SHUDDERVILLE (2 page)

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’m sorry,” he added hastily. “I’m not judgmental. It’s just that I’m concerned.”

“I don’t think you should be poking your nose into other people’s business.”

“I don’t mean to pry. But these walls are pretty thin,” he said. The way he was looking at her freaked her out a little; it was as if he knew she’d been crying and weeping next door. And she was suddenly afraid of him. Maybe he knew all of her ugly secrets?

“You can return the candlestick tomorrow,” she said coldly.

“Wait,” he said. “Where do you work?”

Her hand tightened on the doorknob. “Doesn’t matter.”

He pressed his lips together. “I just thought…”

“Goodnight.” She closed the door in his face.

*

“Billy and I aren’t going to last,” Cassie said. She was sitting cross-legged on one of the coin-operated washing machines in the laundry room, painting her nails electric blue. The basement smelled of chlorine and spider webs. Cassie had brought a box of donuts over, and Sophie had eaten two already and was debating whether or not to take a third. If Cassie hadn’t been sitting there, she would’ve snatched another donut pronto. They were waiting for Sophie’s laundry to be done.

“I knew you’d find something wrong with him eventually,” Sophie said.

“What do you mean? You think I’m always finding fault with people?”

“Almost always.”

“We had a fight.”

“What about?”

“Him being an irresponsible dick.”

“What happened?”

“The car, for instance. When he first bought his car? He kept telling me to be careful. You’ll scratch the paint. And guess who scratched the paint first?”

“He did.”

“He demands perfection from me, but then he treats his stuff with utter disregard. Take these books he bought. He spent over a hundred dollars on books, right? But then he just tossed them into the trunk of his car and forgot about them. Okay? He left them there for I-don’t-know-how-long. For
months
they were in the freaking trunk of his car. You realize we live in New England, right? All that rain? I open the trunk months later, and the books are rumpled and moldy and basically ruined. All these brand new books—just ruined.”

“Excuse me,” the goateed man interrupted. Sophie stiffened slightly. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the storm. He lugged in a plastic laundry basket, his tanned arms sticking out from a sleeveless black T-shirt. He was smiling. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Hey, no problem.” Cassie scooted off the remaining washer. “We were just talking about sex,” she joked.

“Cassie,” Sophie admonished her.

“What about it?” He grinned at them.

“I was just saying how sick to death of relationships I am,” Cassie said. “As a matter of fact, I’m so sick of men and all their hang-ups, I’m going to become celibate.”

“I was celibate once,” the goateed man said.

“Really?” Cassie batted her eyelashes at him.

“Yeah, for about six years.”

“Six
years
?” Cassie laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Did I say years?” He loaded the washer and measured out a cup of detergent. He plugged in quarters and leaned against the wall with his suntanned arms folded across his chest. “Sheesh. I meant six
months
.”

“Six months? That’s not celibate. That’s a dry patch.” Cassie laughed and rolled her eyes. “So tell me, do you wear boxers or briefs?”

“Boxers.”

“Hm. Do you leave the toilet seat up or down?”

“Up.” He shrugged. “I live alone.”

“Hm. Do you roll up your socks, or let them roam freely inside your bureau drawer?”

“Roll. Who doesn’t match their socks? What a nightmare to have to search through your drawers every morning, looking for a pair of stockings.”

“Stockings?” Cassie made a face at Sophie.

“Did I say stockings? I meant
socks
. Yeesh,” he said with a laugh, and Cassie laughed back. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m a wee bit stoned this morning.”

“Ooh. Really? Want a crueler?” She picked up the pink bakery box and held it out to him.

“Man, they don’t look very cruel to me,” he said, helping himself.

“I meant
cruller
. I always get those mixed up. I used to think jelly donuts and jellyfish were related. Something about donuts.”

They laughed, and the goateed man touched Cassie’s arm, and Sophie tried not to look at the two of them touching one another, because it made her oddly jealous.

“Women always pig out when they’re miserable,” Cassie said, biting into a honey-dipped donut.

“So you’re miserable?”

“
Miserable
.” She giggled between bites.

“Sorry to hear it.”

“I like a man who’s sorry.”

“I like a woman who’s miserable.” He winked.

Cassie smiled. “Guess what? Sophie calls you the Goateed Man.”

He laughed heartily and turned to Sophie. “Didn’t I tell you my name?”

She shook her head.

“I’m Ryan”

“Oh.”

“I’m Cassie.”

“Hi. Ryan Waverly.”

“Sophie McKnight.”

They all shook hands.

Twenty minutes later, back upstairs, Cassie said, “God, he’s so interesting. And funny! Why don’t you ask him out?”

“Me? Why don’t you ask him out?”

“Me?”

