by Penny Reid
And then the wolves came.
Sometimes reality feels like a dream. Something happens, and it makes you question everything you know to be true, everything you take for granted about the world, about yourself. When that happens, your surroundings and interactions become likewise warped, like you’re watching those around you through a magnifying glass, or in high saturation color, and you can’t stop. You can’t make the world normal again, you know too much.
I’d spent two years doubting my sanity. Instead, I should have been doubting the fundamental goodness of people, my willingness to trust, and my intelligence.
And. Then. The. Wolves. Came.
So. Fucking. Stupid.
I stopped lying to myself, wishing for a different explanation, wishing my Lisa would somehow reappear and miraculously want to be with me. I stopped assuming people had good intentions. I stopped looking for the good. I stopped assuming the best, of anyone.
In that moment, I knew without a shadow of a doubt what they’d done. Nothing about that week had been real. Everything had been a lie.
But shame on me.
I should’ve listened to her the first time she told me to hold a grudge.
4
Electromagnetic Induction
*Abram*
Melvin reminded me of my uncle. They both gossiped. A lot.
No complaints. Melvin’s gossip served as a welcome distraction, as was the biting cold. It’s hard to remain focused on being pissed when your appendages are freezing.
Even better, Melvin didn’t seem to require any response from me. I let him talk, mostly about Aspen politics and recent local scandals, while we shoveled snow. Apparently, the garage closest to the main road, if you could call a one-lane mountain road a “main road,” housed a small snow plow and he liked keeping the area in front of it clear.
“It’s for emergencies,” he said. “It’s good to be ready, just in case we need to use it. And this path between the funicular house and the snow plow gets shoveled too.”
“Why don’t you just use the plow now? Clear this area?”
“Well, I wouldn’t use the plow at night.” He lifted the rim of his ski cap to scratch his head. “Yeah, I got those lights up there.” Melvin gestured to the high intensity work lamps on each of the garages, illuminating the clearing where we stood and the area around the three garages. “They’re bright, but I might not see a big branch or something like it. Plus, it uses diesel, which I don’t have an unlimited supply of, and I like the exercise.” His eyelashes were frosty, but he was grinning as he said this, his gloved hands resting on the pole of the shovel. “You ever want to come down and help shovel, just let me know. Think about it.”
I didn’t need to think about it, any excuse to leave over the next few days would come in handy. “I will. You come down here every day?”
“Yes. Sometimes twice, sometimes three times. Snow is easier to shovel if you move it within six hours of falling.”
I nodded, knowing this already. Michigan winters were why I never wanted to live someplace where daily snow shoveling in the winter was a requirement for leaving the house.
My dad would wake me up before school with a shovel in hand, saying, “God gave you those shoulders for a reason, son. And today that reason is shoveling snow.”
“Hey, we’ll clear this here together, and then you got this area?” Melvin gestured to the last few feet before the ski lift. “I’ll go get the bags and we can ride up together.”
“Bags?” I blinked as freezing flakes fell on my face near my eyes.
“Mona’s. And her friend, Alan, or All-lean, or Al-lena, or something like that. These names, I can’t pronounce them without practicing.”
Glancing away, the white cloud of my exhales following me, I studied the pile of snow near my boots. “Sure. I got it.”
“Thanks. You know, if it were just Mona, like last time, she could have taken it all up in one trip.” Melvin began shoveling again. “Never met a person who packs as light as our Mona.”
I said nothing, but that hot pulse of energy radiated outward again, pushing back, my stomach dropping, a tight band around my throat.
“She’s something else.” Melvin paired this statement with a chuckle and a headshake. “You know, she never lets Lila cook for her. Says she doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone. And she’d be out here shoveling if I’d let her. One time, she got up before me, at the butt crack of dawn. Snow was coming down like a waterfall and she shoveled half the path before I arrived. Reamed her a new one for being so reckless.”
I lifted an eyebrow at that. “You reamed Mona ‘a new one’?”
“Yep. Gave it to her, good and hard.”
I swallowed, internally stiffening and growing hot at the word choice.
But he wasn’t finished. “She said she liked the exertion or some such nonsense. Something about never being worn out, since she sits at a desk all day.” Melvin rolled his eyes heavenward. “That Mona, she needs a firm hand, doesn’t like to take no for an answer. I’ve had to lay the law down with her a few times.”
A spike of something both pleasant and unpleasant had me shaking my head to clear it. “About shoveling snow?”
“About all manner of things. She wants to do her own laundry. She cleans her own room, vacuums and dusts, even. She likes to stop by the store in town before coming up here, every time, and usually eats only what she brings. Drives Lila bonkers.”
“You mean she’s picky.”
“Nope. No. Not that. Not that at all. She doesn’t want to be a bother. Between you and me and this snow here, I like Leo a lot. The parents, I could take or leave, and Lisa hasn’t been here in ages, she was a sweet kid when I knew her. But Mona is my favorite.”
“Because she doesn’t want to be a bother?” I decided Melvin talked too much, and one day his gossiping was going to get him in trouble.
