“There are fans in every room, and don’t worry, I had an air conditioner installed in your bedroom,” the Irritating One says to her friend as she tosses her leather handbag at the couch.
Don’t bother hanging it on one of the many available coat hooks,I want to say.This is clearly a barnyard. Piss all over the floor while you’re at it.
“Nonna Penny’s room is on the left at the top of the stairs,” she says. “Yours is across the hall. There’s an en suite in both bedrooms, and a half bath next to the kitchen. There’s a study next to Nonna’s room with a bunch of old books. The other two bedrooms on the third floor are filled with all the crap she never got rid of.”
Lindsay. Yes, that’s her name. She’s one of Penelope’s grandchildren. She’s been here many times, but I’d usually abscond to the attic whenever Penelope was having family over, so I never paid attention to who was who. I don’t understand why my late friend left the home I built with my bare hands to the grandchild who hates it the most. It seems so wasteful.
The first day Lindsay arrived, she walked around with her hands on her hips and her face in a constant sneer as she surveyed the space. I heard, “Ugh,” uttered many times. She also had the nerve to lay a towel down across the couch cushions before sitting, as if it were a piece of furniture she found on the side of the road, covered in the bodily fluids of woodland creatures. Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken it personally, but I did, and still do.
“The heat works,” Lindsay continues to her friend, “for when the temperatures start to drop.”
“Wow,” the friend says, dropping her many bags at her feet as they enter the living room. “Linds, you really undersold this place.” She runs her fingers along the wooden archway that separates this room from the hall. Her wonder is abundant. There’s even a smile tugging at the corners of her pink lips. “With a little tidying, this place could be gorgeous. Like a goth girl’s wet dream. And that placard next to the doorbell that says ‘Caraway Manor?’ How cool is that?”
This newcomer…I don’t want her here, but she’s decidedly less irritating than Lindsay. Thus far, at least. I’m sure I’ll find other reasons to loathe her presence soon enough.
“Oh, yeah. The original owners put that up. It’s been there forever.” Lindsay quickly changes the subject as she looks down at her phone. “I can’t seem to get the stove or the dishwasher to work, so I bought a microwave and a dish rack until we can get new ones installed.” She rubs her hand across her forehead in frustration.
I don’t believe for a second that both appliances are broken. They’re older models, purchased by Penelope decades ago, but my late friend and I were able to use them. When you want to use the stove, you have to wait a few minutes before you see a flicker of flame, and sure, it also makes a strange buzzing sound when it’s on, but it works. The dishwasher needs to be turned off and then back on before you hear the water start to run. These quirks give the machines character, but clearly Her Royal Highness doesn’t see it that way.
I reckon Lindsay is used to modern conveniences. If it doesn’t work perfectly and immediately with the press of a few sleek-looking buttons, she deems it irreparable. What a sad lens through which to see the world. I’m tempted to say this aloud, but since she doesn’t know I live here, it’s better if I remain quiet. My goal is not to terrify these women, and if I let them see me, they’d likely start screaming.
“Oh, that’s fine,” the friend says in a soft voice. “I’ve been eating instant ramen and cereal, so my needs in the kitchen are very minimal.”
She tucks a loose blonde curl behind her ear, and for some reason…I’m mesmerized by the movement. So subtle, so insignificant––yet it plays over in my head. Is her hair as soft as it looks? My fingers twitch at my side, eager to feel it for myself.
But why? I flinch in irritation at my body’s reaction to her. I don’t know this woman, this stranger, who’s currently making herself comfortable inmyhouse. In fact, the more I look at her, the less interested I become in learning anything about her.The clothes she wears are strange and impractical. A sleeveless bright red dress that hugs her chest and hips with a heart-shaped hole just above her bosom? Did she cut the hole herself? For what purpose? The hem brushes the tops of her knees, flowing out around her like an angry cloud, and it’s sure to get caught on the many rough edges this house contains. And she wears strappy sandals with a sole no thicker than a slice of cheese. What kind of lunatic would wear these in the middle of a forest?
Lindsay pads over to the refrigerator and purses her lips as she surveys its contents. “There’s still a ton of stuff here from my last trip to the grocery store. It’s yours if you want it. Just keep an eye on that metal bowl on the top shelf. It fills with water. There’s a leak somewhere. Make sure to empty it every few days.” She straightens to her full height and opens the freezer. “Don’t put too much up here. If it’s full, not everything will freeze.”
“No problem.”
Lindsay flings the freezer door shut. The pots stacked atop the refrigerator shake from the force. “This thing is clearly on its last leg, too. I’m pretty sure it was here before I was born.”
The refrigerator is about to die. She’s correct about that. There’s no saving it. I’ve tried.
The friend notices a piece of paper sitting on the kitchen island and grabs it. “What’s this?”
“Directions to the grocery store. There’s a coffee shop right next to it, and a bookstore. There’s also a nail salon on the edge of town, but they don’t work with acrylics, so beware.”
“Oh, I haven’t gotten my nails done in ages.”
Lindsay looks horrified.
“Are you serious? Honey, I didn’t know things werethatbad.” She grabs her friend’s hands and examines the unpaintedtips of her fingers. “Why didn’t you come to me? I could’ve helped you out.”
The friend carefully pulls her hands from Lindsay’s grasp. “It’s fine, really. I’m not interested in borrowing money. Not now, not ever. You’re giving me a place to live. That’s all I need.”
This seems to calm Lindsay down. Her eyes dart over to the cabinets. “Take-out menus are in the top right drawer next to the silverware, but there are only, like, two restaurants in town and the food is mediocre at best, so don’t get your hopes up.”
A chuckle escapes the friend’s plump lips.
Stop staring at her lips.
“I’m guessing your Bostonian palate is much more sophisticated than mine,” the friend says. “Whatever the locals in Mapletown are serving up, I’m sure I’ll love it.”
After Lindsay shows her friend the second and third floors, and provides a quick tutorial on how the shower works, she tosses a few clothing items in a flashy duffel bag and tells the friend to call her if she has any problems. Then I hear her car speed out of the drive.
What now? This foolishly dressed woman is my new roommate?
