Beatrice 🏘
a somewhat hokey — but still fun, hopefully — little story by yours truly
Pour yourself a cup of something and enjoy a wee bit of fiction I wrote a few months ago. Set in the same town as my novel in progress, you may recognize a character I’ve already shared with you…
-Tsh
Ezra listened to the kitchen clock tick away the seconds. Each sonorous tick was a tuning fork in his bones; his house-slash-home office dead quiet. The reverb in his bones traveled to his muscles, his newly-christened, thirty-year-old body begging him to inch toward his shoes by the front door. You must get me out of here, his body whispered. These walls are driving me mad.
He left the house. Outside, brown leaves curled at the edges and gathered at curbs. The afternoon breeze that agitated the bare branches of Ezra’s front yard sycamore waltzed with Ms. Higgins’ wind chimes next door. Gertrude, his cat, didn’t move from the porch chair, sound asleep like a diver midair in a pike.
Ezra turned left toward the town square in walking shoes that still needed breaking in. He squinted at the afternoon winter sun, relishing the best quality of Tuesday’s 3 o’clock hour, and shaded his eyes with his hand, a juxtaposition of his screen-drenched morning. He walked down the street, passing a street lamp, a row of post-war tract houses gentrified by young marrieds, the old house still inhabiting the old-timer, a blue post office mailbox. A murder of crows watched nothing from the electric wire, above.
On the right through the window he saw a barista sweeping the floor of Higher Grounds, the coffee shop owned by evangelicals. That girl is new, thought Ezra, and wouldn’t know Tess. It was Tess’ preferred place from which to work when the good tables at the library were taken and when Ezra drove her crazy with his work’s conference calls from the kitchen table. Tess liked the cafe’s dirty chai lattes, sub almond milk. She called them ungodly chais, and the barista on shift at the register smiled politely at her repeated joke.
He walked another block and crossed the street to the brick colonial library. Open 10 to 5 Monday through Saturday, this would be an ideal remote office were it not for the abysmal wifi. Just through the front door a bulletin board displayed a need for more help at the dry cleaner, an upcoming open mic night at Higher Grounds, a tearaway ad with the phone number of an available babysitter, and the Harry Potter cosplay gathering at the rooftop bar tomorrow. Amateurs, thought Ezra. Haven’t they heard of Middle-earth?
He unzipped his backpack and stopped at the return slot. Ezra may not work from the library, but he got his local taxes’ worth. One at a time, he returned his recent loans: A Farewell to Arms, Oathbringer, How to Win Friends and Influence People, Get the Hell Out of Debt, Travels With Charley, So You’re a Widower: Now What? The books slid on top of each other, thump thump thump, into the bin behind the wall.
“Hello, Ezra.” He jumped.
“Ooh, sorry to scare you,” said Molly Sims from behind the counter.
“…It’s okay. I didn’t see you there,” he said.
“I’m always here.”
“That’s true.”
“Whatcha read this time?” Molly asked.
“Oh, you know…” Ezra hesitated. “Just some stuff.” Molly nodded. She’d check the database later.
“Going to Skinny Tim’s tomorrow?” She asked.
“No,” he said quickly.
“Oh come on; you should go. It’ll be fun. I’m going as Umbridge.”
“It’s not really my scene, that type of thing,” Ezra said.
“What is your scene? Your living room?” He didn’t answer. “You should try it. You never know, you may actually like it. They make an excellent butter beer beer.”
Ezra sidled over to the holds section and found his last name on a sticky note on the wooden shelf. Seven books on reserve this time, which would last him roughly three weeks. I won’t have time for them all, Ezra thought. He pulled the books off the shelf, carrying the stack to the self-checkout area so as to avoid Molly. He scanned his library card and then scanned the top book on the stack.
“You know, it’s been eighteen months,” Molly whispered behind him.
He jumped again. “Damnit …don’t do that,” Ezra said. Heads turned from tables.
“Sorry,” she said too loud for the library. “I was just doing the math. I’m just saying, you’re on your way to two years. Tess wouldn’t want you like this.”
“Like what?” he asked.
Molly grimaced. “I don’t mean ‘like this.’ I mean, like …this.” She waved her hand up and down at him. “Alone. Cloistered. Reading and downing beer every night. She’d want you among the living.”
“She’d roll her eyes to no end at Harry Potter cosplay.”
“You know what I mean. Just …stuff. I dunno. Hiking or whatever. Working at an office. Pilates class or some other nonsense.”
