by J D Ventura
“Yeah, what he said,” muttered Claire.
“Thanks, y’all,” Stephanie gushed. “That makes me feel so good. We have a great landscaper. I told him I only wanted non-invasive species native to West Virginia. There is a real problem with invasive exotic species, so we didn’t want to add to that in any way. You, girly, look like you could use another toke.”
The boys had polished off a couple of beers and decided to dive off the top of the rock feature. “Sam, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Claire yelled up to him, as she waved-off Stephanie’s offer of another drag. The women trailed behind their husbands, meandering up the stone pathway leading to the top of the waterfall.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s Olympic-dive-pool depth. There’s even a diving platform at the top. So, you can pretty much jump off the waterfall.”
“Wow, that’s insane. You guys must throw a hell of a pool party!” Claire gushed.
“We’re throwing one right now! Race you to the top!” Stephanie yelled, breaking into a sprint, her bare feet smacking the cool stone.
Claire ran after Stephanie but when she got to the diving platform she looked out over the water as she felt the wind begin to whip her hair. The intoxication of her high, the softer light and pleasantly-wayward thinking, instantly vanished, replaced with a sickening feeling, an upsetting and sudden combination of nausea, disorientation and panic. She stepped back from the edge and held Sam’s shoulder to steady herself.
“Claire, what’s wrong?” Stephanie asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
They both stood on the railing just below the top one, both sisters struggling to maintain their respective balance, arms outstretched, drawing cheers of encouragement from behind and below. Through her fear Claire heard Stevie yell, “Claire, this is fucked!”
The wind was whipping through Jenny’s hair and she turned to Claire, “On the count of three, and don’t pussy out. Ready?”
Claire felt herself nod affirmatively.
“One-” Jenny yelled.
The crowd now joined her in the countdown. “Two!” the teenagers cheered.
In that moment, Jenny grabbed Claire’s hand. “Three!” Jenny screamed, and sprung off the top railing.
Claire, however, did not.
Jenny’s leap was violently interrupted by her sister’s still grasping hand. Like a pendulum on a clock, Jenny swung toward Claire and hit the side of the cliff with a sickening thud that sounded like a side of beef being thrown onto a butcher’s block. When Jenny’s weight began its vertical descent, their grip was instantly broken.
Claire listened intently, desperately, for a splash but heard only the wind, howling in the darkness below.
Chapter 3
She was grateful Sam had to spend a few days near NASA’s Maryland campus. After the impromptu pool party at the Halls,’ she just wanted to be alone. Sam explained it away by saying, “She never smokes weed.” That was true, but she had also silently suffered from panic attacks for years. This one left her feeling humiliated and particularly unhinged. Her worry and anxiety around Sam’s illness somehow invited images of old demons: her sister’s lifeless body, face down on the rocks; her mother, drunk and hysterical, wrestling with the cops on the other side of the police tape; the splay of lilies at the funeral, the petals already tinged with decay.
She ran the back of her left hand over the indent on Sam’s pillow, the empty space filling her with a feeling of sad relief. She rolled over onto her right side and looked out the window at the broad, sturdy pergola covering the stone patio below, which sloped into their expansive leaf-strewn backyard. The sunlight spilled from a passing cloud like a breaking egg yolk, causing Claire to cup her hand, visor-like, above her eyebrows. She squinted at a tiny spot of black in the middle of a pile of leaves. What the hell?
Claire flung the comforter off and swung her feet onto the cold wood floor, rubbing her eyes and leaning forward to get a better look. It was a small dog, and it was not moving, just standing still, staring straight ahead at their house. Oh, poor baby, maybe he’s lost. She unlatched the window lock and with a grunt and an upward shove of her lower palms, pushed the bottom of the frame to chin level. The cold air rushed in, making her eyes water. She kneeled at the sill and bent slightly forward, sticking her head out and deeply inhaling the crisp morning air.
The dog did not move a muscle. Oh my God, it must be hurt!
“Hey, there, baby. How are you? You cold? You lost, huh? You hungry, sweetie? Okay, stay there, baby. Good boy. I will be right there. Stay. Stay.”
