The sun is setting quickly, marking the day and night contrast between the city proper and its neighbors to the north. I drive up Sheridan Road, past Cavalry Cemetery, into Evanston.
I feel like I’m on patrol, taking in every detail: the big lawns, the tree lines, lanterns instead of bright halogens along the streets, the cutesy mailboxes shaped like barns. The land of brick homes and big windows, extra garages and long driveways. The suburban dream, with the city for its backyard. I can’t say I’m not envious. I light a cigarette.
I turn off Sheridan, drive two blocks toward the lake, and slow to a stop in front of Mason’s house. The place could be on a postcard. All the elements are there, from the decorative curlicue fence to the huge front window, where a dozen long-stemmed roses sit center stage. I wonder if she accepted his apology. I wonder if I will.
A silver Lincoln Navigator sits parked in the driveway, and I finally get why Mason’s been driving that squad: He traded up. He told me he wasn’t going to spend the money. Maybe he’s trying to tie it up in assets.
Headlights come up from behind. A truck flashes its brights and gives a quick honk, so I hit the gas and drive on, but I haven’t seen enough.
I do a U-turn, head south on Sheridan, and park in a lot next to the lake. People park here to use the bike trail, but it’s getting late and it’s pretty windy, so I’m the only one here. I’m sure most people in this neighborhood are tucked into their cozy homes with their well-adjusted families for the night. I’m sure Susan is cooking the perfect casserole. I pull on a hat, zip my coat, and get out of the car.
As I walk up the path, the air off the lake feels like an ice pack against the few parts of my skin that are exposed. My eyes water and my lungs feel asthmatic when the wind hits me head-on. I adjust my scarf and check behind me for cyclers or joggers before I turn onto a dirt trail—a schoolkids’ shortcut—that runs up against the residential backyards. A few houses down, I disregard a sign that boasts PRIVATE PROPERTY. Part of it is supposed to be mine, and I’m here to make sure of it.
I stay along the perimeter of the yard until I reach the base of the wooden deck. Staying in the shadows, I follow the rim of the deck to its steps. I get on my hands and knees and crawl up a few steps, and when I see the coast is clear, I move quickly and position myself behind a big Weber grill. From here, I have the perfect view into Mason’s house. Into his other life.
Through those floor-to-ceiling windows I’m sure Susan loved when they picked out the house, I can see her preparing a salad in the kitchen. Mason has his feet up on the coffee table in the adjacent room. He’s absorbed in a basketball game on his big-screen TV. I can’t help but think of him fondly when his left foot moves to its usual internal tick. It moves even when he’s sleeping. When he sleeps with me.
Susan absentmindedly slices an onion and I wonder if they’ve run out of things to say. They continue like this, without speaking, for so long that I’m even starting to get interested in the basketball game. This is not how life would be if I was in that house. Mason would be wrapped up in me.
Susan finally says something, but Mason either doesn’t hear her or he doesn’t care. She repeats herself, and this time I think I can almost hear her, so I know Mason heard, but he still doesn’t respond.
So Susan, with carrot and knife in hand, walks out from the kitchen and stands directly in front of the TV, blocking his view. Mason waves her out of the way like a bug, because there’s less than a minute left. She holds the knife like it’ll make a difference, but obediently steps aside.
Mason finally acknowledges her during a time-out. He takes the carrot out of her hand and eats it. Whatever he says to her sends her back into the kitchen, and I don’t think the onion is what finally makes her cry.
For a second I think I hear something out in the yard, but it’s either the wind, or a squirrel, or a twinge of guilt. I shouldn’t be so delighted to have stumbled across a fight. I’m not so sure it’s Susan’s fault.
I can’t take my eyes off Mason, sitting there so comfortably. I wonder if he wishes he were with me. There he is, in his big beautiful home, and here I am, on the outside.
