“Snow removal is mandatory in Stonewood Heights,” she pointed out. “And it’s a lot safer to walk there in wintertime. Why don’t we do something like that here?”
Councilman DiFazio explained that hearings had been held on this very subject on three separate occasions that he could remember. Each time, large numbers of senior citizens had testified in opposition to any change in the law, for both health and financial reasons.
“We’re kind of in a box here,” he said. “It’s a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situation.”
“I’ll tell you what I’d like to see,” Kevin interjected. “I’d like to compile some kind of registry of people who need help shoveling, and maybe share that with the high school volunteer office. That way, kids could get community service credit for doing something that actually needs to be done.”
Several council members liked this idea, and Councilwoman Chen, chair of the Education Committee, agreed to follow up with the high school.
Things got a little more heated when the next speaker—an intense young man with deep-set eyes and a patchy beard—took the floor. He identified himself as the chef/owner of a recently opened vegan restaurant called Purity Café, and said he wanted to go on record protesting the unfair grade his establishment had received from the Health Inspector.
“It’s ridiculous,” he said. “Purity Café is spotless. We don’t handle meat, eggs, or dairy, which are the main sources of food-borne illnesses. Everything we serve is fresh and lovingly prepared in a brand-new, state-of-the-art kitchen. But we get a B and Chicken Quick gets an A? Chicken Quick? Are you kidding me? You ever hear of salmonella? And Chumley’s Steakhouse? Really? Have you ever seen the kitchen at Chumley’s Steakhouse? Are you actually gonna look me in the eye and tell me it’s cleaner than the Purity Café? That’s a joke. Something doesn’t smell right, and you can bet it’s not the food in my restaurant.”
Kevin wasn’t crazy about the chef’s condescending tone or his misguided decision to criticize his competitors—it definitely wasn’t the way to win friends and influence people in a small town—but he had to admit that a grade of A for Chicken Quick seemed a bit improbable. Laurie had made him stop going there years ago, after she found a coin-sized battery in a container of garlic sauce. When she brought it back to show the owner, he laughed and said, So that’s where it went.
Bruce Hardin, Mapleton’s longtime health inspector, asked for permission to respond directly to the chef’s “reckless allegations.” Bruce was a hefty guy in his mid-fifties who had lost his wife in the Sudden Departure. He didn’t seem especially vain, but it was hard to account for the disconcerting contrast between his dark brown hair and his silver-gray mustache without factoring in a certain amount of L’Oreal for Men. Speaking with the bland authority of a veteran bureaucrat, he pointed out that his reports were a matter of public record and that they usually contained photographs documenting each cited violation. Anyone who wished to examine his report on the Purity Café or any other food purveyor was welcome to do so. He was confident that his work could withstand the strictest scrutiny. Then he turned and stared at the bearded chef.
“I’ve served in this position for twenty-three years,” he said, with an audible tremor in his voice. “And this is the first time my integrity has ever been questioned.”
Backtracking a bit, the chef insisted that he hadn’t questioned anyone’s integrity. Bruce said that wasn’t how it sounded to him, and that it was cowardly to try to deny it. Kevin intervened before things got out of hand, suggesting that it might be more constructive for the two of them to sit down in a calmer setting and have a forthright discussion about measures the Purity Café might take to improve its grade during the next inspection period. He added that he’d heard great things about the vegan restaurant and considered it a valuable addition to the town’s eclectic roster of eateries.
“I’m not a vegetarian by any means,” he said, “but I’m looking forward to eating there soon. Maybe lunch next Wednesday?” He glanced at the council members. “Who wants to join me?”
“You buying?” Councilman Reynaud quipped, drawing an appreciative chuckle from the crowd.
Kevin checked his watch before calling on the next speaker. It was already a quarter to nine, and there were at least ten people with their hands in the air, including Daylight Savings Guy and the gentleman who never got his newspaper.
“Wow,” he told them. “Looks like we’re just getting warmed up.”
* * *
FOR SOME reason, she was always a little surprised to find Kevin on her doorstep, even when she was expecting him. There was just something a little too normal and reassuring about the whole situation, a big, friendly man pressing a brown paper bag into her hands, the neck of a wine bottle poking out.
“Sorry,” he told her. “The council meeting ran late. Everybody had to put their two cents in.”
Nora opened the wine and he told her all about it, in a lot more detail than she required. She did her best to look alert and interested, nodding at what seemed like the appropriate junctures, supplying the occasional comment or question to keep things moving along.
A good girlfriend is a good listener, she reminded herself.
But she was just pretending, and she knew it. In her former life, Doug used to sit across this very table and try her patience in a similar way, with long-winded soliloquies about whatever deal he happened to be working on at the moment, filling her in on the arcane legal and financial details of the transaction, thinking out loud about the various stumbling blocks that might arise, and what he might do to overcome them. But no matter how bored she was, she always understood that Doug’s work mattered to her on a personal level, that it would have consequences for their family, and that she needed to pay attention. As much as she appreciated Kevin’s company, she couldn’t quite convince herself that she needed to care about the intricacies of the building code or a deadline extension for pet licenses.
“Is that just for dogs?” she wondered.
