THE TOWN OF Littleford is a living snow globe. Giant snowflakes hug each lamppost, trailing tinselly arches that stretch between them. Bundled-up townsfolk walk its freshly shoveled sidewalks, balancing boxes and bags of holiday purchases, their excited, red-cheeked children in tow.
Unfortunately, none of this charming town is familiar to me.
Paul is careful to match my slow pace as we walk through the crowds, past shops all decorated in garlands and red bows, their front windows painted with wintry scenes of snowmen and holly. At the corner we pass a man in a Santa suit standing next to a red bucket, ringing a bell, then walk under two reindeer pulling the sleigh of another Santa high above us. “The town Kiwanis sure went all out with the decorations,” he says. Whatever town Kiwanis are, they definitely have gone all out.
It’s all so beautiful, this world. And I’m free to go where I want, when I want, in it. No waiting on doctors, nurses, attendants, or the voice to tell me what’s permitted. All I’ve endured since waking on the bus has been to reach this moment of autonomy—
Yet I can’t imagine ever feeling a part of it, in my past or my future.
I’d thought that if I could just be free of Hanover, reach the outside world, things wouldn’t seem so off to me. That I’d feel more like I belong. But my sense of disconnect is only stronger here on the outside, the gulf between me and these rosy-cheeked, well-fed pedestrians far greater than any between me and my fellow unfortunates in the Unit.
Sherman told me that the feeling of not being in the right place was part of my disease, but unlike the voice, it was something the protocol couldn’t get rid of. But it’s time to shake off my dour thoughts, look only for the good in front of me till I forge a connection to this life in the real world.
Two boys in bushy-tailed fur hats tear past us, laughing. They’re heading toward a giant Christmas tree in the town square. I stop a moment to appreciate the tree, the goofy boys, and my liberty. All the good. Only as I gaze at the tree, two words float to the surface of my mind: the Guest. And I see that make-believe memory, the one I conjured on my way to see Officer Worthy in the visitors’ room that day—
Standing in the living room, by a fragrant Christmas tree, unopened presents piled beneath it. Nat King Cole plays on the stereo.
But in the background, there’s a quavering voice. My mother’s voice.
I look across the front hall to her study. On her desk a laptop plays some choppy video footage in lurid colors. I can hear her talking on her cell phone. And crying. The great gasping sob sort of crying, where your breath shudders from you for hours afterward.
Now there’s a sound of sirens in the distance, growing louder, beginning to overtake Nat’s beautiful singing and my mother’s sobs. Something whizzes past our front window—
And like that, the vision is gone, leaving me with a residue of alarm, a racing heart, and a familiar nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that there’s something important I should be doing.
The Guest, laptop, cell phone—my made-up things. Nothing I can share with Paul. I squeeze my Latin medal tight, willing this moment of panic to pass.
“The tree’s sure something, isn’t it?” Paul asks.
I manage a smile and a slurred, “It’s so beautiful,” and we continue slowly down the sidewalk, passing a butcher’s and a toy store before Paul pauses at the window of a cheese shop.
Up ahead is a storefront painted with words I can once again read: MAE’S LUNCHEONETTE in gold. A smartly dressed Black woman, loaded down with shopping bags, stands by its front door, keeping warm by deftly rocking back and forth in her pumps, heel to toe, toe to heel. I try the motion and nearly fall over. I’ll need more practice to master advanced moves like that.
Two pale women exit the luncheonette and hug goodbye before splitting up. One passes us, accompanied by the Black woman toting the bags. As we pass the restaurant’s window, I spot in smaller letters: WE CATER TO WHITE TRADE ONLY. I stop. Check it again to be sure.
Segregation, right there in fancy gold writing. Alive and well. Jesus.
Countless things feel not quite right about this world: its big, curvy cars, garter belts, giant typewriters. But those are just objects—neutral on the moral relativity scale. Segregation’s a whole other thing, a giant festering sore of evil, knocking over the scale and turning my stomach.
But my disquiet doesn’t just stem from its wrongness. There’s a far more selfish reason running through my unease—my belief segregation doesn’t fit in my world, this world, is yet another sign I remain disconnected from it. Untethered. Unwell.
I try to keep my face from revealing all the churn inside me, but Paul sees. Looks down at the writing. “It seems wrong to you because it is wrong,” he says. “And you’re not alone. I feel that way, lots of others do, too. The world just hasn’t caught up. Feeling it shouldn’t still exist doesn’t make you crazy. Okay?”
Once again, Paul has read my mind, managed to say just the right thing at just the right moment, his words a balm for my raw emotions. His tender support feels good after so long alone in the dark.
So, naturally, the tears come. Fucking tears.
Paul puts his arm around my shoulders, enveloping me in the warmth of his long wool coat, and I want to relax, let in the feeling of security that’s trying to embrace me as well. Only the doubt still lingering at its edges won’t let me.
