| stood watching her, cornering her. “It’s a bad idea. I think I’ve been pretty clear on that.” “I’m not doing anything wrong, first of all—and it’s certainly not an ‘idea.’ She paused. “It’s been a year, Penny. And—he’s nice to me.” “I don’t want him coming here.” “You’ve said.” “And what do you mean, ‘he’s nice to me’? Tell me you’re not that desperate for attention. If it’s nice you need, I can start bringing you flowers.” “I’m not like you, you know.” “You can say that again,” I said, darkly. “Look, I like being with people, okay? It’s a distraction. I actually like to leave this house once in a while. You used to understand that.” “I do understand that. He’s the wrong person to do it with.” “He’s not that bad.” “No? Well, then he’s definitely too good.” “Maybe it’s wise to have him onside. Have you thought of that?” “Onside is one thing. Inside is something else altogether.” “Jesus, Penny. Fine. I’ll—I’ll let him down easy.” She shrugged, as if she didn’t care about ending the friendship, as if it were her choice. I paused, knowing that while she may not do it right away, she would sooner or later. She would do what I asked. “You hungry?” I was heating up some leftover soup. WE SAT DOWN AT THE LARGE CHERRYWOOD DINING TABLE that our mother had bought at an auction when she was pregnant with me. The story was that she had |
roads, ducking into hedges with every sound of a car approaching. Eventually she hears fire trucks screaming dimly behind her, where she can see a thin column of smoke if she strains her eyes, lifting her chin and squinting over poplars in the dark sky. A deer startles her, leaping over shrubs, its tail in the air. Her long, thin summer dress is muddy at the bottom, torn in places, a lacy hem pulling away from the skirt. She pushes fingers through her hair. She swears and pants and refuses to cry. Blocks away, she knows that her sister, curled in her tangled sheets, is waiting. The old clocks ticking, the big old house holding its breath, about to take in another secret. Can her sister hear that siren start to wail? Mouth dry, body hopping with ragged energy, she takes a familiar route though a laneway, passing light, metal fencing wound up with a dead vine, and moves quietly to the back of the old house. Like when they were young, and would slip in after curfew. Not so long ago. When she was silly and bad, but not as bad as this. Not as good as this. She reaches into the bird feeder in the apple tree and pulls out a key, a magic ticket, shaking off sunflower seeds like fairy dust. She opens the back door, letting the screen butt against her leg, into the quiet of the lower hallway. She breathes in the flowery, soapy air |