“I walk all the time.” Ezra walked every morning, afternoon, and evening, sometimes miles at a time, listening to an audiobook or podcast. His new shoes were identical to his pair before, only with fresh arch support and without holes.
“I don’t just mean exercise. I mean people.”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re missed.”
“Highly doubtful.”
“Are you kidding? Me and Tom were just talking about how different the town feels without y’all.”
“Exactly,” said Ezra. “People don’t miss me, they miss Tess. She was the fun one. I’m the tag-along.”
Molly didn’t argue. Tess was the most extroverted person she knew; there was hardly a person in town she didn’t know or wasn’t at least aware of. Tess made excellent casseroles and left them on the porches of chemo patients and new moms. Her family tree was ubiquitous in and synonymous with Oakley, her ancestors having founded the town back in the day.
“Well…” Molly walked back to her station. “Hope to see you there, Ezra. Or if not there, sometime soon here or there. Tom says hi.” She waved over the next person in line. Tom absolutely does not say hi, thought Ezra.
He left the library with his new stack of books shifting in his backpack, turned left, and walked away from the square. Sunny winter afternoons were Ezra’s favorite. The chilled air carried the noise of traffic down the freeway a mile away; people passing oblivious through their two-exit town which is what Oakleyites preferred. Their historic square prohibited cars, and thanks to internet shopping and touch-free delivery from the grocery store, Ezra hadn’t filled his tank in months. He would take the scenic route to the mercantile this afternoon, he decided, and check on Tess’ saplings, which provided handy procrastination from his next errand.
Ezra tapped in his earbuds, hit play on Dune, and turned another left onto the trail toward the red oaks she planted where he and Tess first kissed.
The bell tinkled as Ezra opened the door to McIntyre’s Mercantile. Clementine was doing the paper’s crossword at the counter, static classical music on the radio next to her. Henry was in the back, stocking inventory on an aisle’s endcap.
“Hi Ezra,” Henry waved as he peeked from behind aisle two.
“Hi Mr. Green,” Ezra answered. Henry heaved a box onto the floor and walked to the front. He shook Ezra’s hand.
“I’ve told you a bajillion times. It’s Henry.”
“And I’ve told you,” Ezra said. “You can’t un-become her old physics teacher.”
“That was decades ago.”
“Untrue.” Ezra scrunched his forehead.
“You’re untrue,” Clementine said, still staring at the paper. “It was eighteen years ago this May.”
“Your insult makes no sense.”
“You make no sense.”
“I’m glad to see you’re still immature,” Ezra replied.
“And I’m glad to see you’re among the living.”
“What the hell is up with people today?” Ezra said. “I’m not a hermit.”
Henry and Clementine scoffed. “Yes, you are,” they said in unison.
“If I were a hermit would I be here?” asked Ezra.
“If you weren’t a hermit you wouldn’t be a month late to get your box,” Henry retorted. He walked to the back of the shop into the employees-only office.
Ezra pretended to browse and shifted to the display of canned cranberry sauce. He picked up a can and read the ingredients list. Clementine looked up from the crossword. “Who wrote ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing?’”
“Dunno,” Ezra answered.
“Something something something L-E-Y,” she said.
He thought. “I think Wesley wrote a bunch of hymns.”
“Who?”
“Charles Wesley.”
She penciled in the letters. “Never heard of him. Thanks.” Clementine crossed off the clue. Ezra wandered over to the apples in the produce display. He wondered if he took one whether the pyramid would collapse, a cacophony of red on the floor.
“Almost got it!” yelled Henry. Boxes shifted.
“What’s a six-letter word for ‘No oxygen to the brain?’” Clementine asked.
Ezra plucked the top apple from the stack and rubbed it with the bottom of his flannel shirt. He stared at the jars of homemade caramel sauce from Miss Frankie, then answered, “Stroke.”
“Thanks,” she said. Then, “…Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“…Sorry.”
Ezra hesitated. “It’s okay.”
Clementine set down her pencil. “So… I had a thought recently.”
“Amazing.” Ezra was not interested.
“You should get a job.”
“I have a job.”
“No, I mean a job at an office. Go somewhere else. You should move.”
Ezra stopped shining the apple and looked up. “What?”
“Yeah. You should move. Start over.”
“Why would I want to start over?” he asked.
“Because she’s everywhere.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Henry joined them, carrying a dented box. “Phew… Sorry for the wait. It was under a big shipment that just came in.” He dusted the box and set it on the counter. “Funny how this keeps happening, eh?”