Paul hands me his handkerchief, and I dab my eyes to keep the mascara from running as he continues. “But, Dee, there’s plenty about this world that isn’t messed up, that is, in fact, incredible. Paris. Rome. The Greek isles. And we can travel there, discover it together, you and I.”
Then he hugs me tight, and I feel so understood, so loved—
And so desperate to confess.
Tell him everything: how I suspected he was lying to me because of what the deputy might have said and how I faked my seizure with Mary’s help so I’d recall what Officer Worthy told me about him.
Mary said I might tell on myself, divulge my misdeeds to Paul. I thought it was more Mary paranoia, but here I am, on the verge of spilling my guts and risking my freedom before I’ve even been home a day.
“Something you want to say, Dee?”
All I’ve done can’t have been for nothing. So I stuff down my need to divulge and atone, shake my head, and we continue walking till we come to a thicket of Christmas trees, each mounted on a wood cross, lining the wide sidewalk in front of a hardware store and spilling out into the street. The smell of evergreen is everywhere, intoxicating, overwhelming.
And those two unsettling words again rise up from my unconscious: “the Guest.”
A cocktail of dread, panic, and guilt again pours through me, knees going soft, stomach knitting itself into an afghan. I can’t let Paul think I can be undone by a stand of Douglas firs, so I turn away from them, toward the hardware store.
Everything from hammers to saws to snow shovels hangs in its front window. I spot a couple rifles mounted on the pegboard wall and draw close for a better look. Both are Remington .22 caliber, single shot, bolt action. Next to them is a poster of a boy happily holding a similar rifle. Below the picture are the words: “Christmas lasts a lifetime when it’s a Remington .22.”
“Damn,” says Paul, looking at his watch. “Forgot to pick up my navy suit from the cleaners, and Olson’s closing early today. Taking his wife to Bermuda for the holidays. I was planning on wearing it to church on Christmas.”
“Go. Get it. I’m fine,” I say.
But he hesitates. “You sure?” he asks, his hazel eyes meeting mine. “You’ll stay right here till I come back?” I nod. “It’s important you not move from this spot. You understand?” He’s looking at me like I might wander off with the first stranger with candy who comes along.
I roll my eyes. “Not a child. Go.”
He nods. “Okay. I won’t be more than five minutes.” Then he jogs off through the Christmas trees and darts across the street. Those trees. Definitely a trigger I should avoid. Likely to bring on another made-up memory.
But if it’s not real, why be afraid?
So instead of turning away, I step into the mini forest, breathing in the amazing pine air, till the vision returns—
I’m back in the living room, Nat King Cole singing of chestnuts roasting while my mother wails in the next room.
I see the blur whizz by outside and go to the window. It’s a drone, circling back around as sirens get louder, and flashing lights appear up the street. The drone slows as it approaches the window, then hovers a few feet off the ground, bobbing up and down slightly like an overexcited puppy—
Then it’s over, and I’m again left with the sickening sense I should be doing something that I am not.
And drones now. Awesome.
I turn back to the hardware store, trying to shake the feeling of imminent threat now roosting in my belly.
What I need is a distraction. Spot a flyer taped to a pane of glass on the store’s front door and take a look: “Know you’re safe with a Wooster Fallout Shelter.” Below the words is a shot of a mother and her two children running for a large hatch in their yard, smiles on their faces, not much concerned nuclear winter’s just around the corner.
As I ponder the oddness of this, a man exits the hardware store. He holds the door for me, but I stay where I am. “Come on now, honey, I won’t bite,” he says, winking. I don’t feel like explaining to this stranger that I’m waiting dutifully for my husband, so I enter the store. The place smells of blood meal, oil paint, and kerosene. The man calls to me, “What? Not even a smile for my efforts, sweetheart?”
Smiles, the currency of assholes. I slip down an aisle to evade him, intending to turn back around once he’s gone.
But I don’t. Because something’s caught my eye.
I head past shelves of garden tools and cans with labels like DDT and CREOSOTE till I reach the back of the store, where a sign hangs high above a long counter. It reads GUNS.
Below the sign, an old guy in rolled-up shirtsleeves, suspenders, and a tie is showing a customer an electric drill. Behind him, next to the fishing poles, is an impressive rack of rifles housed in a locked wire mesh display.
But by the time I reach the counter, something else has claimed my attention: a glass case containing pocketknives of various types—flip, hunting, switchblade. They’re all closed, blades safely nestled in their hiding places. In the center of the display lies its star: a balisong knife.
The man in suspenders comes over. “Good afternoon, ma’am. See you’ve got your eye on the balisong. Very fine workmanship. Would you like to take a closer look?”
Another stranger and I’m again rendered speechless. I nod.
“Let me guess, Christmas gift for the husband?” He unlocks the display’s glass door and pulls it out. “Also called a butterfly knife. Comes from the Philippines. This one’s a real beaut,” he says, and hands the folded knife to me.
