THE WOMEN

As dark fell, we hunkered down in our cottages, feeling both safe and in danger, both warm at home and shivering in the sad chill of the evening. Those of us who knew Iris worried deeply about her. She wasn’t that frail, but recent weeks had aged her, or our idea of her anyway. Those of us who knew her only to wave “Good Morning” across the street thought about her too, but we mused more about our own safety, about how fragile our constructed lives could turn out to be.

We wouldn’t have admitted it or even talked about it with our closest family or friends, but most of us were wondering whether the tales were true. You know. You’ve heard them. All those stories of our neighborhood being haunted by restless souls, by the ghosts of folks who didn’t belong incarcerated in a mental hospital, or those who did belong, but never received the treatment that might help them. There have been books and films, websites and musical events, poems, and songs—all trying to understand what happened on these few acres of hilltop beauty over a century and a half of well-meaning bumbling.

In the fading light that evening, as we washed up after a hot meal, watched the news on television, and cuddled with our loved ones, we tried not to picture our Iris alone and cold and maybe hurt—or worse. We couldn’t help wondering if we had tempted fate by living here, among the unsettled thrown-away lives.

Had those ghosts somehow taken Iris?