, two words: “RED PILL.”
He resolves: Today will be more productive than yesterday. Ethan types out a quick message to Dr. Ash: Dear Ashleigh, I apologize for missing yesterday’s call. He pauses before adding, My wife had a car accident.
That’s sort of true, isn’t it?
He’s just about to hit Send when the doorbell rings. He glances at the clock. It’s only 7:13 in the morning.
Elastic Waist stands on the porch, Pyrex dish in her hand. “Zo’s not here,” Ethan tells her. He blinks, feels like he should say more. “She’s at the gym.”
And when Elastic Waist blinks right back at him, unmoving, he says, louder, “ZO’S NOT HERE.”
“I KNOW,” says Elastic Waist, her volume matching his. “But this needs to go in a low oven for about forty-five minutes. I thought I could drop it off while I run to the store to get all the other stuff we need.” She holds out the dish to him.
He was awake too late. He’s not thinking clearly.
Of course he was awake too late: Alex wouldn’t go to sleep last night, she was so wired from the evening. She’d flopped down on their bed, refused to get up, tossed her body around in their sheets like a fish, or maybe like that kid from The Exorcist. Ethan’s pleas to Alex hadn’t worked. Zo’s increasingly strained explanations about the importance of sleep to a growing brain hadn’t worked. Nothing worked, nothing, until Zo finally lost her cool and yelled. Ethan left the room, sat on the gray-not-blue sofa, feeling angry at Zo, and sorry for Alex, watching TV with the vague hope that Maddy might come downstairs to watch with him, distract him, which she didn’t. When he finally went to bed, he tossed and turned, listening to Zo snore and doing his level best not to think of the blue-haired girl above him, sprawled out on a separate set of sheets. So, yes: he’s tired and confused now as Elastic Waist hands him a foil-covered dish of food. Why is she here? And who exactly is the “we” in the phrase all the other stuff we need?
“IT’S FOR THE TESTIMONY,” Elastic Waist says. And then: “THE HEARING IS TODAY, REMEMBER?” Right. The hearing about the Supreme Court nominee. That’s today. “IT’S A BREAKFAST CASSEROLE. COMFORT FOOD. I THINK WE’RE ALL GOING TO NEED IT.”
Ethan pieces together what she’s telling him: people are coming here? To watch the hearing? Zo hadn’t mentioned that. What about her work on the Lionel Trilling film? Or his work? Or their privacy? Or the fact that he needs to get Alex ready for school? Or his feelings about having a house full of people, yet again?
Elastic Waist gives the dish a little shake, her way of saying it’s time for him to take it. He does. “PREHEAT TO 250,” she tells him. “PUT A LITTLE FOIL ON TOP, AND LET IT WARM UP FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. THE HEARING STARTS AT TEN, BUT PEOPLE MIGHT START ARRIVING SOONER. I’LL BE BACK IN A JIFF.”
And then she’s gone, and Ethan is standing alone in his kitchen, staring at a breakfast casserole for which he’s somehow now responsible.
* * *
—
“Encyclopedia Brown!” From the trivia corner of the Coffee Depot, Willie Nelson waves him over. Ethan isn’t exactly in the mood for the trivia triumvirate, but he heads over, reads the clue:
One theory says a phrase for euphoria comes from plate no. 9 in an 1896 meteorological “atlas” of these.
“Hm,” Ethan says.
Yes, here they are again: the trivia crew, the electrician in coveralls, the poet with her yellow pad, Nancy behind the counter, Punk Jane, every day on repeat, one upon the next until lights-out, and what will he have to show for any of it? Thousands and thousands of cups of coffee that he’s pissed away, literally.
I shall measure out my life in coffee pisses.
Ethan looks around, sees white hair, gray hair, silver hair, dark-brown hair but like Zo’s, with a defiant white stripe at the roots. Everyone a little longer in the tooth than they were last year, and the year before that. This, he supposes, is how it is in a small community: You watch your neighbors grow old. Maybe in a city, surrounded by strangers, you can convince yourself that some people just are old, that it’s not a process that’s happening to everyone, all the time, yourself included. In a place like Starkfield, though, you can’t help but see it unfolding in real time.
Next to him, Willie Nelson argues with the others about whether the correct answer is “over the moon” or “starry-eyed.”
“But euphoria and ‘starry-eyed’ aren’t synonymous,” Yoga explains. “So that can’t possibly be right.”
“Read the clue,” insists Willie. “It says ‘an atlas of these.’ Plural. We’ve only got one moon.”
“The stars are over the moon,” presses the social worker.
Willie tosses his hands up. “Well, of course stars are over the moon, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with today’s question.”
They’re arguing, but something’s missing from their debate. Or, no, Ethan realizes: there’s something present here that’s too often missing.