It was not funny, thought Ezra. “Yeah… I guess.” He looked at the label. It was addressed to Tess Oakley-Benowitz; 917 Asher Avenue. It remained an enigma why early townspeople repeated so many street names, only adding words like Falls or Court or Woods.
“It’s pretty lightweight. Probably not too important,” Henry said. If it was important, the sender would know Tess would not open it, Ezra thought. “If you want, I could look them up and give them your correct address.”
“That’s okay.”
The two men looked away in awkward silence. Clementine scribbled on her paper, nonplussed.
“Well… Good to see you, Ezra. You hang in there.” Henry went back to his stocking.
“You too, Mr. Green,” he said. “…I mean Henry.”
Ezra picked up Tess’ box. It was indeed lightweight. “Welp,” he said.
Clementine folded up the newspaper and tucked it under the register. “I’m serious, Ezra,” she said. “There’s lots of places out there you might like. And tech jobs are everywhere.”
“I like it here,” Ezra answered.
“It’s okay I guess,” said Clementine, “…But I dunno. Fresh start and all.”
What would you know about a fresh start? thought Ezra. Except for three years of university, she’d lived in Oakley her whole life and had worked at her family’s store since she and Tess’ sophomore year of high school. He met her his second year out of college, during Tess’ senior year and when Clem had to leave school early to take over the shop. She never graduated.
“I suppose,” he said.
“Really. Try a city. A big one. New people, lots of noise. Find an apartment where you could get a dog.”
“Bye, Clem. Good to see you.”
“Bye, Ezra. You too.”
“Say hi to your mom for me,” he said.
“Will do.”
Ezra tossed Tess’ box on top of his library books and zipped his backpack shut. The door’s bell jingled as he left. He took a bite of his apple.
The microwave read 10:24 pm and Ezra scraped the last of his ready-made tikka masala from the paper bowl. He closed out the code on his screen, eyes blurry from the blue light, shoulders stiff. He stretched his arms back, rolled his head left and right. The IntelliJ app left the screen and revealed his email client, still open from earlier that morning. He walked to the kitchen, threw away his bowl, and paced around the island, rehearsing his reply. Gertrude hopped onto the counter. Ezra tossed her back off; she meowed in protest. He jumped four times in nervous energy. He walked back to the table.
Ezra sat back down and reread his received message he’d already read seven times since his morning email check over breakfast. He clicked reply.
Dear Jane,
Thanks for the offer. I accept. When would you like me to start? Also, does your offer include moving expenses?
Best,
Ezra
He hit send, listened for the confirmation whoosh, then quit the client and slammed shut the laptop. The stack of new, unopened boxes next to him slid to the floor. Ezra walked to the living room fireplace and plucked his and Tess’ framed wedding photo from the mantel. He set it on the floor. The black and white ultrasound photo, tucked into the left-hand corner of the frame, fluttered onto the ground. Ezra went to bed.
The next morning Ezra chugged his coffee with more enthusiasm he’d felt in months. He’d skipped his morning walk and went straight to taping the bottom of boxes and filling them with books. Gertrude wove in and out of his legs, cognizant of the household mood change. When should I put in my two weeks’ notice? wondered Ezra. Now? His new job began in three weeks. Ezra grinned at the delicious thought of simply not showing up one morning. They’d hardly notice his missing thumbnail on the screen during the obligatory weekly meeting.
At minimum, he’d begin by scheduling a trailer rental because the Honda Accord wouldn’t fit more than his books, Gertrude, and Tess’ fiddle leaf fig. He hoped the Oakleys would be open to re-receiving their inherited furniture from her side of the family. Tess loved the cuckoo clock from her grandparents far more than he did; it hung in their bedroom and Ezra dared it to chime. He disabled the gears, turning it into a sculpture instead of a timepiece. His former in-laws would most certainly want it back.