She grabbed a robe Sam had thrown over one of their bedroom’s leather armchairs and made her way quickly downstairs, jumping over the last few steps and grabbing at the baluster as her feet lost traction for a moment on the smooth tiled floor in the foyer. She ran through the kitchen and opened the sliding doors leading to the backyard. “Come here, puppy. C’mere good boy. Come – ,”
The dog was gone.
Claire spent most of the day unpacking. An activity she would normally despise was proving to be quite pleasant, in that its mundanity allowed her to completely zone out. When she started alphabetizing her just-unpacked spice cabinet, she recognized this as something her shrink called “manic enthusiasm.” It was time to take a Xanax and to breathe. In, one, two, three, out, one, two, three. Be present Claire. Present! She grabbed a sparkling water from the fridge and, with one swig, downed the white oval pill she had retrieved from an otherwise empty coriander bottle. Alprazolam is my favorite spice. The thought made her laugh out loud. You may have a coriander problem, Claire. The realization wasn’t enough to stop her from retrieving a bottle of California chardonnay from the trunk of her car.
When the booze and sedative began to gently welcome her to mid-morning – brunch of champions! – she punched up some Elliott Smith on her smartphone and the melancholy chords of baroque pop filled the cavernous living room. Claire lay on the floor, on her back, and looked up at the towers of moving boxes surrounding her. How are you going to launch your own PR agency when you can’t even find the will to unpack? As she faded into sleep, the stacked cardboard looked like stone cliffs, and the distant wail of sirens sounded hopeless. Whew, whew, whew, whew, whew. Urnt, urnt. Whew, whew, whew, whew. Urnnnnnnt.
Someone was ringing the doorbell. How long had she been sleeping? The light coming in the windows was diffuse and gray. It was either raining or late afternoon, she couldn’t tell. She sat upright and for a moment thought she had dreamt it, until it rang again, and she saw the shadow through the frosted sidelights on either side of the front door. “Okay. Just a second,” she shouted, standing up, pushing her hair behind her ears and closing the front of Sam’s robe with a quick-tie of the terrycloth sash. For a second, she felt a wave of annoyance wash over her. I just want to be alone.
She opened the door and a 50-something woman and a 60-something man stood on her porch. She was holding an elaborate, brimming gift basket. Their faces were already seeking forgiveness for the midday intrusion. They were dressed well, but with a hippie aesthetic that made Claire guess they were probably professors at the nearby community college or county workers too close to retirement to bother with business attire.
The woman was slightly shorter than the man, and her hair, a butterscotch blond that looked dry and had begun to pepper at the temples, was banana-clipped back tightly, leaving only her bangs to blow in the early afternoon breeze. She spoke first, “Oh, gee, hi, I’m Marie Hershel and this is my husband, Keith.”
“Hiya,” said Keith, who wore wrinkled khaki pants, a worn, frayed braided belt and a faded corduroy jacket the color of cinnamon. His white goatee matched what was left of his wispy hair. “Don’t worry, we’re not selling anything.”
Claire stared at the gift basket with such intense inquisitiveness, Marie, who was wearing a jean jacket over a printed sundress, peeked around the shrink-wrapped fruit and
laughed. “Not even gift baskets. We found this on your porch,” she said, handing it to Claire, who received the mass of cellophane and ribbons as if she’d just been handed a live monkey. She placed it behind her, just inside the foyer.
“Thanks, um, I’m Claire Sturgis. My husband and I moved in a couple of days ago,” said Claire.
“Three,” said Keith, before meeting his wife’s disapproving sideways glance.
“I’m sorry?” asked Claire.
“Three days ago, you moved in three days ago,” he offered, his voice sheepishly trailing off to almost a whisper.
“Oh wow, you know, you’re right. It has already been three days. Well, it’s so nice to meet you. Are we neighbors?” Claire asked, bringing the lapels of the robe together with her clutched right hand.
“We are indeed!” said Marie, as if she just realized she had bingo. “We are two houses up from the Halls. A pleasure to finally meet you. And I am sorry it isn’t under better circumstances, but we came by looking for our dog.”