“Oh c’mon, Cass. You two were flirting like crazy.”

“We were just talking.” She got a faraway look in her eyes, flopped down on the sofa and didn’t budge. Her hair was pushed up roughly behind her ears. “Maybe you should start dating again,” she said.

“That’s okay.” Sophie’s hands were chapped from doing laundry. “I’m not interested.”

“No?” Cassie’s voice was hopeful.

“At least break up with Billy first.”

“Oh God,” Cassie groaned. “Billy.”

*

The following afternoon, Sophie heard laughter coming from Ryan’s living room, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck. It was Cassie’s braying laugh with its distinctive little wheeze at the end. There was a loud
thump
, and then peels of laughter, and then the sound of bodies flopping against the hardwood floor. More laughter. The squeak of naked skin against the polished floorboards. Tumbling and wrestling. More laughter. Sophie couldn’t believe it—Cassie was fucking the goateed man.
Her
goateed man.

Feeling a low-level panic, she scooped up her car keys and went out for a drive. She stopped at Lisa’s Cafe and ordered a tuna sandwich, but the tuna had too many onions in it and would probably give her indigestion. By the time she got back to her apartment, the fucking had stopped, but now loud rock music was pounding through the walls.

Sophie made herself a cup of tea and tried to focus on her writing, which she’d been doing lately, therapeutic writing, just any old thing that popped into her head, but it was impossible to concentrate. The throbbing bass kicked at the walls, and during one of the pauses between songs, another sound rose up, a sharp and hysterical slamming, like a wooden cane being pounded against a wall.
Bang-bang-bang
.

Mandelbaum’s cane.

Instead of turning the music down, Ryan cranked the volume. The walls and floor vibrated. Sophie’s blood throbbed in her veins. Mandelbaum’s cane whacked the wall with rabid indignation.
BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

She couldn’t stand it anymore. She scooped up her keys, hurried out into the hallway and knocked on Ryan’s door, which opened almost instantly. He was wearing jeans and nothing else, his body lean and tan. Beyond him in the living room, Cassie was crouched on a sofa, eating ice cream out of a box. Ryan offered Sophie the joint he was smoking. Cassie looked up and burst out laughing. “Sophie!”

“Enter, Cousin Sophie,” he said. “Join the party.”

Mandelbaum walloped the wall with his cane and an Andy Warhol print fell down.

“Holy shit, what is his problem?”

“Uh, maybe you should turn the music down?” she said sarcastically.

“I never get to crank my music,” he whined, and Sophie resisted a sudden urge to punch him.

“It’s not that bad,” Cassie said, pulling Sophie down onto the sofa with her. The apartment reeked of pot. The resin had steeped into every pore of every object in the apartment. Dirty T-shirts and crumpled jeans littered the floor alongside week-old pizza boxes and fast food wrappers, splayed books and empty CD cases.

“Cassie, what’re you doing here?” Sophie asked.

“Just hanging out,” she said. But then she whispered in her best friend’s ear, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, why should I?” she snapped, sounding a lot more upset than she’d intended.

“I figured you weren’t that interested.”

“Don’t be retarded.”

“Just checking.”

“What about Billy?”

“We had another fight. A bad one. It’s over.” Cassie pouted. “Want some?” She spooned some ice cream out of the box and offered it to Sophie.

“No thanks. I have to go.”

“Don’t go. Stay!”

“Stay Sister Sophie.” Ryan relit the joint.

Mandelbaum thumped on the wall.

“Oh man, this is stressful. Fine. I’ll turn the music down.” He picked up the remote and reduced the volume to a more tolerable level. “Beer, ladies?”

“None for me.” Sophie stood up, but Cassie pulled her back down again.

“Stay? Please?”

In the briefest pause between songs, they realized somebody was knocking on the door, a soft persistent
rap-rap-rap
.

“Who is it?” Ryan bellowed before pulling the door open.

Tobias Mandelbaum lay spread-eagle on the hallway floor, his cane clamped in his sweaty fist. The skin around his mouth was puckered, and his large ears were pressed flat against his skull like giant oak leaves. Sophie knelt breathlessly beside him. “Are you okay? Can you hear me? Call 911!”

Mandelbaum’s body was rigid. A vein in his neck pulsed and his hands trembled.

“Call an ambulance!” she cried over her shoulder, and Ryan, who’d been standing in the doorway, ran back inside for his phone.

Cassie loomed over them, her eyes wet with alarm. She wrung her hands together and whispered, “Is he dead?”

“No. He’s going to be all right,” Sophie promised, even though she didn’t have a clue. She massaged Mandelbaum’s chest but then realized he was breathing on his own and stopped.

He smiled at her. “What are you doing?”

“You looked like you were… dead.”