Ezra opened the maps app on his phone to find his new workplace’s address; he’d spend his lunch hour hunting for a nearby apartment. The rainbow wheel spun as the app buffered. He waited. The app thought. He refreshed the screen. The icon spun. Finally, it produced a splay of twenty red pins on the city map, pinpointing locations somewhat phonetically close to his workplace: Tech Toys; OmniDatabase Inc; Oynk, headquarters of the latest ride-sharing app. Ezra tried again. Nothing. He opened his laptop and opened the email from Jane; he remembered she’d had the company address in her signature. Ding! A new email—Jane had written him back during the night. He opened the new message:
Ezra,
Wonderful! I know I mentioned you starting next month, but as soon as you’re ready, we’re ready. We need all the help we can get! No moving expenses covered (#startuplife, right?), but remember all the things covered once you’re here: gym membership, office lunch, continuing ed bootcamps. Also, all the company tees you could possibly want. ;-)
Best,
Jane
He clicked on the company’s link in her signature. It jumped quickly to a website that displayed a ‘404: All who wander are not lost, but you seem to have wandered too far.’ He refreshed. Nothing. The irony of tech startups, thought Ezra. He hit reply to Jane’s email:
Hi Jane,
Hate to bother you with this, but could I get the company address? Website seems down and the maps app can’t seem to find it either.
-E
He hoped he wasn’t starting things off too casual, but he was in a good mood. Ezra walked to the coffee machine for a refill then heard a ‘ding’ from his inbox. Mug in hand, he squinted at the screen. Jane had already written him back.
Out of Office:
Thanks for reaching out! I’m out of town and am not checking messages. Please send your message again in four weeks.
Best,
Jane
Ezra set down his coffee, puzzled. Why would she want me to start asap last night and then be gone for four weeks this morning? Apparently she steers the rudder, he thought; she leaves the office and the entire website crashes. He closed his laptop. I’ll do this later.
Time for walking, he decided. Ezra slipped on his new shoes and Gertrude escaped through the front door. He turned right this time, away from the square and the fixer-uppers on his own block and instead north toward the river, hugged by Oakley’s larger, statelier old homes. He and Tess used to walk along the riverside several evenings a week post-dinner.
Eight blocks later, uphill and at the third-largest home in Oakley, Ezra rang the doorbell. Charlie barked from the inside, then footsteps followed. Susan opened the door.
“Well now! Ezra,” she said, smoothing her hair. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Hi, Susan,” he replied, kissing her cheek. “It’s been a while.”
“Not to worry.” She moved to let him enter.
“Hi Charlie; how’s my boy?” said Ezra, squatting to let the terrier lick his face. Susan smirked civilly.
“Mark home?” he asked.
“Mark? No, he’s at work,” she replied, glancing at her watch. Ezra nodded. I know this, he thought. It’s why I’m here now.
“Well…” she said, smoothing her hair again. “Care for some tea?”
“No, no, I’m good. I actually just came by on my walk to tell you something, and to see if you’d like some of your furniture back. And the cuckoo clock.”
“Furniture?”
“Yes. Tess’ furniture. From the family collection.”
Susan nodded and looked away. “Ah yes… that. Well, there’s no hurry. Eventually.”
“Well, that’s the bit of news I wanted to tell you.”
She looked back at him, paused. Then, “…Yes? What is it?”
“I won’t need it anymore because I’m moving. And you’ve always loved that clock. Maybe Mark can get it to work again.”
“Moving? What on earth?” Susan replied, her tone as if he’d invented the concept.
“It’s time.”
“No, it’s not time.”
“What do you mean? I’ve always been able to work from anywhere.”
“Exactly,” she said, “Which is why you should stay.”
Ezra’s mother-in-law had just dyed her hair, a color too red which didn’t suit her skin tone. She’d always envied Tess’ natural ginger hair she inherited from Mark. Susan’s grandmother’s pearls looped her neck, like always. Tess wore those pearls on their wedding day.
“But… Why would you care?” he asked.
“Why would I care? Because you’re family.”
He hesitated. “I mean… No offense, but am I though? In a few months it’ll be longer with her gone than the entire time we were married.”
“So? Once you’re family, you’re always family.” Her face mismatched the sentiment.
“Susan,” he sighed, “I appreciate the idea, but I’m not sure if that’s true.”
“Well, you wouldn’t know because you don’t have any family.” A single child, Ezra’s mom died when he was two and the last he heard, his dad lived in some trailer park on the other side of the country.
“I know that, and I’m so honored you think of me that way,” Ezra lied, “But family can live far away from each other.”
“Nothing good happens with that. Look at your side.” And you are good with pouring lemon juice into a paper cut, Ezra thought.
“Susan, I need to move. I like Oakley and all, but it’s Tess’ town. Your town. I moved here for her. She’s everywhere. …It’d be good for my —healing.” Susan liked hearing garbage like that, he thought. Last Ezra heard she saw a reiki healer every other week.