“Arthur,” the customer at the end of the counter calls to the salesman, “where’s the hex key for this drill?”
“Be right there, Frank,” the salesman says, and turns to me. “Now be careful, ma’am. It’s very sharp. Takes a fair bit of training to handle one safely. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
Then he walks back over to the other customer.
He’s right, it’s a nice one. The two brass-tipped wooden handles are inlaid with bone. I take it in my left hand, between my thumb and index finger, bite handle containing the latch end facing outward. Flick the latch off, uncurl my fingers, and let the handle drop.
The blade emerges cleanly. It’s sharp, single-edged, decent stainless from the looks of it. I curl my fingers around the safe handle and flip the knife upward, swinging the bite handle around till the tang pin locks the blade in the open position. I wrap my thumb around it to feel its balance.
“Ma’am. Ma’am, you want to be careful…”
I’m vaguely aware of the man’s warnings as I flip the thing around, handles and razor-sharp blade flying around my skillful fingers in a burst of shiny, autonomic action, my hands performing motions they must’ve repeated often enough in my forgotten past to achieve bloodless mastery. Was this a skill I picked up in my delusional wanderings?
When I pause I find the men staring, slack-jawed.
I flip the knife shut. I should head back outside. Paul will be back soon—
But the salesman approaches. “I didn’t want you to get hurt, but it seems you have things well in hand,” he says, and laughs. “So you’ve some experience with a balisong. Where did you ever learn to handle one? Bet that’s a good story—”
“Dorothy, there you are!” It’s Paul, breathless, eyeing the balisong in my hands. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You gave me such a scare.”
I want to defend my actions, but I don’t want to explain I ended up in this store, looking at knives, because I was trying to get away from a stand of Christmas trees.
Paul takes the knife from me and hands it to the salesman. “Hello, Arthur.”
“So, this is your lovely wife, Mr. Frasier.” The man turns to me. “Arthur Morris. So pleased to meet you, Dorothy.” Arthur’s smiling with that hint of pity and sweetness I’ve come to know well—Paul has told him about me and my difficulties. Have all the locals been apprised? Was there a town meeting around the cracker barrel?
“Dee, Arthur’s the owner of this store,” Paul says.
I so want to say to Arthur “Pleased to meet you,” clearly and crisply, show him I’m fine, but that’s not an option. So I say a slurry and flat, “Nice t’meet you, Arthur,” and he smiles again.
“Darling, why don’t we let Mr. Morris get back to his customer, and you and I go get that lunch I promised you,” Paul says, then waves goodbye to Arthur and silently walks down the aisle with me.
“Your suit?” I ask.
“Closed already” is all he says.
Outside on the sidewalk, amid the holiday shoppers, I feel compelled to explain: “Just wanted to see the knife.” I know saying I was only browsing the weapons sounds hinky, given my psychological history, but it’s the truth … At least, I’m pretty sure it’s the truth.
Paul looks at me long and hard. “This is my fault,” he says. “I didn’t think to make sure you understood the ground rules. Grasped the stakes.” Ground rules? Stakes? What is he talking about? “I just assumed you’d stay where I left you … God, when I didn’t see you…”
Part of me feels awful to have worried this man yet again. Made him wonder one more time when he would be getting that call from the local sheriff’s department or mental ward. But another part of me is thinking, Get over it, Paul, roll with the punches.
That’s the part that says to my husband, “Not a big deal.”
Paul stops walking and turns to me, face suddenly grim. “Dee, you want to live your life outside, free, not in an institution like Hanover, right?”
“Of course, I just—”
“Then you need to take this more seriously, respect my concern. My experience with all of this. With you … The two of us have got to work together,” Paul says, his voice ticking up a notch. “Do you understand why that’s so important?” Pedestrians are glancing at us as they pass by—and I wonder how many painfully public discussions like this Paul has had to have with his wife in the past. I look at the man, guilt sluicing through me. “If we don’t work together and agree to some basic ground rules like always making sure I know where you are—”
“Always? That’s ridiculous.”
“Without your cooperation,” he says, his voice rising even further, “we could have problems I won’t be able to solve. You could lose your freedom, end up back in the hospital.”
For a moment I think about what that would be like, to be returned to Hanover, the slow-burn horror and humiliation of being stripped down, inspected, deloused, then locked away in some down-alphabet ward. And the phrase just spills out of me, unbidden: “Freedom depends on my cooperation.”
There’s something oddly familiar about my words.
But they’re the right words, and just like that it’s over. Paul smiles, and it feels like storm clouds lifting. “Yes, Dee, that’s exactly what I mean,” he says, and I feel this intense rush of relief at his appeasement. To be back in the fold, forgiven. God, it’s almost joy rocketing through me, and I hate myself for it as we walk to Eckert’s soda fountain.