Cackle(8)

I point to the woods. He doesn’t move. I close the window, leaving him to figure it out on his own.

By the time I finish unpacking, the sun dips below the trees, and I make a lap around the apartment, flipping on every lamp, every light switch. I didn’t realize earlier that there are no curtains. No blinds. I’m in a fishbowl.

I check my phone. A response from Sam: Ha ha. Call me later, if you want.

I call him immediately.

“You stop at McDonald’s or Wendy’s?” he asks.

“McDonald’s.”

“Left to your own devices. We’ve been over this. Wendy’s is far superior.”

“I like McDonald’s. I was raised on McDonald’s,” I say. “Cut me some slack.”

“You want that cut thin, thick or cubed?”

Maybe this is hard for him, too. Harder than he anticipated. Not having me home. We’ve cohabitated for so many years in that space. My not being there must be strange for him.

“How’s the place?” he asks.

“Good. Pictures weren’t fakes, so that’s a relief. It’s a nice apartment. Very bright. I’ll need to get some curtains, though. It was fine during the day but it’s kind of creepy now.”

I walk over to the front window and peer outside. A car is coming down the street. The speed limit on Maple is twenty-five, but this car must be going under that. It’s crawling.

The car’s interior light is on, and I can see people inside. Two in the front, one in the back. They’re far away. Blurred by the distance and distorted by the glass. But I think they’re looking at me. I squint.

Yeah. They’re not in profile, not facing the road ahead. They’re turned toward me; their eyes are on me. I feel the hot grip of their stares.

“Annie?” Sam asks. “You there?”

“Yep,” I say. I stand back from the window. The car passes, the red glow of its taillights retreating into the silky darkness of the August night.

“Sorry,” I say. I shuffle into the bedroom and spread myself across the mattress. “I’m here.”

“I’ll, uh, actually I’ll let you go,” he says.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Wanted to make sure you got there in one piece.”

“Let me double-check,” I say. I do. I check. I feel around my body. Is it all here? “Yep. One piece.”

He laughs. It’s his laugh lite. His this is amusing but not genuinely funny laugh.

“Night, Annie.”

“Good night, Sam.”

He hangs up before me. I hear it. That horrible disconnecting noise.

I roll over onto my stomach. It’s strange. Sam and I have been sleeping separately for months, and I’m still not used to it. I want to be, but I’m not. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to sleeping alone or if, from now on, I’ll go to bed huddled up to one side, waiting in vain for warmth beside me.

It’s so easy to adjust when you’re newly in love, when you’re all gooey, soft and malleable as an infant’s skull. You make so much space in your life and in your heart, and when the person you love leaves, you’re all stretched out. There’s so much room inside me that I don’t know what to do with, space I don’t know how to fill. I’ve been waiting for it to shrivel up, for me to take my former shape, to be how I was before I met him, but it’s not happening.

It’s been so long; I don’t even remember who I was before him.



* * *



—

On Main Street in Rowan, there’s a sign that reads WELCOME TO ROWAN, AMERICA’S BEST-KEPT SECRET.

I can’t even scoff, can’t even roll my eyes at the pure Velveeta cheesiness. All I can do is nod in agreement as I drive through town for the first time. It’s so quaint it makes my insides warm, and I can feel them churn with instant affection. That new-crush endorphin surge. I bet there are little hearts where my eyes used to be.

The short stretch of Main Street is lined with shops, each one more whimsical than the last. They’re all different colors: pale yellow, neon pink, deep teal, muted beige. They vary in style. Some have that classic general store vibe. Colonial boxes, windows with distinct muntin bars, front-sloped roofs and gabled dormers. A few of the shops look like they’ve been transported from a small village in Europe, like they’re made of gingerbread. Others are right out of a Norman Rockwell townscape. Perfect rectangles with vibrant red bricks and decorative cornice molding.

There are petite manicured trees interspersed with flowery bushes along the sidewalks. The lampposts are beautiful Victorian relics. Black cast iron. Flowerpots drape from their arms, all filled with yellow daisies.

I half expect a bunch of adorable children clad in matching outfits to pop out of the bushes and start harmonizing while performing a choreographed dance. Townsfolk in suspenders to emerge from the shops, burst out of the doors and windows to bid me bonjour.

I spot a few people out and about. There’s a woman in a linen dress and a wide-brimmed sun hat walking her dachshund. There’s a tall man in a polo shirt and cargo shorts carrying cups of labelless take-out coffee.

They both seem happy.

Past the rows of shops there are a few lonelier buildings set back from the road. An old geezer of a place with intimidating columns and a gilded eagle on top, probably a bank or municipal something or other. There’s a retro train car diner, the most delightful one I’ve ever seen. A bit farther down the road, there’s a small pond, and behind it, secluded in the trees, is a little stone church with an arched door and a steeple.