4
THE DRINK
“Look who’s home!” I balance Sabrina on my hip and open the front door for her father as he’s climbing the porch stairs. Instantly, the baby reaches for him.
Edison ignores her attempt and, once inside, tosses his carry-on bag to the foyer floor. He pins me down with an uncomfortable stare. “You met Cody Granger today.”
Word travels fast around here.
I shift Sabrina from one hip to the other. “Yeah. Nice guy.”
“He’s never been a nice guy.”
“Well, he was nice to me.”
“I bet he was. Is that what you were wearing when you ran into him in town?”
I look down at my sundress, now stained with a spattering of Sabrina’s mashed carrots, which is the only thing I see wrong with it. I bring a hand to the orange stain on my left breast. Maybe I should’ve changed before Ed got home.
“Do you think he would’ve gone out of his way to speak to you if you’d been wearing something a little more”—he sizes me up—“conservative?”
“What’s not conservative about a sundress?” This one’s a basic A-line; there’s nothing sexy about it.
“He wants to get into your pants.”
“No.”
“Yeah.” His words are like a twisting knife in my heart. This isn’t like my husband. He’s not the jealous sort. He unfastens his cuff links and begins to roll up his sleeves.
“He knows I’m your wife. Why would he—”
“Trust me. He’s always trying to get into someone’s .”
“Oh.” The headache I’ve had since I spoke with Sophie Malcolm stabs at me between the eyes. I’ve been having a pretty hard time. No one seems to want to accept an outsider like me, and maybe I didn’t notice the guy’s ulterior motives.
“I’m just saying.” Ed brushes past me, again ignoring our daughter’s outstretched arms, and begins up the stairs. “It’s not your fault. This place isn’t like the city, Ana. You’re not anonymous here. People are going to jump to conclusions. People are going to talk.”
I follow him as he climbs. “What are they talking about? I had a two-minute conversation with the guy.”
“Wow.” My husband pauses at the top of the stairs. “This is different.”
“I just couldn’t handle that awful shag carpeting anymore.”
“It looks . . .” His brow knits as he studies the upstairs hallway. He tilts his head, as if looking at it from another point of view.
“Better, right?”
He shrugs. “Unfinished.”
“Of course. But better than the shag?”
“I guess.”
“You don’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It was embedded with grime and cat piss and cigarette smoke, and our child plays on it. I had to get rid of it.”
“In that case, I’m glad you did.”
I follow him down the hall to our bedroom, where I’ve made more progress.
“You put the bed together!”
“I did.”
“And the portable crib.” He gives me a wink. “When are we planning to let her sleep in the nursery?”
“There’s a pitch in the floor that has to be fixed. The crib keeps rolling into the closet. Maybe we can nail some wood blocks to the floor to keep it in place in the meantime or something.”
“Ah, the joys of owning an old house.” He leans in to me and pecks a kiss on my lips.
The scent of Scotch lingers on his breath. “You stopped for a drink?”
“Just a quick one. And actually, I was thinking, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to go back out.”
“But we haven’t seen each other all week.”
“I haven’t seen my high school friends in years .” He sits on the bed and pulls his shoes from his feet, trading his oxfords for a pair of tennis shoes. “It feels good to be home, you know? I won’t be out late. I promise.”
“Okay.” I try not to sound disappointed, but after only having conversations with a baby all week long, and then treating myself to Ms. Malcolm’s near verbal abuse, there’s no hiding that I am.
“If it weren’t such late notice, I’d ask my parents to come watch the baby, and you could come out with me.”
“Next time,” I say.
“And I won’t be out late,” he promises again.
I wholeheartedly believe him. He rarely goes out, and he rarely has more than two cocktails when he does.
He reaches for Sabrina, who happily spills into his arms and plants a sloppy kiss on his face. “Mommy looks tired anyway, doesn’t she, Brina?”
I wish people would stop saying that.
“It’s been a long week,” I say, by way of explaining the dark rings under my eyes, to say nothing of Ed’s decision to go out practically reducing me to tears. “Rough.”
“Tell me about it. I wish I could sleep in. Just once.”
I should let it go. I should let it roll off my shoulders, but I can’t ignore the implication that I’ve got it so easy. “You know I don’t sleep in, right? If I sleep until eight, it’s because the baby’s had me up several times in the middle of the night.”