Ethan interrupts. “You all…like each other, don’t you?” The trivia crew stare at him. Ethan clarifies. “I mean…you disagree about something pretty much every day, but that doesn’t stop you from being…” He trails off, because he’s not sure what the next word is. Friends? Neighbors? Fellow humans who agree to share the same time and space on Earth more or less amicably?
The social worker waves away his comment. “Oh, please,” she says. “I’m a three-time cancer survivor.”
He hadn’t known that.
“Two times breast, one time uterine. Walked right up to the abyss the third time. And I remember when my treatments were finally done, looking around the world and wondering: When did we all fall so in love with our own opinions? It felt like everyone was shouting at one another, clinging to their own hot takes, and missing all the best parts of being alive.”
Yoga places a hand on her arm, gives it a little squeeze. Willie Nelson looks down, gives a little cough, stares straight ahead.
“Tell you what,” the social worker adds. “You won’t catch me forgetting to love my neighbor…” She pats Willie on the back before finishing “…even if this old fart doesn’t know a damn thing about trivia.”
Ethan excuses himself and gets a cup of coffee. Two cups, actually.
* * *
—
And then the getting-ready routine—the breakfast-and-red-pill routine, the hairbrush-and-missing-shoes routine, the yelling and rushing routine.
Ethan does as Elastic Waist instructed: he pops the breakfast casserole in the oven just as he and Alex scramble out the door. He sets a timer and leaves a note for Maddy. “MAD PLEASE TAKE OUT WHEN TIMER GOES OFF.” He sets the second cup of coffee on the corner of the page. “COFFEE’S FOR YOU,” he adds
with a smile.
* * *
—
When he returns from driving Alex to school, Zo’s car is in the driveway, along with half a dozen others. Inside, his note to Maddy is still on the counter, the coffee untouched, but the casserole’s out of the oven, the house smells like butter and baked eggs, and everything is humming with energy.
The witches are there, and they’ve taken over. They’re bustling around the kitchen, opening and shutting the refrigerator door, folding napkins, setting out utensils, pouring coffee from a Dunkin’ Donuts Box O’ Joe, and talking, talking, talking. On the table, there’s a complete spread: not just the casserole, but also a basket of muffins and two different coffee cakes and a plate filled with varieties of chocolate, ranging from milk to bitter. Someone’s hand-scrawled notes which are folded like tent cards all over the table: SELF-CARE MATTERS. YOU ARE LOVED. REMEMBER: CHOCOLATE IS CALMING. Which Ethan is pretty sure isn’t true, but whatever.
A hand on his shoulder: Runner Mom (no, he corrects himself: Jackie, her name is Jackie. Jackie Watters). “Ethan, can you believe it? They’re trying to put a predator on the Supreme Court, but they behave like Zo’s the criminal. Unbelievable.”
He refrains from pointing out that Jackie’s conflating her “theys”—the ones who want to confirm this justice aren’t exactly the same people who arrested Zo, the two groups have nothing to do with each other. He glances across the room at his wife. She’s still in her gym clothes, surrounded by other witches in the two-sofa TV area. Everyone’s talking at once.
This woman’s my hero
Can’t believe they’re making her testify
Casserole is delicious
National travesty
Off caffeine these days
Oh boy oh boy oh boy
Ethan tries to meet Zo’s eye, he tries to ask without words, What the hell, why didn’t you tell me about this little brunch party, but before Zo looks back at him, Meat Cleaver bursts through the kitchen door holding the Bettsbridge Eagle above her head.
“ZO MADE THE PAPER!
Starkfield Arrest Raises Questions about Police Tactics
September 27, 2018. STARKFIELD, MA. Zenobia Frome was driving home from a conference at her child’s school, the exclusive, progressive Rainbow Seed School in Corbury, when she hit a traffic cone in a construction zone. She was pulled over by the Starkfield Police. Within minutes, the 46-year-old Starkfield mom had been handcuffed, arrested, and taken to the single jail cell in the basement of the Starkfield police headquarters, a 10 x 10 concrete holding area more typically occupied by drunks who need to cool down after a late-night bar brawl.
Those are the facts upon which everyone agrees. They are also where the agreement ends.
Frome is a member of a women’s activist group formed in the wake of the 2016 presidential election. Registered officially with the Resistance Network as the Starkfield Women’s Resistance, the group has informally dubbed themselves All Them Witches. Locally, they are known for their frequent stand-outs and protests on Starkfield’s otherwise quiet village green.
“This arrest is shocking,” says Jackie Watters, 41, a fellow member of the group. “A law-abiding activist was arrested, booked, and placed in a jail cell for a minor traffic infraction. We hear often about police overreach in the news, usually in the context of faraway places. This situation happened here, at home.”
Chief of Police Stan Grapowski disputes that Frome was arrested for her political work. “The Starkfield Police does not target law-abiding citizens, directly or indirectly, for their political affiliations,” he said in a phone interview. “Mrs. Frome was pulled over because she’d been driving recklessly, posing a danger both to herself and to others on the road. My officers tried to issue her a warning, but she became belligerent.”
