She would turn into their development and pull into her garage. She would drop her bags in the foyer. The house would be dark and empty. Outside the sky would be gray, rain imminent. She’d hesitate a moment, then turn back for the door. She would walk to the end of the block, and then take a left. Her footsteps would ring out on the cold slick pavement. All the houses she would pass would have cars in the garages and lights shining in the windows until she would turn on Spirit.
The huge, empty houses loomed. All the driveways slanted at the exact same angle. The first one on the block was the very same model as her house, the Commonwealth. Except this one was bare and dark, its windows unadorned.
Joanna would walk up the front steps. At first she would intend to just ring the doorbell to see if it worked or to see if that, too, had fallen into disrepair. But then her hand would touch the doorknob, and it would feel loose. The Realtor’s lockbox would clunk against the doorframe. The door would swing open eagerly.
The house would still smell like paint and new carpet. There would be the same little archway into the dining room as was in her house, the same light fixtures. She would open a closet to find a bare shelf, empty space. No life here. No happiness, no sadness. Just emptiness.
The kitchen countertops would be covered in a fine layer of dust. Instead of a table in the breakfast nook, there would be raw square footage. Every sound she would make would echo off the bare walls and vaulted ceilings, nothing to absorb it. She would walk upstairs. The rooms were without beds or bureaus. She would continue into the bedroom where she and Charles slept. The day they’d moved into their own version of this house, after the movers left, Charles had urged her upstairs and tossed her down on the bed. He’d tickled her, too, saying all good houses needed to be christened with its first tickling. She writhed around, blissfully aware that she could make whatever sounds she wanted—there were no downstairs neighbors to complain. We are now adults, she’d thought. But she had so much further to go. There was so much she didn’t know about herself and even more she didn’t know about Charles. They were strangers to each other, assumptions upon assumptions. It might take years for them to peel down to who they really were.
A car door would slam outside. Joanna would freeze in the empty upstairs hallway. There would be lights in the driveway. She’d rush down the steps, her heart pounding, remembering the rumors about the kids using the houses to grow cannabis. There would be a figure at the front door, peering through the window. Joanna would search for somewhere to hide. She’d consider slipping out a window. Before she could do anything, the front door would open.
“Ahem.”
Mariel Batten would be wearing a down-filled coat with a furry hood and black leather gloves. She would be brandishing her car key at her sternum, pointing it toward Joanna like a weapon.
“Oh,” Joanna would say, stepping back.
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Batten would say, eyes wide, making a slightly ugly face.
Joanna would blink. “I just … wanted to see it.”
“It looks exactly like everyone else’s house.” Mrs. Batten sounded exasperated.
But Joanna wouldn’t be sure about that. It did … and yet it didn’t. She was happy for how much it didn’t. “What are you doing here?” she’d say next.
“It’s my night for neighborhood watch,” Mariel Batten would explain. “I thought you were some tweaked-out kid or something.”
“I’m sorry,” Joanna would stammer, diffident. “I didn’t think the door would open. But I got kind of … curious. I wanted to see what it looked like in here.”
Batten would step into the foyer and look around at all the emptiness, all the white walls. “It’s really different in here.” But it wasn’t different. It was the same layout as both their houses, the same dimensions and plaster and floorboards. But Joanna would know what she meant.
Mrs. Batten would shove her hands into her pockets and glare at Joanna. “There are kids that sometimes try to break into these and vandalize them. It’s really dangerous.”
“I guess I didn’t think about that.”
In the dim light, Mrs. Batten would look younger and less polished, with purple circles under her eyes and a big stain on her zip-up hooded sweatshirt. “Well, you should have. This world is crazy.”
And then Joanna would turn back to the lonely, empty rooms. “All these houses, just sitting here,” she’d say dolefully, looking around again. “Doesn’t seem like it’s going to change, either.”
“Don’t say that,” Mrs. Batten would say. “They’ll sell.”
Batten would give her a ride back up the street in her minivan. The passenger seat would be littered with toy trucks and dolls, and when she would turn on the stereo, a sing-along tape would blare. A bunch of kids would be singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” in a round, encouraging the listeners to join in. Batten would make no effort to turn it off. After a moment, very subtly, her lips would begin to move, singing along. Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Absently, tiredly, automatically. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.
“Thank you,” Joanna would say when Batten pulled into her driveway.