It didn’t work.
Instead, the paper and poop remnants spiraled, rising higher and higher in the bowl.
“Please no. Please stop.Stopstopstopstop.”
To her immense relief, the muck stayed within the confines of the bowl.
And then, the doorbell rang.
Natalie let out the high-pitched squeak of a mouse squeezed between a cat’s jaws and shoved the plunger and bucket in the cabinet under the sink. She slammed the toilet lid down and jogged to the front door.
When Natalie found the neighbors from across the street, Samir and Sarah Gupta, standing on the stoop, the smile she pasted on looked slightly maniacal.
Samir waved around the foyer. “How goes the open house?”
“I’m having a bit of a problem in the bathroom, and I need to take care of it before another agent shows up.”
Sarah glanced over her shoulder as if a line of agents was forming behind her. “Want us to keep watch for you?”
“Please.” She ushered the Guptas into the kitchen and told them to help themselves to cookies.
Back in the bathroom, she waited another two minutes for the water level to fall before giving the plunger a try. When the clog finally gave way, she squeezed her eyes shut in relief. Disaster had been averted.
Helping herself to the McCreedys’ bleach, Natalie poured some into the bowl, the sink, and the bathtub. By the timeshe was done, the bathroom smelled like a hospital ward. Like disinfectant and decay.
She returned the bleach to the laundry room and carried the bucket of rank water and toilet paper to the farthest corner of the backyard. She tossed the contents into the vines and undergrowth on the other side of the fence.
“Eat shit, Mrs. Smith.”
As Natalie breathed in the fresh air, she congratulated herself for keeping cool during a crisis. It was over now, and she was back in control. All she needed to do was run a comb through her hair and freshen up her lipstick, and she’d be ready to welcome the next agent.
Only there weren’t any.
The Guptas hung around for fifteen minutes, but once their curiosity was sated, they took the rest of the cookies and left.
Natalie turned on the oven, arranged the rest of the cookie dough on the baking sheet, and waited.
The cookies turned golden brown, the ugly brass clock on the living room mantel ticked, and Natalie waited.
The oven timer rang, she took the cookies out of the oven, let them cool, and plated them.
Fifteen minutes later, she began to pace around the house.
No one else came.
The open house was over.
With the bitter taste of disappointment on her tongue, Natalie dumped the cookies into the Tupperware and turned off all the lights.
The last thing she needed to do before leaving was lock the patio door, but as her fingers closed around the dead bolt, she glanced across the yard to Mrs. Smith’s woods and froze.
“Impossible,” she whispered.
Natalie opened the door, crossed the brick patio, andstepped onto the grass. She stood there, staring directly in front of her, as ants pole-vaulted off the grass blades onto her feet. They marched over her bare skin and slipped down into her shoes. Their tiny bodies tickled the soles of her feet and the sensitive flesh of her ankles.
Then they started to bite her.
She stomped her feet without looking down. She couldn’t stop staring at the fence line. At the vines Jill had cut.