“Dead?” he sputtered. “I’m fine, I’m fine! I tripped on the damn carpet!”

Cassie and Ryan were standing in the doorway. Ryan held the phone up to his ear. “Do you still need an ambulance?”

“No! Just help me get back to my apartment,” Mandelbaum grumbled.

Ryan hung up and squatted down to help him.

“Not you!” he snapped. “Sophie.”

“Wow, if looks could kill,” Cassie said.

“I insist,” Ryan said stubbornly.

Mandelbaum shook his head and growled, “Get your stinking mitts off me!”

“It’s okay.” Sophie took his spindly arm and helped him to his feet. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine! I tripped, that’s all. Damn carpet.”

“Are you sure you don’t want us to call an ambulance?”

“My ticker’s fine,” he said. “Better than yours!”

“He’s fine,” Ryan said petulantly.

“Are you coming back?” Cassie asked Sophie.

“I don’t think so,” Sophie said.

“Please?”

She’d lost all patience with her friend. “Go smoke your pot, okay?”

Cassie gave her an icy look. “Sure. Whatever.”

Sophie escorted Mandelbaum down the hallway to his apartment, but right before they went inside, Ryan poked his head out the door and called to her softly, “Sophie?” She ignored him and went inside, but just before she closed Mandelbaum’s door she could hear Ryan say, “Be careful!”

*

She could feel the heat emanating from Tobias Mandelbaum’s body, but his fingers were as cold as popsicles. He was short and stooped and looked like a shriveled piece of fruit in his green cardigan sweater and tan trousers, his tennis shoes grimy with age.

“Welcome to my humble abode!”

“Everything’s going to be fine,” she said, lowering him onto the sofa. The apartment was pristine, not a dust ball in sight. Reproductions of sappy, weeping clowns hung straight as window frames on the walls, and the furniture looked like it had never been used.

“You’re a kind soul, Sophie.” His eyes twinkled and his silken skin wrinkled in a hundred places whenever he smiled. “My wife used to eat those Nabisco Sea Biscuits by the boxful. Oh, she just loved those crackers. You can’t get them anymore, unfortunately.”

Sophie didn’t feel like talking. She wanted to go back to her apartment, pour herself a stiff drink and plunk herself down in front of the TV.

“42 years, we were married. Estelle passed away last year, God rest her soul.” He shook his head sadly. “Are you married, Sophie?”

“No.”

“No? A pretty girl like yourself?” He squinted at her. “What happened? The bum leave you? The jerk. What is he, blind?”

She didn’t answer.

“You can tell me, Sophie.”

“I really should be going.”

His long yellow teeth met in an even smile. He took Sophie’s hand and coaxed her to sit down beside him. Then he brought his face up close. Shockingly close. “What if you could have any wish you wanted?” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m curious. What would you ask for?”

She leaned back. “Um… I really have to go.”

He shrugged and dropped her hand, and for an instant she felt an unexpected nakedness on her palm and fingers. He waved dismissively. “Just a thought.”

“What do you mean?” Sophie asked. “A wish?”

“What if you could make one wish, and it would come true?”

“Well,” she said, getting up and backing toward the door. “I guess I’d ask for my old life back.”

“Your old life? With your husband and everything?”

“How do you know about my husband?”

Mandelbaum shrugged. “I know a lot of things. I know about the divorce. I know about the custody battles. I know about the accident.” He began to cry. Not sob. But there were tears pooling in his eyes. “He’d been drinking that weekend when he came to pick Jayla up. He was stinking drunk, wasn’t he? You begged and pleaded with him, while he laced up Jayla’s Nikes and helped her on with her jacket. Jayla, isn’t it? He was drunk and pissed off, and he
threatened
you. Didn’t he, Sophie? Oh, it’s a terrible thing. You tried to call the police, but he took your phone and smashed it to bits.” He stood up and wagged a finger in her face. “Your daughter looked up at you with big scared eyes and said, ‘Mommy?’ And you reached for her, but Peter pushed you away. He shoved you away!” Mandelbaum picked up his cane and shook it furiously. “He scooped Jayla up in his arms. You chased him out of the house and across the front lawn, and you grabbed your little girl by the arm and pulled, and Jayla screamed. She reached for you, but your fingers slipped apart. Peter locked her in his car and you ran around trying all the doors. Behind the glass, Jayla’s face was wet from crying.” He waved his scrawny arms in the air. “He backed out of the driveway, tires squealing, and you stood there screaming for him to stop. You ran after them as they sped away. You chased them all the way down the block, trying to save your daughter, and then you fell and scraped your elbows and knees on the asphalt. Screaming Jayla’s name. And the Toyota disappeared down the street, and you never saw your little girl again. There was a terrible accident. And now they’re dead. Peter and Jayla.”