“I’m not exaggerating,” Grapowski added, “when I say she was basically asking to be arrested.”
Watters suggests that this particular word choice is revealing. “That phrase—she was asking for it—tells you everything you need to know about this situation. It’s appalling that anyone, especially a powerful public figure like a chief of police, would use those words about a woman in 2018. It goes to show how much more work our society has to do.” She adds that the Starkfield Police Department does not have a single woman on the force, nor any people of color.
Representatives from the Rainbow Seed School refused to comment, citing confidentiality of their students and families. But late last night, reporters reached the school’s PTA president, Shreya Greer-Williams, who spoke to The Eagle by phone.
“Obviously, it’s highly disturbing to think that something like this could happen within the Rainbow Seed School community,” Greer-Williams said. “The Rainbow Seed School has long been known for its nurturing, child-friendly environment, positive role models, and peaceful engagement with the world.”
Does the arrest raise questions about police overreach for Greer-Williams?
“It raises questions about many things,” she said. She declined to comment further.
The Starkfield Women’s Resistance has a rally scheduled for Saturday morning related to the latest Supreme Court appointment. Watters says that this protest will go on as planned, but they will add Frome’s arrest to the list of issues being protested.
What exactly does a traffic arrest have to do with the Supreme Court nomination?
“Both situations involve strong women using their voices against a powerful status quo,” says Watters. “But the days of silencing women are over. We demand to be heard.”
* * *
—
It’s Jackie who reads the article aloud, stopping to repeat several paragraphs at loud volume for Elastic Waist. When she finishes, everyone whoops. Zo moves through the women for high fives.
Ethan leans in the doorway, listening. Watching.
“Post the story, everyone!” Jackie shouts. On command, the witches reach for their phones. “Use the hashtag FreeZenobia. Tag different groups, everyone you can think of, and encourage them to come to Saturday’s rally in solidarity.”
“Zo,” Ethan says. Across the room, his wife lifts her gaze, gives her head an almost imperceptible shake. Not now, Ethan.
“Zo.” In that single syllable he tries to communicate everything he possibly can: that the story in the paper isn’t exactly accurate, that it left out some pretty important facts, doesn’t she think? That perhaps her arrest had nothing to do with her activism, maybe nobody cares about a group of poster-making white ladies who shake signs in the middle of nowhere, and besides, didn’t that comment from Shreya seem ominous? Isn’t Zo the one who’s so desperate to keep Alex at the Rainbow Seed School, and doesn’t that outcome seem less likely now?
“Can I talk to you, Zo?” he asks.
“In a minute,” says hashtag-Zenobia, who for the record is already hashtag-free.
“Now.”
The witches glance at each other. An uncomfortable hush falls over the room. Fine, Ethan thinks. Look at each other like I’m the jerk husband, like I’m nothing but another asshole man. And maybe I am, but at least I’m not a liar, at least not about this.
“Certainly,” says Zo. Her smile resembles Shreya’s from last night: frozen and fake. Ethan can’t read how much sarcasm is contained in that certainly. He has no idea what the state of his marriage is.
Alone in the bedroom, he stares at her. “The hell?”
“What?” she says.
“What are you, the new poster child for police overreach? You know that’s not exactly what happened.”
“Well, it’s not not what happened,” she says. “I am an activist, and I did hit a cone.”
“You hit all the cones, Zo. Every last one of them! And I was there: you were belligerent.”
“Belligerent?” Zo tilts her head, all faux-curious,
like she hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about. “I asked a question. Those cops arrested me because they didn’t like the question.”
“Come on, Zo, your ladies are all out there hashtagging it like this is a simple story. But there’s a bigger context, and they don’t know it, and for some reason you’re not telling them.”
“My ladies?”
“Your friends, the witches, your whatever-you-want-to-call-them. They don’t know the full story, and by the way, why are they even here, Zo?”
“We’re not allowed to support each other?”
“Of course you’re allowed to support each other! But it’s a Thursday morning. I lost a whole day yesterday calling for that Boston Children’s appointment.” This, too, isn’t the whole truth. He also spent a long time thinking about Evie Emerling and talking to a stranger at the UPS Store, and stumbling into the uncomfortable discovery that Maddy is willing to do just about anything to make a buck on Ten-Spot, but never mind that.
“So what are you saying?” Zo asks. “You can’t call for an appointment? For your own child? Maybe you think that’s a job for a mother, but not a father?”
“Stop twisting my words, Zo. And what about your work? What about Lionel Trilling?”
A pause. And then her voice, bitter. “Excuse me, Ethan, but I’m not a child who needs to be managed, so please stop treating me like I am. And for the record, this thing that’s happening today? It’s big. We’re talking about a lifetime appointment to the Supreme Court. This is a big and frankly fucking tragic event in history. So ‘my ladies’ and I are entirely in the right to support one another through it. Or maybe you don’t think it’s such a big deal?”