“No. Because she goes out of her way to treat us like people instead of servants. Now, I know, I know.” He paused shoveling to make a waving motion with his hand. “We work for them, we’re their employees. But Mona checks in before she comes to make sure the dates work for us, since we live here and all. Who else does that? No one. We didn’t even know Leo was coming until you people arrived. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but there’s definitely a difference. As an example, one time Lila was sick, so Mona canceled her trip and sent a care package instead.” Melvin pushed his shovel forward, resuming his work. “They’re all nice people, but Mona is a different kind of nice. You know Mona?”
I was listening so intently, I almost didn’t catch his question. It took me several seconds to figure out how I wanted to respond to it, and a few more before I trusted my voice to sound disinterested.
“She seems like she’d be judgmental.”
“What?” He scrutinized me, sounding confused. “Mona?”
“Yeah. Isn’t she supposed to be a genius?”
“Is she? You mean because of going to that Ivy League school when she was little?” Melvin laughed. “I guess that makes me a genius too. Because I beat her at poker every time we play. Or maybe she’s just bad at bluffing.”
I didn’t respond, clamping my jaw together, taking my frustration out on the pile of snow instead.
“No, Mona isn’t judgmental. She’s a little quiet, but I think that’s because she’s . . . well, she’s shy.”
“Shy?” I asked without meaning to, and then snapped my mouth shut.
“Yeah. Shy. She never did have friends. Lisa was always bringing friends here, kids from those boarding schools she went to, and Mona would play by herself, mostly here, in the funicular, reading books. Leo would also bring friends, he still does.” Melvin lifted his chin toward me. “That’s why I was surprised to see all you guys when you arrived, since Mona was coming.”
I found I needed to clear my throat before asking, “She’s always alone?”
He nodded. “Yep. Always alone. Every time she comes, and she comes up here a lot
. Which is why we take pity on her and play poker, or Scrabble. She also likes Trivial Pursuit—the one from the eighties, when USSR was still a country—but we just read the cards back and forth to see who knows the most answers. She tried to get us to play this new thing called Punderdome or Punundrum, but it needs an even number of people.”
Punderdome? That sounds—
I interrupted the rhythm of my thoughts. Gripping the shovel tighter at the realization we’d just spent the last ten minutes talking about the one person I least wanted to talk about, I shook my head, scowling at the snow.
Stop asking about her.
I’d spent over two years trying to forget about one week. Nothing Melvin said, or was going to say, would help me move on. Clearly, he liked her, respected her. Fine.
Stop talking about her.
“Mona is real good at chess though, never have beat her at that game. But she—”
Enough.
“Hey, I’ll move up here and get this taken care of. Why don’t you get the bags?”
Melvin’s perspective on Mona confused me, unsettled my mind. The man might talk all night about her if I let him, and part of me wanted to let him. But that would’ve been counterproductive.
Stop thinking about her.
I didn’t want to like Mona, nor did I appreciate this urge I’d carried with me, this wanting to know her, the real her, all about her, sketch an accurate likeness of her character. What was the point?
She’d lied to me. She’d pretended to be someone else. Knowing Mona DaVinci better wasn’t going to change that.
Melvin paused his shoveling at my abrupt suggestion, but then he chuckled. “Getting cold?”
Stop wanting her.
I forced a quick, tight smile and nodded. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Melvin took me around to the side door of the house, which was much closer than the path Leo and I had shoveled earlier to the main entrance. We both removed our jackets, boots, gloves, and snow pants and hung them up in the mudroom closet.
“Here, I’ll take the luggage up. Go get warm by the fire in the big room, go see your friends.”
I hesitated, glancing at the small stairway behind him that led to the upper floors, struggling with the desire to seek her out. Bringing her luggage up would be a perfect excuse. Then again, not taking advantage of the opportunity to see her was an opportunity in and of itself.
Stop thinking about her.
“While you’re there, do you mind checking on the fire? Might need more wood,” Melvin called over his shoulder, already on the fifth stair.
Curling my hands into tight fists, I nodded and stepped back, removing myself from the temptation of the suitcases. Watching Melvin disappear up the flight of stairs felt both good—like I’d finally been successful in flexing that self-control muscle—and not good. I stared at the roller case he’d left behind, a hollow, restlessness in my stomach.
Turning toward the faint sound of a piano, I walked out of the mudroom and toward the music, not looking at the remaining bag despite feeling a pull to return, pick up the case, and take it to the third floor where Mona and her friend were staying.
Earlier, when I’d left the house under the guise of helping Leo and Melvin with the snow, the crowd Leo had gathered were in high spirits. I knew most of them, but not all. Leo had this magical superpower of bringing talented people together and making valuable connections within the community he’d built.
The only valuable connection I’d ever introduced to Leo, and not the other way around, was my songwriting partner, Kaitlyn Parker. Meanwhile, Leo had been the one to introduce me to our drummer when I was fifteen, our lead guitarist five years ago, and our producer three years ago. Our producer was the one who’d eventually helped sign us to the label.
My mind on suitcases and perfect excuses, I slowed as I approached the entrance to the main floor living room, a thought suddenly occurring to me. What if Mona was here, on the main level with everyone else? What if, by attempting to avoid her, I was actually achieving the opposite?