“Whoa. I didn’t say anything—”
“Yes, you did. Even if I wake up at eight, I’ve probably gotten a fraction of the sleep you get, so I don’t want to hear it.”
“That’s precisely why she should sleep in the nursery.” Edison rises from our mattress and places Sabrina into my arms. “I’ll be back by ten.”
“Ed, come on. Don’t leave angry.”
“Maybe you should take a nap.” He shrugs out of his button-down and pulls on a T-shirt. “Sleep when the baby sleeps. Don’t spend the evening yanking up old carpeting, especially when it’s going to leave the place looking half-finished.”
“You don’t get it. You don’t have to live here.”
“Oh, I don’t live here now?”
“You live in Times Square. We both know that.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
“You’ve been here for two minutes! And you’re already leaving!”
Without another word, my husband storms through the hallway and down the stairs.
“Edison!”
He ignores me and walks out the door.
But I know it’ll all be better when he gets home, when he’s unwound a bit from a long week building databases in New York, and when I’ve had a moment to rest.
I go through the motions the rest of the night: bathe the baby, read to her, build a village with blocks for the thirtieth time today. Finally, I find an On Demand movie to occupy her while I unpack another box.
Ten o’clock comes and goes without a sign of Edison, and when I see Sabrina about to nod off, it’s time to stop waiting for him.
As I pass the attic door, I pause. A creepy sensation dances up my spine. I can’t endure another night like last night, but I’m too tired to be afraid right now.
And according to Sophie Malcolm, who has it on good authority, this house isn’t haunted anyway. What does good authority mean? How would anyone know what’s happening in my house unless she’s spent ample time here? If she weren’t an abrasive old biddy, I might have pressed her for further explanation. Maybe, once she has time to get to know me, or at least when she gets used to the fact that one of Parker’s Landing’s children married outside the town limits, she’ll offer more about her good authority .
But I wonder . . . why the vehement insistence that the place isn’t haunted? Why did Ms. Malcolm immediately go there, unless there’s history of it?
A few hours later, I awaken with a start when a gust of wind rushes into the room. Instantly, I know the attic door is open again.
“Ed.”
I roll over to wake him, but he’s not yet home.
It’s nearly three in the morning, and—I check my phone—he hasn’t called or texted.
Across the room, in the portable crib, Sabrina giggles in her sleep.
I dial Ed’s number, but I’m kicked straight to voice mail. His phone battery must have died.
The eerie whistling, the same I heard last night, echoes in the hallway.
“I can do this.” My limbs tremble as I stand and approach the hallway.
As expected, the attic door is wide open.
“Just go. Close the door,” I tell myself.
I begin my approach to the attic stairwell slowly, but the nearer I get, the more quickly I step. I reach for the door, but a second before I close it, a whisper: “Ana.”
I jump, but this time, there’s a logical explanation for what I heard. Edison is sitting on the floor of the hallway, near the stairs leading down to the kitchen. I coerce the attic door closed. “What are you doing here?”
“Lamenting.” His head hangs low, but he turns his eyes up at me.
“Me too. I’m sorry about earlier. Come to bed.”
When he smiles, it’s like no smile I’ve ever seen from him before—sinister and dripping with a leering satisfaction. “With you?”
“Yes.”
“You expect me to come to bed with you?”
“Yes.”
He stumbles as he stands.
When he smiles, it’s like no smile I’ve ever seen from him before.
I reach to help steady him, but instead of taking my hand, he shoves me out of the way. My shoulder slams into the attic door, and I slip.
Before I regain my footing, he pushes me again, and I’m helpless to catch myself before I tumble to the floor.
He’s on his feet now, towering over me, and laughing.
“Ed!”
“Poor baby.” His laughter booms in the hallway.
I scramble toward our bedroom, trip, and make my way on all fours, because I can’t stop shaking, can’t manage to stand without slipping back to the parquet. Tears blur my vision, but a glance over my shoulder proves he’s stayed put, pointing, laughing.
“Poor, poor baby with no friends.”
I look over my shoulder.
The attic door pops from its frame and slowly opens.
The wind filters down the hallway.
“No friends.” Edison doubles over laughing. “No friends!”
I cross the threshold and slam the bedroom door behind me. I turn the lock on the knob and, sobbing, take the baby from the crib. I hold her close and watch her sleep.
Nothing will happen to her. Not on my watch.