“Oh, yes, yes, small, black –”
The Hershels were nodding their heads in agreement emphatically. “Yes!” said Marie. He jumps our fence all the time and just decides to run around the neighborhood. I hate the idea of putting him on a chain.”
“Oh, jeez, I tried to call him closer to the house, but by the time I got to the backdoor, he…I’m sorry, what’s his name?”
The couple looked stupefied, like she had just demanded they tell her the circumference of Antarctica.
“His name?” asked Marie. “Oh, yes, of course, his name! Boy, actually. I know, I know, it’s a silly name. But we thought simple was best. He’s a male, so, voila, his name is Boy.”
“Yes,” concurred Keith. “Our sweet Boy.”
“Boy is such a cute name,” said Claire. “Well, shoot, I will keep my eyes peeled.”
“Thank you, Claire,” the Hershels said in unison, making her laugh.
She caught herself and grasped her mouth, her eyes widening in apology.
“Claire, thank you. If you see him, we are that house right there, the one with the fountain in the center of the driveway,” Marie added.
“I love that fountain!” said Claire, despite thinking it was a bit ostentatious. “I will come knocking if I see him again. But I’d bet he is already waiting for you at home.”
“We appreciate it, Claire,” said Marie. “We need to have you and Sam for dinner. When is he back? No time like the present, if you ask me.”
“That would be, um, great,” replied Claire, trying to remember if she had mentioned Sam. “Oh shoot, well, Sam isn’t home for another couple of days and he will be pretty wiped out the day he gets back.”
“So Saturday then?” Marie said. It wasn’t a question.
“That sounds perfect,” Claire said. “Well, I guess we will see you then.”
“I honestly can’t wait,” Marie said, turning to go and then turning back toward Claire, as if seized by an afterthought. “We need to know everything about you.”
The next three days were a series of naps and trips to the “wine cellar” in the trunk of her car — and the coriander jar. Unpacking was an ancillary priority. How in the hell were they going to live here? She already felt like a complete weirdo after her mini panic attack at the Halls’ pool. Not to mention she was drinking like a fish behind Sam’s back. She owed her next door neighbors a better explanation than she couldn’t handle her weed. Of course, the truth was she had also taken Xanax that night – two! – a fact that only compounded her shame at not having her shit together. It was only a matter of time until Sam figured out, if he hadn’t already, that her recovery had long since been abandoned. The card from the gift basket read:
You’re complicated. I like that. Looking forward to getting to know you better. -- Stephanie
Before Claire could read it again, a fallen tear smudged the calligraphy. Her face grew hot with frustration. Her anxiety, which could be debilitating at times, was indeed complicated. She was relieved to think Stephanie may not be like the catty city women she knew, demanding to know the gory details. Why are you anxious? Do you self-medicate? Who is your psychiatrist? Are you taking anything for it? Do you still attend meetings? Sam has no idea you’ve fallen off the wagon? He let you smoke weed, so he must know what’s up, no? None of that from Stephanie. This was a classy gesture. The sentiment was simple: you’ve got issues, and I’m here when you need me, on your terms. Your secrets are yours for the telling. And only when you’re ready. Still, the familiar shadow of shame darkened her spirits.
Sam finally called later that night. Deliberately enunciating her words so as not to sound tipsy, she told him about the dog and about the Hershels and about the gift basket sent from the Halls. He was quiet on his end of the phone, letting her fill the void with her newfound suburban insecurities. “I just hope they don’t think I’m a complete weirdo,” Claire said to Sam. “Anyway, they seemed nice enough and – don’t be mad – but they invited us to dinner the day after tomorrow and I didn’t have the heart to decline.”
Her story was met with silence.
“Sam, are you listening to me?”
“Claire,” Sam said, with the seriousness of a hostage negotiator. “I’m forgetting important things.”
Chapter 4
Claire felt like a zoo animal pacing around her backyard and patio. There was an inexplicable yet palpable sense she was being watched. The house and the semi-detached brick garage cast long, boxy shadows across the lawn, fractured by the beamed roof of the pergola.