“You have friends here,” she retorted.
“Yes, but I can make new friends.”
“Doubtful.”
“Susan,” Ezra said sharply, “No offense, but why do you care? You’ve never liked me.”
“That’s not true. I like you.”
“No you don’t.”
“Well… Tess liked you. So I liked you.”
“Exactly. And she’s gone. So you can be honest now.”
Susan sighed and uncrossed her arms. She shifted her feet. “…Okay. I was never thrilled with Tess’ choice to marry you. But what’s done was done. And she wouldn’t want you to leave Oakley now.”
“Sorry,” Ezra said, “But that’s entirely untrue. She’d want me to move on.”
“No. No,” Susan retorted. “She’d want you to stay. She’d want you to stay forever.”
Ezra grimaced. “Susan. That’s just weird. Why would you say that?”
“Because,” Susan said. “It’s true. She wants you to stay.”
Ezra sighed. Then, “You mean wanted?”
“That’s what I said. She wanted you to stay.”
“No, you said ‘wants.’”
“You know what I mean.”
Ezra put in a few more hours of work then called it a day, his interest now entirely waned now that he’d leave soon. Hours later and Susan still jabbed at his ribs, her frazzled voice crackling in his ears. He checked his email and his new’s company website once more, but nothing had updated. The thought of another paper bowl of microwaved Indian food sounded dreadful. His stomach growled. Ezra sighed, shut his laptop, and said to Gertrude, “Fine.”
He rummaged through the guest room closet and found his bulky gray tunic and beard looped around the hanger, the pointy matching hat collecting dust on the upper shelf. His Gandalf outfit from HobbiCon five years ago would have to suffice as Dumbledore. Gertrude scrambled behind the couch when he emerged, sunglasses donned and keys in hand, her terrified of the new stranger. I’ll use this ridiculous gathering as my easy way to say farewell en masse, thought Ezra. Sorry, Tess.
Skinny Tim’s hadn’t changed in the eighteen months since Ezra walked through its door. Tim and Hazel still poured cocktails behind the counter, arms sleeved with tattoos and heads covered in slouched beanies. TVs on mute displayed four different Harry Potter films; usually they were sporting events but it didn’t matter because Ezra didn’t know of them either way. The cacophony was still entirely too deafening. Good, thought Ezra. I won’t have to talk. Hazel rang the cowbell on the wall and the bar crowd cheered as she raised the hand of a Snape on a barstool. He was buying the house a round of drinks. Ezra pushed through the bourgeoning crowd at the front of the pub.
“Ezra Benowitz? Is that you?” a familiar voice shouted. He looked to his left and spotted Tom Sims in a green robe, broom in one hand and beer in the other. Ezra pulled down his beard a few inches then let it snap back up.
“It is you! Ezra! How’s it going, man? Molly said she saw you yesterday.”
“Hi, Tom. How are you?”
“Fine, fine. We’re all good, man.” Ezra nodded and continued to the bar. Tom turned back to the Hufflepuff he was talking with. Ms. Higgins dressed as an old Hermione waved from a booth and someone he didn’t recognize shouted “Hi Ezra!” to whom he nodded back politely. The rest of the crowd ignored him.
He reached the bar and sidled up to the far right corner next to the cash register and Snape. He glanced at the cowbell and nodded at the Snape, who he now noticed was a woman. Ezra adjusted his eyes to the dark and did a double-take at the bell. Hanging off-center behind the bell in a cheap frame was an 8x10 photo he hadn’t seen in years. Donning an emerald green dress and laughing from the corner booth, a newly 21-year-old Tess toasted the photographer with a raised cocktail, raucous companions next to her. The last time Ezra had seen the original photo was in a box of Tess’ gathering dust somewhere in the backyard shed.
“Hazel!” Ezra shouted. She was at the other end serving a customer. “Hazel!” he yelled again.
“There’s a queue for ordering, Gandalf,” said a Weasley in front of him, annoyed.
“Sorry,” he answered. He ignored the Ron—or perhaps Percy—and waved his hand high in the air toward Hazel, eyes darting back and forth between her and his wife on the wall. Tess’ cheeks were flushed and her bangs stuck to her forehead, the sloshed cocktail frozen in time. She could never hold her alcohol.
“Hey Ezra! It’s been forever!” yelled Tim as he brushed past carrying a bin full of used glasses. “Glad you came.”