I had the chance for a life like his once. I could have been settled, going through the motions of a marriage, thankful for a secure household and content with neighborhood gossip. I could have been a wife, hoping to be a mom; believing my life’s meaning would be clear, like memories in photo albums. I would live for Christmas. I would chuckle at the fact that I know less about my mate than his co-workers and more about basket weaving than anyone should have the right to. I would bake bread.
Maybe there is happiness to be found in that life, but I will never know. I didn’t have a tradition to follow, and I wasn’t willing to sacrifice passion. The last man I had a serious relationship with was wonderful, but he was also terribly safe. He had a plan, and if I had stuck to it, I could have ended up living right next door to this place, trading recipes with Susan. I didn’t like putting my life on a schedule. I would have traded one spur-of-the-moment kiss from him for our entire relationship.
My ex-fiancé, before him, was no less grounded. He was older than me and smarter by a couple of college degrees. He was an intelligent guy, a perfectionist. He had ideals and the money to back them up. He promised marriage would give me the freedom to do whatever I wanted, except what I wanted was the freedom to change my mind about the marriage. I was young. I didn’t want to get stuck.
Inside Mason’s house I see safety. I see stability. And I see misery. Mason has more emotional investment in what’s on TV than in the woman he married. Susan acts like fixing a salad is the worst chore in the world. I wonder what made them give up. I wonder if I would have, too.
When the game is over, Susan returns with an envelope.
She holds it up in front of him, and for the first time ever, I think Mason is caught off guard. He motions for her to hand it to him. She refuses. He stands up and takes her by the arm. She tries to keep the envelope away from him, but he pulls her down on the couch and rips it out of her hand. What he says then I can’t tell, because he’s in her face and his lips are hardly moving. Whatever it is, she stops crying, calmly gets up, and returns to the kitchen. Mason tucks the envelope into his back pocket, picks up the remote, and changes the channel.
I feel like a spectator, and I have to stop myself from yelling “Look out!” because all of a sudden Susan runs back into the TV room with the bowl of salad and dumps the entire thing right on Mason’s head. We both wait for Mason’s reaction.
Mason calmly stands up. He runs his hand through his hair; lettuce falls to the plush carpet. He brushes himself off, celery and all. Then he takes the bowl from her and sets it on the coffee table. He turns off the television. And then he leaves. Just leaves her standing there.
Susan collapses in tears to what must be the slam of the front door. Her tears give way to stillness, and she listens, as I do, to the Navigator’s engine rev in the front of the house. It is sad to watch her there, as her world comes down around her.
I break for the bike path and hope I beat Mason to my place, because I think I just watched Susan discover the divorce papers, and no matter how I feel about it, I know I’ll be first to get the news.
I jump in my car and I’m backing out when I notice a yellow Chevy truck sitting idle in the next spot. It has to be the same truck I saw in Deb’s alley last night.
As I’m looking at the truck, I start to roll forward when a pedestrian hits the hood of my car with his fist.
“Jesus, you almost fuckin’ hit me!” the guy says. He keeps walking, but he looks back at me like I meant to do it and that he’d be willing to come back and argue about it.
Best thing I can think to do is get out of there as quick as I can, and see if the yellow truck follows me. As I weave back and forth between two lanes going south on Sheridan, I try to blow off the feeling I did something wrong. I didn’t see the pedestrian. It’s not like I meant to hit him. And I didn’t actually hit him. He didn’t have to be so hostile. Some people are just assholes.
I see the yellow truck’s brights in my rearview mirror. He’s tailing me, and once we get to Lake Shore Drive I wish I could bust him for driving with Class B plates (pickups aren’t allowed on the Drive). I speed up, trying to lose him, and I think I set a record when I pull off at North Avenue, until I hit a stoplight. The truck pulls up on my right again, and I can’t convince myself it’s a coincidence.
The truck is too tall for me to see in the windows, which are tinted anyway. The driver revs the engine like he wants to race. It can’t be Marko Trovic.
