I raised my hand, blocking my cheek. The sun was too bright; the kind of day that uncovered secrets, melted away snow hiding a dead body, penetrated the dermatologist-approved concealer and revealed something nasty. “I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s just month to month right now.”
Vera’s expression went sour. Was she trying to avoid looking at the bruise, or had she not noticed? Her face brightened again, a light on a dimmer, turning up and down at will. “Well, hi, neighbor,” she said. “Welcome to Woodstock. You from the city?”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
She smiled matter-of-factly, then looked down at Dusty. “Oh, and you don’t really have to use the bags around here. No one does. Between the deer shit and the bear shit, it’s not a big deal.”
I nodded, skin prickling at the thought of bears casually waltzing by. She stared, as if waiting for me to say something next. “We should probably get going,” I said, tugging on Dusty’s leash.
“You should come over for dinner,” she said suddenly, her smile turning on again. “You just got in, and I know you don’t have groceries in the house. Unless you’re the kind of person who does that first thing, and in that case, I hate you. Please share your secrets to perfection with the rest of us.”
The sound of my laugh surprised me—it had been a long time since I’d heard it. In another time and place, the answer would have been easy. I’d have suggested we get a drink, and we’d have met at some cocktail bar with exposed brick and bartenders who read Bukowski, ordered concoctions made with ridiculous things like absinthe rinses and egg whites. By the end of the night, we’d have been great friends, having exchanged everything from the number of nights per week we slept with our partners to the unbearable pain of a UTI. In this world, however, the thought was unnerving. What if she posted something about me to Facebook or Instagram? What if it had been so long since I made a new friend, since I expanded my circle beyond Davis and Ellie and the world we’d created together, that I forgot how? What if my internal compass was so fucked, I’d completely lost any sense of who I could trust?
“I didn’t go shopping yet, but I really—”
Vera cut me off. “Good. Then I don’t have to hate you. Come over. Eight thirty. You’re not vegetarian or gluten-free or allergic to any other wonderful things, are you?”
“I don’t know—”
“You don’t know if you’re allergic or you don’t know if you want to come?”
I laughed again.
“Look,” she said, “I’m the kind of person who cooks way more than I need to. If you find yourself in need of a hot meal, come over. You can meet John, my husband, and I promise we won’t be screaming about the laundry.”
It shocked me, the way she casually admitted she’d been fighting with her husband. It made me feel like I was the messed-up one, not her.
Vera shrugged. “And if you don’t, no big deal. We’ll just eat too much and drink too much and it will be all your fault.” She nodded down the road. “I’m going for a run. Don’t give me your answer now. I’ll hopefully see you at eight thirty.” She turned and headed off, and I watched as her walk quickly broke into a jog. She was captivating, that’s for sure, an enigma of a woman. Still, I shouldn’t get too friendly with anyone right now. I didn’t know who I could trust anymore.
Dusty pulled, trying to go after her, but there were things I wanted to do today, things that needed checking, arranging. I tugged at the leash and turned on my heel.
I jumped. A gray-haired woman stood there, lines etched at the corners of her mouth, eyes deep-set and deep brown, eyes that had most certainly been considered beautiful once. “Sorry,” I said. “You startled me.”
She wore a maroon sweater that had to be too hot for this weather, and faded jeans—she looked to be in her late sixties. A medium-size dog, about twice the size of Dusty, was tethered to her; he bounded toward us and sniffed at Dusty’s nose.
“This is Dusty,” I said, the usual protocol.
“Did she bother you?” She pursed her lips, like she’d tasted something bitter.
“Huh?”
She pointed up the road to where Vera was still in sight, running, her pace quick, purposeful. “About the dog. I saw that he went on her lawn and all. She really doesn’t like dogs. She’s never been friendly to Pepper, at least.”
“Oh,” I stammered, pulling Dusty a little closer to me. “She didn’t seem to—”
“If she bothers you, you just let me know,” the woman said. “I’m Maggie, I live down the road. Next door to you, I believe. Neighbors have to look out for each other, you know.”
“Lucy,” I managed. I took her hand in mine; it was clammy and cold. She smiled, and I noticed one of her teeth was gray—dead.
“You should watch out for them,” Maggie said suddenly.
I pulled my hand away and took a quick step back. “What?”
“Vera and John can be very charming,” Maggie said. “But they only really care about themselves.”
THREE
At first, only the tiniest things seemed to go missing.
An invoice for one of my freelance clients. The leftovers of an expensive meal I’d wanted to reheat. A favorite pair of socks. My bright blue Sharpie. The scarf of my mother’s. Gone, or so I thought. In a different place altogether. The invoice, tucked underneath a stack of books. The leftovers, turning moldy in the cabinet instead of in the fridge. The socks, in the bottom of Dusty’s bin of toys. The Sharpie, inexplicably dropped into my hamper and put through the wash. My mom’s vintage silk scarf—tucked away in the drawer next to threadbare dish towels, one corner having been used to sop up a mess in the kitchen, permanently stained.
Things so small, so insignificant, I half thought I was going crazy. Maybe I was just forgetful, flighty, as Davis was always implying.
Except things had never been misplaced when I was on my own—only after I moved in with him.
Now, afternoon bleeding quickly into evening, rain tapping lightly on the roof of my new cottage, I moved from room to room, noting what was what and where, writing it down in my composition notebook.
Living room: trail map and History of the Catskills (on coffee table), encyclopedia set missing the letter H (in bookshelf), and on and on. Kitchen: tea tin (four packets of Earl Grey, two of mint), scratch pad (opened to a shopping list: bananas, black beans, coffee), utensil drawer (surprisingly, a complete set), knife drawer (six knives, red Lucite handles).
Perhaps these behaviors had always been there, brewing, but it wasn’t until Davis that they rose to the forefront—an attempt to control the uncontrollable. I’d started writing things down to preserve my sanity, to help me understand.