Mouth suddenly dry, I approached the wide doorframe and stopped, taking a moment to scan the room. Leo wasn’t there, neither were Mona or her friend, but most everyone else seemed to be. The mood had shifted since I’d left over an hour earlier.
Instead of everyone gathering around the piano, playing music, talking in a haphazard circle, they’d separated themselves into smaller, two- or three-person clusters. They were talking quietly. No one looked especially happy. And the music wasn’t helping.
My attention moved to Kaitlyn sitting at the piano, playing a technically brilliant and woefully ominous sounding piece on the instrument. I suspected it was improvised, something she was making up on the spot, as was her habit.
Rubbing my cold hands together, I entered the large living room—which looked more like a medium-sized hotel lobby than a living room—nodding at our drummer, Charlie, as I passed, and declining our guitarist’s invitation to join her small group on my way to the piano. I did take the long way around to check on the fire. It wasn’t low, but I added another two logs anyway.
Sitting next to Kaitlyn on the bench, I brought my folded fingers to my mouth, breathing hot air into my cupped hands, and bumping her shoulder lightly. “What’s that?”
Without stopping her improvisation or looking at me, she said, “I’m providing the soundtrack.”
“The soundtrack?”
“Yes. If we were in a movie, this would be the soundtrack for the moment,” she whispered. “Earlier, before the arrival, everything was light and fun and fancy-free, like a Disney cartoon. C major.”
I glanced between her profile and where she depressed the keys. A maudlin tune, with frequent dramatic pauses, reverberated from the grand piano.
“And now?” I prompted.
“And now, D-sharp.” She said D-sharp in a very deep voice, sounding like Eeyore, pulling a smile from me. Her left hand moved lower down the bass clef, taking the mood from maudlin to morose.
Shaking my head, and despite myself, I chuckled. “You are so weird.”
“Thank you,” she said brightly, giving me a quick, bright smile.
“Why did the key change?” The arrival she referred to was obviously Mona and Alan’s.
“Well, let’s see. Where to start, where to start . . .” Kaitlyn leaned to the side, extremely close.
With anyone else I would’ve suspected she was trying to flirt, but not with her. Kaitlyn Parker wasn’t a flirter. I doubted she had any idea how to flirt. One time after a gig, when we both played for the same for-hire live band, she did a robot-dance-off on a dare and won after twenty straight minutes of impressively stunted movement and seriously committed beeps and boops. But her lack of flirt-skills didn’t matter. She was a brilliant composer, gorgeous, smart, and hilarious both accidentally and on purpose.
She was also engaged to be married, and the guy was a real asshole. A ridiculously rich asshole with an asshole name (Martin) who was a stockbroker or something equally asshole-like. Yeah, he worshipped her. Yeah, he treated her like a goddess as far as I could tell. But he was still an asshole.
“Did something happen?” I whispered close to her ear.
She nodded and lifted her rounded gray eyes to mine, saying in a hushed rush, “Yes. The first one came in and everything was fine—Allyn, very nice, kind of kooky but sweet—and then Leo noticed his sister wasn’t anywhere. He opened the door, and then we all kind of heard this screaming sound, and—”
“Screaming?” I sat up, alert and alarmed. “Is she okay? Was she hurt?”
“No, no. Not hurt. Actually, it was more like yelling or growling, not screaming.”
I frowned, confused. “What?”
“She was standing on the path to the house, yell-growling.”
“At what?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. A bear, maybe? No explanation was offered. Anyway, it kind of killed the mood and freaked everyone out. And then Leo went outside to get her.�
��
My eyes drifted to the piano keys, trying to make sense of the story. “Did she stop yelling?”
“Yes. As soon as she saw Leo, she seemed to stop. And then she came inside with him and he introduced her to everyone. One by one. All twenty-one of us. And it was awkward, so awkward, because clearly everyone was still thinking about the loud yelling, she was very . . .” Kaitlyn paused here, now she was frowning, and she turned her attention back to the piano, switching to a new key, no longer the existential angst of D-sharp.
“What key is that?”
“D minor,” she said, sounding thoughtful, pensive, just like the music she was playing. “It’s actually Requiem in D minor by Mozart.”
My eyes flickered between her and the room full of people quietly talking. Everyone seemed to be whispering, still on edge.
“Why D minor?” I asked.
“Because Mona DaVinci seems like a D minor kind of gal.” Kaitlyn’s response sounded distracted.
The piece she played was growing in intensity, louder but strangely restrained. The song frustrated me. It was like riding a rollercoaster that only went up, building anticipation with no foreseeable payoff.
Swallowing against the aggravation making my throat tight, I covered her treble clef hand, forcing her to stop playing. She glanced at me, giving me a questioning look.
“What?”
I swallowed again, and then cleared my throat, letting my hand drop from hers. “Leo introduced her to everyone?”
She nodded and, still looking at me, began softly playing “Chopsticks.” She replied, “He did. And it was weird.”
“Weird?”
Stop asking about her.
“Like, we all expected her to be hurt, or injured, or upset, or have slain a bear and painted herself with its blood—you know, because she was just moments prior literally yelling. When she came in though, she seemed fine. Frosty, but fine.”