When the light turns green, I let traffic in front of me go ahead, and I wait for the yellow truck to move forward so I can get over to the right. Instead, the driver waits for me to move. I floor it and try to get ahead of him, but the damn truck rides right along next to me, like a big yellow bully, speeding up and slowing down to block me into the left lane when I need to be in the right.
I don’t know what this guy’s deal is, but he’s definitely doing it on purpose, so I make an illegal left over a double yellow and pull into the Shell station. The truck keeps going. I sit there for a minute and tell myself that I didn’t do anything wrong. And that it wasn’t Marko Trovic.
I decide to take alleys and side streets back to my place. Along the way I remind myself that some people are just assholes.
When I get to my building, I park across the street and double-check to make sure my car is locked. I look both ways on the street even though I’m sure I lost the yellow truck. Maybe he wasn’t following me after all, and my imagination is bumping into my brain. Concussion, that’s it. I’ve probably seen the truck around town; it stands out like a four-wheeled banana. I look over my shoulder on the sidewalk.
Omar lets me inside the entrance.
“Will you keep an eye on my car?” I ask, even though I know he always does.
“I sure will.”
He calls for the elevator, and as I’m waiting, he asks, “You know someone in a yellow truck?”
I look outside just as the Chevy rolls by the drive.
“Nope,” I say to Omar, but he knows better.
The truck stops out front and its engine booms through the circular corridor.
“You can’t park there, man . . .” Omar says. The elevator door opens and Omar urges me inside. “Excuse me, Miss Mack. You have a good evening.” As the door closes, I see Omar take a walkie-talkie from his desk and start outside. I’m relieved to let him deal with what is most likely my problem.
When I step off the elevator, the hall light on my floor is out, which is weird. I use the ray of light peeping out from under the shoe girl’s door as a guide to my own, telling myself all lightbulbs burn out eventually.
I hear the shoe girl’s TV advertising some new talk show for men. I’ll bet women will tune in religiously. I guess some people need all the help they can get.
When I stick my key in its lock, I stop.
The door is already unlocked. I didn’t see the Navigator out front.
Then, ding—the elevator door opens. I wait.
No one welcomes me into my place, and no one gets off the elevator. I don’t have a gun, or handcuffs, or a radio, so I stand in the hall and consider making friends with Miss Shoe.
I was out of it when I left today; I might have accidentally left my door unlocked. Then again, Omar wouldn’t send the elevator up empty.
I leave my keys in the door and start down the hallway. Maybe it’s Mason. Maybe he wants to surprise me.
“Hello?” I say, like if someone was there and wasn’t getting off, they’d answer. Just before I can tell if anyone’s inside, the door closes. So it’s not Mason. It’s someone else who wants to surprise me.
Just then, the door to the stairwell behind me opens. I move out of the way like I’m dodging a bullet, and I shout, “Don’t move!” in my best cop voice. It works, because whoever’s on the other side of the door lets it slam shut.
I grab the knob and lean back with all my body weight. The handle turns. I hold tight.
“Open the door!” a man shouts, banging on the door. It’s definitely not Mason. Oh, God, if it’s Trovic . . .
I let go of the door with one hand, still using my body weight to keep him in the stairwell, and lean over, pressing the elevator call button to bring it back up from the lobby. It’s my only way out.
The man keeps banging. “Hey!”
I wait. And I wait. And I wait. I hear the elevator ding more clearly as the car rises—four, five, six . . . then the banging stops. The shouting stops. And the dinging stops—at the floor below mine. Is he catching the elevator?
I have no choice. I let go of the door and break for my place. I run so fast I can’t tell if anyone’s behind me, and I pray no one’s in front of me. I throw open my door and grab the keys and get inside and slam the door shut and dead bolt the lock. I leave the lights off and peer through the peephole, and I don’t make a move.
Until I see O’Connor.
He stands there and catches his breath before he knocks.
“Samantha Mack? You’d better be in there.”
I catch my own breath and remind myself: Some people are just assholes.