“Hi Tim,” shouted Ezra, “Yeah, it’s been a while.” Tim pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen and heaved the bin next to the industrial sink, then walked back out before the door swung back, now with a bin of clean glasses. He wiped his hands on the white apron tied around his waist. Tim wore his usual jeans and t-shirt but sported a badly-drawn lightning rod on his forehead and lensless round glass frames tucked in his t-shirt pocket.
“What can I get you? Butter beer beer?” Tim asked.
“No thank you.”
“Good choice. It’s appalling,” the bartender admitted, stacking glasses.
“Hey Tim,” said Ezra, “What’s with the photo of Tess?”
Tim looked at the photo. “Oh—you hadn’t seen it? Man, it has been a while since you’ve been here.”
“How long has it been hanging there?”
“Ages. Er, or at least since Tess…” Ezra nodded.
Tim smiled sympathetically. “It was really nice of Tess, what she did for us.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. The money.”
“Avada Kedavra!” yelled the Weasley next to Ezra at the woman on the other side, his barstool tipping him onto her. She pushed him back and he wobbled over onto Ezra’s side, leaning onto his left arm. “Sorry, man,” he slurred.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ezra replied to Tim.
“Oh,” said Tim, and he stopped stacking glasses. He looked at Ezra. “Tess left the pub a lot of money.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. …Sorry, I figured you knew.” Ezra nodded. “It’s just—she knew me and Hazel were barely keeping the lights on and said in her note she had a lot of fond memories here.”
“What note?”
“We got a note in a mail from her out of nowhere. It was handwritten, old-fashioned style, with a check and everything. A big, fat one.”
“I had no idea,” said Ezra.
“Tess was always full of surprises,” Tim said.
“I guess.”
“And hey! Free beer for life for you, you know?”
“Really?” said Ezra.
“Yeah. I was wondering when you’d come in for that. Guess it makes sense now, you not knowing. Yeah, she said in her note the stipulation was you got to eat and drink here for free.”
Ezra studied his wife in the photo. He hadn’t known her yet; it would be the following spring when he’d finally meet her, dressed as Galadriel and swirling a grapefruit paloma at the forgettable convention center bar.
“Wait,” Ezra said, snapping away from the photo, “When was this note?”
Tim poured orange-gold liquid into a glass drink dispenser. “A few weeks after the funeral, I guess.”
“Who was it from?”
“Tess.”
“No,” said Ezra, impatient, “I mean, who mailed it?”
“Hmm…” answered Tim, dispensing butter beer beer into a pint glass. “…I think from a lawyer? I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Hadn’t thought about it?” Ezra asked. Tim shook his head.
Why would she send money after dying unexpectedly? wondered Ezra. He’d returned home from his afternoon walk and found Tess on the kitchen floor, unconscious.
“Tess said she really, really wants you to stay,” Tim interrupted Ezra’s thoughts.
“What?”
“Tess said in her note she really wanted you to stay.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think she meant she wants you to come to the pub more. Mix and mingle, I guess. Be part of the town.”
“She said that in the note?”
“Basically,” answered Tim as he poured gin into a shaker.
Ezra paused. Then, “She wants me to …stay?”
Tim nodded, then helped a Quidditch player.
Ezra brushed his teeth, swapped his wizard robe for pajamas, and climbed into bed. Five beers helped numb his perplexity, but the walk home, now icy, chilled his skin and he yearned for the day’s end. He set his phone on the nightstand and clicked off the lamp. Ezra’s eyes outlined the mirror above the dresser opposite the bed, the bookshelf stacked with Tess’ beach reads and parenting how-tos, and the infernal cuckoo clock on the wall. He vaguely remembered talking with Susan earlier that day, which now seemed hours ago. The room was usually pitch black as he liked to sleep, but it was lighter than usual. Ezra glanced at the window facing the backyard and noticed the faint glow from outside. He sighed, reluctantly left the warm covers, stepped into his slippers, and peered out the window. The backyard shed light was on, door swung open.
Gertrude joined him on the back deck as Ezra stared out at the shed near the property line—he hadn’t been in the shed in months. He carefully crept across the icy grass, cat in tandem, Ezra’s phone flashlight waving in cadence with his hand. Gertrude ran into the shed. He peeked inside.
“Hello?” he called out. The contrast from silence resounded his voice against the plywood walls. He tiptoed in. Sleeping bags were stacked on the camping box, Christmas ornaments lined the left-side wall, Tess’ childhood dollhouse was crammed and gathering dust next to a box of her childhood books, and beach chairs hung on hooks by a canoe. All was as he left it. But there was indeed something—a box, opened—on his unused workshop table along the back wall.