Through a cottony haze of Xanax, as if fever-dreaming, her mind lumbered from one haunting conversation to the next: Sam’s doctor first saying the word, “neurodegenerative;” Stephanie Hall, poolside: “Claire, you look like you’ve seen a ghost;” Sam confessing his memory lapses were now affecting his work.
Her husband was two hours late returning from the city. She had returned the empty bottles of wine to her trunk and brewed herself a pot of dark coffee. Maybe if I eat something, I’ll stop this infernal pacing! She walked down the hallway leading into their kitchen, which was arguably one of her favorite rooms in their house. The realtor had droned on and on about its “entertaining flow” and a design that guaranteed “an efficiency of movement.” She just liked the view of the backyard, and the way the sunlight made its way lazily across the countertops and gleaming stainless steel appliances, absorbed by the warm, chocolate brown cabinetry. It offered an aesthetic that was a thoughtful blend of practical and pleasurable.
She filled a copper saucepan with water and fired-up the stove. Grabbing a poaching cup, she hung it on the pan’s rim and submerged it. A poached egg is exactly what the doctor ordered. She grabbed the carton from the refrigerator and cracked one into a ramekin. Just as she was about to transfer the egg from the ramekin into the poacher, the doorbell gave her such a start, she yelped. Jesus!
She looked at the small television on the kitchen’s countertop, which displayed the front door camera. Despite the designer sunglasses and a white Panama-style straw fedora wrapped in a grosgrain band, or maybe because of it, she knew it was Stephanie and her pity could be avoided no longer. Her neighbor looked up, staring directly into the camera, and gave Claire a fluttering finger wave, like a breeze rustling tall grass. Claire shut the burner off and instinctively reached for the coriander jar.
They were seated on the patio, under the shadows cast by the branches of a Norway maple. When they toured the house in late July, the tree’s dry shade yielded an explosion of wild bleeding hearts, their pink bulbs had pointed downward, as if stricken by shyness. Now there were no traces of the flowers, just dead, browning grass. Stephanie pulled a bottle of chardonnay out of her tote bag.
“I assume you have glasses?” she asked.
Claire blushed. “How did you know?”
“Please. I could tell by the way yo
u were staring at the guys’ beers the other night. I was surprised he gave you a pass on the weed, to be honest. So, he doesn’t know, huh?”
“If he does, we’re avoiding the subject. We have enough to worry about right now without confronting an old problem we thought we’d solved. Anyway, I shouldn’t. He’ll be home soon.”
“No worries,” said Stephanie. “But you’d adore it.”
“You have no idea.”
“Look, we all have some form of trauma in our past. Maybe the weed just brought out some shit for you, you know? An anxiety attack of sorts. Paranoia, self-destroyer, that kind of thing.” She tilted her head forward and, peering over her sunglasses, looked directly into Claire’s eyes. “I have been through my share of bad times, sweetie. There aren’t enough bottles in my wine cellar, believe you me.”
“It’s not that, I just –,”
“Look, whatever it is, you don’t have to tell me. Not if you don’t want to. I just sense that you aren’t happy about something. I’m guessing it’s why you’re drinking again. You radiate tension. Whether it’s the move here or…something else…”
The sentence hung in the air like an invitation.
“The move has been stressful, yes. But we are dealing with…something else, too.”
Stephanie abruptly sat back in her chair, as if struck in the head with a rock, sighing before breaking into a lifeless slouch. “Oh, God. Is it cancer? Everyone has goddamn cancer these days.”
“Cancer? Oh, no, we’re both physically fine,” said Claire, instantly regretting the emphasis she had placed on the word. Stephanie didn’t miss a beat.
“Physically. So, how about men-tal-ly…?” she said in three careful syllables, then winced at the possibility she’d overstepped.
“Are we having a coffee klatch out here or what?” Sam’s voice boomed from the open glass doors leading from the kitchen to the deck, startling both women, each of them placing a flattened hand between their breasts. Stephanie quickly dropped the wine bottle back in her tote.