“Cats, too.”
“So you’re waiving the late fee?”
“Technically, we’re extending the registration period.”
“What’s the difference?”
“We’d rather encourage compliance,” he explained.
* * *
THEY SAT together in front of the flat-screen TV, Kevin’s arm around Nora’s shoulder, his fingers toying with her fine dark hair. She didn’t object to being touched like that, but she gave no sign of enjoying it, either. Her attention was riveted to the screen, which she studied with an air of brooding intensity, as if SpongeBob were a Swedish art film from the 1960s.
He was happy enough to watch it with her, not because he enjoyed the show—he found it shrill and peculiar—but because it gave him an excuse to finally stop talking. He’d been babbling for too long about the council meeting—going on and on about overruns in the snow removal budget, the wisdom of replacing downtown parking meters with a ticket machine, etcetera, etcetera—just to spare them the awkwardness of sitting in prolonged silence like an old married couple with nothing left to say.
What made it so maddening was that they barely knew each other, even after all the time they’d spent together on vacation. There was still so much left to discover, so many questions he wanted to ask, if only she would let him. But she’d made it clear in Florida that the personal stuff was off-limits. She wouldn’t talk about her husband or her kids, or even about her life before that. And he’d seen how she’d tensed up the few times he’d tried telling her about his own family, the way she’d winced and looked away, as if a cop were shining a flashlight in her eyes.
At least in Florida they’d been in an unfamiliar environment, spending most of their time outdoors, where it was easy to break the silence with a simple exchange about the temperature of the ocean, or the beauty of the sunset, or the fact that a pelican had just flown by. Back here in Mapleton, there was none of that. They were always inside, always at her house. N
ora wouldn’t go to the movies, to a restaurant, or even to the Carpe Diem for a nightcap. All they ever did was make labored small talk and watch SpongeBob.
She wouldn’t even tell him about that. He understood that it was a rite of remembrance, and was touched that she let him be part of it, but he would’ve liked to know a little more about what the show meant to her, and what she wrote in her notebook when it was over. But apparently SpongeBob was none of his business, either.
* * *
NORA DIDN’T want to be like this, distant and shut down. She wanted to be the way she’d been in Florida, openhearted and alive, free with her body and spirit. Those five days had passed like a dream, both of them drunk on sunshine and adrenaline, perpetually amazed to find themselves together in the unfamiliar heat, liberated from the prison of their daily routines. They walked and they biked and they flirted and they swam in the ocean, and when they ran out of things to talk about, they had another drink, or sat in the Jacuzzi, or read a few pages of the thrillers they’d bought at the airport bookstore. In the late afternoons, they split up for a few hours, retiring to their separate rooms for a shower and a nap before reconvening for dinner.
She’d invited him back to her room the very first night. After a bottle of wine at dinner and a giddy makeout session on the beach, it seemed like the polite thing to do. She wasn’t nervous taking her clothes off, didn’t ask him to turn out the light. She just stood there naked, soaking up his approval. Her skin felt like it was glowing.
What do you think? she asked.
Nice collarbones, he said. Pretty good posture, too.
Is that all?
Come to bed and I’ll tell you about the back of your knees.
She climbed in, snuggling against him. His torso was a pale slab, reassuringly solid. The first time she’d hugged him, it had felt like she was embracing a tree.
What about the back of my knees?
Honestly?
Yeah.
His hand wandered down the back of her thigh.
They’re a little clammy.
She laughed and he kissed her and she kissed him back and that was it for the conversation. The only hitch came a few minutes later, when he tried to enter her and discovered she was too dry. She apologized, said she was out of practice, but he shushed her, licking his way down the center of her body, moistening her with his tongue. He took his time, letting her know it was all right to relax, coaxing her along an unfamiliar path until she stopped worrying about where it was leading and realized with a soft cry that she was already there, that something had loosened inside of her and something warm had come leaking out. When she caught her breath, she crawled down the bed and returned the favor, not thinking once about Doug or Kylie as she took him in her mouth, not thinking about anything at all until it was over, until he finally stopped whimpering and she was sure she’d swallowed every drop.
* * *
KEVIN FELT a brief flutter of suspense when the show was over and Nora closed her notebook.
“Excuse me.” She covered her mouth, politely stifling a yawn. “I’m a little tired.”
“Me, too,” he admitted. “It’s been a long day.”
“It’s so cold out.” She gave a sympathetic shudder. “I’m sorry you have to go.”
“I don’t have to,” he reminded her. “I’d love to stay here. I’ve been missing you.”
Nora gave this some thought.
“Pretty soon,” she told him. “I just need a little more time.”
“We don’t have to do anything. We could just keep each other company. Just talk until we fall asleep.”
“I’m sorry, Kevin. I’m really not up for it.”
Of course you are, he wanted to tell her. Don’t you remember what it was like? How could you not be up for that? But he knew it was hopeless. The moment you started pleading your case, you’d already lost it.
She walked him to the door and kissed him good night, a chaste but lingering send-off that felt like an apology and a rain check at the same time.
“Can I call you tomorrow?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Call me tomorrow.”