He crept five steps to the back of the shed and peered into the box. It was filled with ephemera he’d never known were saved. A photo from one of their early picnic dates, tickets from a play he’d long forgotten they’d seen, new year’s plastic glasses with numbers for eye holes, a receipt for admission to an observatory with his handwriting faded on the back: “Love you to the moon and back, Tess.” He lifted the receipt and found an unfamiliar pocket notebook lined with Tess’ familiar scribbles on the first few pages: Eleanor Rose, Madeline Tess, Beatrice Mae, James Ezra. The next page was torn out, but the rest of the pages were crisp and blank. Her positive pregnancy test sat next to the notebook. He lifted the stick. There she was, toasting him in her emerald green dress, laughing in tipsy glee.
“Hello?” Ezra shouted again. Then— “…Tess?” Nothing. I am ridiculous, thought Ezra. But, he surmised, so was this day. The night stood silent. He folded the box’s flaps, pulled the lightbulb string from the shed ceiling, then turned it back on and off again to ensure it still worked as it should. He double-locked the shed door and carried the box inside as fast as possible without slipping on the ice. He did likewise with the back door, then followed suit with the front door. And he ran up the stairs to his bed, box next to him. Ezra slept sparingly off and on, fitfully.
The next morning Ezra’s head screamed and sunlight bore into his eyelids. Eyes still shut, he replayed the evening prior pounding beer and downing mixed nuts for dinner, nodding as he pretended to hear Tom shout about bitcoin and why Ezra should join in his success. While the smarmy man droned on, Ezra had thought only of his wife on the wall, frozen mid-toast. He couldn’t remember paying Tim or Hazel for his drinks, but he did recall waving bye to the back bar before stumbling out.
I should probably close out my tab this morning, thought Ezra, planning his usual morning walk routine, and then remembered Tim saying something about free beer for life. Tess’ green dress and sweaty cheeks blurred into focus. Ezra shot up in bed. His head swam, dizzy. He righted his hand to balance his swaying body and felt a cardboard box. He jerked his hand back and opened his eyes. The rest of the evening fell into place.
Downstairs, Ezra stumbled through making coffee, then opened his phone to wait for the brew. He entered the company name once more into his maps app. Still unknown. He checked his email. Nothing from Jane.
The coffee maker gurgled as he walked to the living room to peer out the window. The backyard shed was locked shut and the light was off. Ezra turned back toward the kitchen and spotted the hearth. He and Tess smiled in a tux and white gown, righted back on the mantle, framed dusted and mounted on its nail. The ultrasound photo was back tucked neatly into the frame’s corner.
Ezra looked left and right then darted out the front door. The morning sun melted patches of snow and from his front yard tree a dripping icicle pelted a sting of cold water on his goose-bumped skin. Gertrude bolted back in the house, still outside from last night. “Tess?” Ezra called.
He popped on his walking shoes by the front door and turned left. Ezra shivered. He picked up his pace to a jog.
“Morning Ezra!” called Ms. Higgins from her porch. “You’re up early.” He ran faster, slipping. He passed the street lamp, the row of post-war tract houses gentrified by young marrieds, the old house still inhabiting the old-timer, the blue post office mailbox. The murder of crows watched him from the electric wire, above. He darted to the sunny spots on the road, avoiding ice. On the right, the new girl at Higher Grounds poured coffee from the carafe tap into a mug and through the windows a grumble of gray-haired men sat at the large table, Bibles open. Ezra veered inside.
“Tess?” he said to the girl. He panted.
“Excuse me?” she answered, handing a mug to a woman with a stroller.
He caught his breath. “…Have you seen Tess?”
She stammered. “I’m …sorry, sir. I don’t know a Tess.” She slid open the bakery cabinet glass door and grabbed a scone with tissue paper.
“Ezra?” called a voice from the table.
Ezra looked. “Mark?”
“Hi,” said Mark, “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“…Did you just ask for Tess?” Ezra glanced at his father-in-law, Bible open, the other men staring in tandem.
“No.”
Mark rose from his seat and the other men politely looked back at their Bibles. “Ezra,” he said quieter, “how are you?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Susan told me you came by yesterday. Something about the furniture and the cuckoo clock and that you’re wondering if you should move?”
