“Out.”
“Out, where?”
It’s a bold question, unlike her. He glares, and she looks away quickly, as she should.
“The boys have been asking again for a pet, Jacob, and I thought—”
“I told them no pets!”
“Not a dog or cat. They know that. But they thought maybe a pair of hermit crabs would be okay. They’re small and they live in a terrarium and—”
“Fine.”
“Fine? You mean it’s okay?”
He nods. He might have said a kangaroo is okay, just to shut her up and get her off his back right now.
“Oh, thank you! Thank you!”
She looks tired tonight, with circles under her blue eyes and her fair hair caught in a straggly ponytail. And she’s getting fat, stomach bulging under her sweat top, thighs thick in stretchy pants that pill on the insides where her legs chafe.
She’d been pretty and petite when they met. Jacob was in his mid-thirties and more than a year into his parole, Emina in her early twenties and itching to settle down. The youngest of four sisters who were all happily wed with families, she was sick of being single, sick of living with her parents and their nagging, sick of her long commute and her administrative job at a midtown corporation.
Marriage was a logical step for both of them. He hasn’t regretted it much until now.
Emina doesn’t follow when he turns and walks away, past the dark living room and the kitchen where the supper dishes are drying on the drainboard and his sons sit at the table doing homework.
This small apartment is still, but as always, there is noise and movement from the neighbors—footsteps creaking above, water running below, muffled voices and droning televisions all around.
The bedroom is white—walls and woodwork, bedding, doilies on the bureau and nightstands. There’s a crucifix on the wall above the bed. Jesus with bloody wounds. Every time Jacob looks at it, he remembers that awful night . . .
Anna. I have to get to Anna.
He retrieves the binoculars he’d stashed in a drawer, tucks them into the jacket, and exits. He expects to find Emina still waiting in the entry hall, but she’s come to her senses and is gone, leaving him to make an uncomplicated exit.
He makes his way along a wide corridor wafting with cooking smells and takes the ancient elevator down eight floors to the street. His building, like the others that line the neighborhood, is vast and populated by working-class families and immigrants. The streets are safe if you’re local and know which blocks to avoid, especially after dark. That means the walk to Anna’s neighborhood takes nearly half an hour tonight.
Emina texts him. Stop 4 creamer on way home.
Can’t, he responds, irked, and sees the wobbling dots that mean she’s got something to say about that. Of course she does. She’s got something to say about everything. He’s so damned sick of her, and the kids, the dreary home, his work.
Need it 4 my coffee tmrw, Emina informs him.
He scowls. Then U get it.
On Glover Street, a dog is barking. Night construction rattles on a nearby roadway, and there are sirens. Always sirens and jackhammers, here in the city.
He’d heard them that January night, too. The noise had been jarring then, because he’d been gone for a while, living in a quiet college town. He remembers wondering how he’d ever maintained his sanity amid incessant wailing and pounding. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe madness had claimed him and he’d never even realized it, despite what his doctor had told him.
“If you’re concerned that you might be going insane, then you probably aren’t. In my experience, people who are developing serious mental illness rarely suspect it.”
Rarely isn’t never.
104 Glover is well lit tonight, shades drawn on all the windows. He stays on the opposite side of the street and walks on past to the intersection. Edgemont Boulevard is busy as always, traffic in the streets, people on the sidewalks, shops and restaurants open.
Lingering on the corner, he lights a cigarette. Nobody gives him a second glance. He could be a diner who stepped out of a nearby café for a smoke.
From here, he has a clear, diagonal view of 104 Glover.
He’s not sure how long he stands, steeped in smoke and memories, before the front door opens and Anna emerges.
He blinks. If she disappears, then this is just . . .
But no. She’s still there, heading down the steps, wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. She has a dog on a leash. She’s holding her phone, looking down at it, the open screen glinting.
She seems like a regular living, breathing human being.
And she’s alone. Finally.
He starts toward her, mind racing. What should he say first? Should he ask her what’s going on, or—
As she reaches the sidewalk, a figure steps out of the shadows.
Jacob stops short.
Anna doesn’t appear startled, though. No, she was expecting it. Expecting him, a shaggy-haired young man who reaches down to pat her dog, and then walks her toward Edgemont with a proprietary air. Anna looks back over her shoulder at the house, as if to see if anyone’s watching from there.
They aren’t, but Jacob is, wondering whether she’ll spot him here, on the opposite corner. When she does, she’ll run toward him. His heart pounds, and he throws his half-smoked cigarette to the pavement, preparing to welcome her into his arms at last.
It doesn’t happen, though. The stranger escorts her around the corner like a prison guard. She doesn’t look back before they disappear in the opposite direction, but Jacob is almost certain she noticed him.
Part Two
Nora
The metal box Nora dug up in the garden on Tuesday remains hidden on the shelf in the shed. Her family hasn’t even noticed the sturdy padlock she bought for the door. Chances are they won’t, but even if they do, they won’t think twice about it. She’s the only one who spends time out back. The girls are busy with school and Keith is working long hours. He hasn’t even asked Nora how she’s filled the last couple of days.
Now, Friday morning, standing before the bureau mirror knotting his tie as she makes the bed, he comments that she’s up early.
“I’m meeting Jules and her friend for coffee to talk about volunteering for the urban farm.”
“That’s great. It’ll give you something to do.”
She stiffens. “I have plenty to do.”
“I know, I just meant—I’ve been worried about you, Nora.”
“Why?”
“Because you moved here for me, and—I guess, after everything that happened back home last spring, I don’t want you to resent this move if it doesn’t work out.”
If what doesn’t work out? The move? Or their marriage?
Their eyes meet in the mirror. She quickly looks away.
She resumes arranging the pillows in a precisely layered row across the top of the bed. “It’s already working out, isn’t it? It’s worked out. We’re here. Your job is good, school is good, the house is good, we’re good.”