* * *
NORA LOCKED the door and carried the wineglasses to the sink. Then she went upstairs and got ready for bed.
I’m a terrible girlfriend, she thought as she brushed her teeth. I don’t know why I even bother.
It was embarrassing, knowing that it was all her fault, that she’d volunteered for the position and misled Kevin into giving her the job. She was the one who’d invited him to Florida, after all, the one who’d managed to impersonate a functional, relatively cheerful human being for five days. By the end of the vacation, she’d almost started to believe that she actually was a functional, reasonably cheerful human being—the kind of person who might hold hands with another person under the table, or feed that other person little forkfuls of dessert—so she could hardly blame him for sharing in that misconception, or feeling confused and betrayed when she took it all back.
But she wasn’t that person, not here in Mapleton anyway, not even close, and there was no use hiding from the truth. She had no love to give Kevin or anyone else, no joy or energy or insight. She was still broken, still missing some crucial parts. This knowledge had almost crushed her when she got back home, the unsupportable weight of her own existence, a lead-lined cape draped across her frail shoulders. Welcome home, Nora. It seemed so much heavier than she remembered, so much more oppressive, which was apparently the price you paid for sneaking out from under it for a few days. Did you have a nice trip?
THE OUTPOST
ON A WINDLESS MORNING IN late January, with light snow sifting down, Laurie and Meg walked from Ginkgo Street to their new quarters on Parker Road, a quiet residential enclave on the eastern edge of Greenway Park.
Outpost 17 was small, but nicer than Laurie had expected, a dark blue Cape Cod, dormered, with white trim around the windows. Instead of a concrete path, a walkway of clay-colored paving stones led to the main entrance. The only thing she didn’t like was the front door itself, which looked a little too ornate for the rest of the house, gleaming brown wood with an elongated oval of smoked decorative glass cut into it, the kind of thing you’d expect to see on a McMansion in Stonewood Heights, not a modest Mapleton dwelling like this one.
“It’s cute,” Meg whispered.
“Could be a lot worse,” Laurie agreed.
They liked it even better once they saw the inside. The downstairs was cozy without feeling cramped, enlivened by lots of nice little touches—a gas fireplace in the living room, area rugs with bold geometric designs, comfortable mix-and-match furniture. The high point was the renovated kitchen, a bright open space with stainless steel appliances, a restaurant-quality stove, and a window over the sink that looked out on a soothing vista of wooded parkland, the bare tree limbs frosted with a thin layer of white powder. Laurie could easily imagine her old self standing at the soapstone counter on a weekend afternoon, chopping vegetables while NPR murmured in the background.
The tour was guided by their new housemates, a pair of middle-aged men who’d answered the door with homemade name tags affixed to their shirts. “Julian” was tall and a bit stooped, with round, wire-framed glasses and a pointy nose that seemed to sniff inquisitively at the air. His face was clean-shaven, an anomaly in the G.R. “Gus” was a stocky, red-haired guy with a ruddy complexion; his beard was neatly trimmed, generously flecked with gray.
Welcome, he wrote on a communication pad. We’ve been waiting for you.
Laurie felt uneasy, but did her best to ignore it. She’d known the outposts could be coed, but hadn’t anticipated anything quite so intimate, two men and two women sharing a small house on the edge of the woods. But if that was the assignment, then so be it. She understood what an honor it was to be selected for the Neighborhood Settlement Program—it was at the heart of the G.R.’s long-term expansion plans—and wanted to prove herself worthy of the trust that had been placed in her by
the leadership, who were undoubtedly doing the best they could with the resources at their disposal.
Besides, she and Meg would have the whole second floor to themselves—two small bedrooms and a shared bathroom—so privacy shouldn’t be a problem. Meg chose the pink room overlooking the street; Laurie took the yellow one with the park view, which had probably belonged to a teenager. The bed—it looked like it came from IKEA—was built low to the floor, a thin, futon-style mattress resting inside a frame of blond wood. The walls were bare, but you could see the empty spaces where some posters had recently hung, three rectangles slightly brighter than the space that surrounded them.
She’d only brought one suitcase—all her worldly belongings—and got unpacked in a matter of minutes. It felt anticlimactic somehow—more like checking into a hotel than settling into a new home—almost enough to make her nostalgic for the hectic moving days of her previous life: the weeks of preparation, the boxes and the tape and the markers, the big truck pulling up, the anxiety of watching your whole life disappear into its maw. And then the reverse peristalsis on the other end, all those boxes coming back out, the thud when they landed on the floor, the shriek when you ripped them open. The weird letdown of a new house, that nagging sense of dislocation that feels like it’ll never go away. But at least you knew in your gut that something momentous had happened, that one chapter in your life had ended and another had begun.
A year, she used to say. It takes a year to really feel at home. And sometimes longer than that.
After she’d placed her clothes in the chest of drawers—also blond, also IKEA—she stayed on her knees for a long time, not praying, just thinking, trying to get her mind around the fact that she lived here now, that this place was home. It helped to know that Meg was nearby, just a few steps away. Not quite as close as in Blue House, where they’d shared a room, but close enough, closer than she could reasonably have hoped for.