“No. I am moving. I got a new job.”
“Are you sure?”
Ezra looked at him, perplexed. “Of course I am. I got a job offer.”
“Are you sure?” Mark asked.
Ezra stared at the ground. “I… I think so.” I’m leaving town, thought Ezra. I have a new job.
“Why don’t you go home, son, get some rest? You don’t look so hot.”
“Yeah, I…” Ezra stammered, “I was up… late.”
Mark side-hugged Ezra. “Mm. Well. There you go, son. Head home, get some rest.” Ezra nodded. “We need you in tip-top shape,” said his father-in-law.
“Why?”
“I just mean,” Mark shrugged, “You take care of yourself. We need you around.”
Ezra wandered out of Higher Grounds and walked back home, ice melting in the patches of the sun’s rays. This was Ezra’s favorite sort of weather, but he didn’t notice. Mark stared through the window at his son-in-law, Bible open, until he walked out of sight.
Its walkability was Ezra’s favorite quality about his neighborhood. Its historic placement near Oakley’s town square meant his daily walks led him past the post office, watering holes of various types, and the brick colonial library. It meant he drove his car roughly twice a month and barely filled his tank. But right now, thought Ezra, I need to drive. I need out of this neighborhood.
He slowed his pace to a fast walk, pulled his keys out of his pocket, and froze as he stood at the end of his driveway and stared at his car. Delicately he walked around the vehicle to confirm. All four tires were deflated, air spilled out. Ezra’s heart throbbed at his temples. He needed coffee.
He fumbled open the front door, threw his keys on the floor, poured a cup of coffee with hands shaking, and sat on the couch. He slurped, burning his tongue. His heart walloped his chest. I need to rent a trailer and find a new apartment, thought Ezra. Right?
Clang! Ezra jumped, splattering coffee. Upstairs, the sound of tchotchkes emptying from a box followed a yowl from Gertrude. He snapped up the staircase, coffee sloshing in his mug. The cat stood at the end of the hall, tail fur puffed at high alert, waving. She stared into their bedroom.
“Gertrude?” Ezra whispered. She did not move.
Ezra walked down the hall and into the bedroom, then set his coffee mug on the bedroom dresser. Tess’ box from the shed was overturned upside-down on the unmade bed, her ephemera splayed. Gertrude must have tipped over the box, guessed Ezra. His eyes returned to where he’d rested his coffee. Next to it sat the little package addressed to Tess and sent to McIntyre’s Mercantile, still unopened. He hadn’t yet pulled it out of his backpack, not the least brought it upstairs.
Hands, shaking, he lifted the weightless box, sliced the tape down the middle with his fingernail, and opened the flaps. He picked up the single sheet of paper enclosed, paper he recognized through the fog of last night’s drunken state. It was paper torn from the notebook in Tess’ box. On it was written one word in her handwriting:
Stay.
Ezra raced over to the notebook, tossed open on their bed, and flipped where there was torn a single page. It matched.
Gertrude yowled again and ran to the spare bedroom down the hall. Ezra raced after her, then stopped outside the bedroom. He’d successfully ignored the room for eighteen months. He peeked inside.
There against the wall sat the heirloom crib, still in unassembled pieces and stacked where he’d left it, unmoved after Tess’ last checkup. They’d swung by her parents’ on the way home, brought home her crib to celebrate, and Ezra lugged it upstairs before joining his wife back downstairs for takeout dinner and dessert. She’d tucked the photo from her appointment into their wedding photo frame, they kissed, and then spent the evening playing a board game and vetoing each other’s name ideas. Two days later, he was back at the hospital and returned home alone. He hadn’t been in this room since.
Ezra stared at the corner next to the crib, where Tess’ childhood dollhouse sat. Dust from the shed shimmered on its roof. He tiptoed to the toy, squatted to eye level, and didn’t breathe. He stared. Then, he reluctantly pivoted the dollhouse so that its Victorian front faced the wall and Ezra could see its insides. In a tiny bedroom, at the end of tiny stairs, stood three wooden dolls. A mother. A father. And a small child.
Brrrrrrring — cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! The sound pierced the silence and echoed down the upstairs hall from his bedroom. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Two more times. Ezra spun around.
“Hello, Daddy,” said a little redhead girl in the corner.
Love it!
What a fun little story to kick off my morning! Thank you! I really like the way you paint the settings with your words. Bittersweet and just-enough spooky. I’m enjoying getting to know Oakley and the folks living there.