ONE
Callahan
I arrive at myex-girlfriend’s house at ten o’clock at night with the prelude to a tension headache and mere dregs remaining of my self-respect. When Nicole called, it was like my brain went into autopilot. It didn’t matter that we’ve been broken up for almost a year and a half, or that there are photos all over social media of her and her new husband to act as a reminder that her distress is no longer my problem to solve. The moment I heard her voice in that high octave she only achieves in moments of complete panic, I knew I was going to go to her, and I was going to do whatever it took to make everything better.
Unfortunately, by the time I realized that “whatever it took” might mean anything from killing a spider to burying a body, I was in too deep—which is to say, I was already turning onto her street. Any progress I made in talking myself down from helping her during the drive from the apartment over my antique store in Hampden to the unfamiliar address in Homeland shetexted me disappears as soon as Nicole answers the door of the stately brick Colonial. She’s clad in paint-speckled jeans and a sweat-stained T-shirt, her tight black curls wrangled into a bun atop her head. The most striking part, though, is the look of immense relief on her face.
“Cal. Thank god you’re here,” she says, and, without hesitation, as if it hasn’t been seventeen months since we last saw each other, wraps her arms around my waist. Her incredulous laughter vibrates against my sternum.
For the first time in recent memory, some of the tightness evaporates from my shoulders.Yes, my brain says.Things are right again, at last. These curves, this warmth, the jasmine and musk scent enveloping me are all correct.But of coursenoneof it is correct anymore; Nicole made that very clear when she ended our relationship on what would have been our fifteen-year dating anniversary. So I resist placing my hand on her hip or burying my nose in her hair, welcome the stress back into my body like an old acquaintance I’m not particularly fond of but still always greet when we run into each other, clear my throat, and step out of her embrace. “So, what’s going on?”
She chews her lower lip in that nervous way of hers and a forgotten corner of my heart goes ahead and shatters to match the rest of it. “Ah, so, my great-aunt Vera—do you remember her?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “She passed away in April.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I respond.
Nicole nods in quick acknowledgment before continuing. “She very generously left me her house—or rather, she left methishouse. Isaiah and I moved in a few months ago, right before…uh, right before our wedding. I finally got around tocleaning out the attic tonight and…well, it’s better if I just show you, I think.”
I follow Nicole up the stairs, down a hallway, and into a small room filled with boxes, neatly stacked and labeled. She opens a door, revealing another much more compact set of stairs, and gestures for me to go up first. The attic is oven-like despite the autumnal chill outside, and I have to push up the sleeves of my sweater and use the back of my forearm to wipe away the sweat quickly accumulating at my hairline so it doesn’t drip into my eyes.
“Thank you again for coming,” Nicole says, turning toward me as the overhead light flickers on. “I really didn’t know who else to call.”
“No problem. This is actually a hobby of mine, exploring sweltering attics with my exes. I’ve been so busy lately, though. Good to have an excuse to get back into it.” I smile through the sarcasm, and Nicole tilts her mouth slightly in return—a courtesy; we never did share the same sense of humor.
“You have other exes, then?” she asks with a tone of hopefulness in her voice that’s like a knife plunged directly into my aorta. She seems so excited by the prospect that I’ve been able to move on after our split—and with enough haste that I might have collected several additional breakups in the meantime—that I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. Clearly, barring whatever has her currently in such a tizzy that she’d bother calling me of all people, Nicole is doing well. She’s happy with her handsome firefighter husband and big, beautiful house. And I’m happy she’s happy. Truly. Just because I haven’t been nearly as successful in putting things behind me doesn’t mean I need or want to make her feel guilty.
“Oh, sure, loads of ’em,” I say, then clap my hands together and rub them, a sort of percussive transition into a quick subject change. “What can I do for you, then?”
“Right. So, I’m just going to get on with it,” she responds. “There.” She gestures to a large, boxy item in the corner, indicating that I should examine it myself.
My eyes wander over the queen-size electric orange and lime green quilt that obscures whatever lies beneath. “Late sixties, early seventies, based on the colors,” I mumble as I approach it. The seam I rub between my fingers is egregiously crooked. “Not particularly well-crafted, though, sorry to say.”
“I did not call you here at ten at night to look at an ugly quilt, Callahan. Under it.”
“Right. Of course.” I lift the corner of the quilt with caution in case a dismembered head or a rat king waits underneath. Although Nicole would certainly have relied upon stronger, braver Isaiah to take care of either of those, not her dorky antique dealer ex. With the oddly comforting realization that I’m not good enough to be called upon to fix a gross problem, I rip off the quilt like a Band-Aid.
The rectangular shape comes from a display case. And inside sits a gigantic taxidermy…goose?
To my admittedly untrained eye, it looks a lot like a Canada goose—the big gray and black ones that congregate near ponds and fly inVs. Except this one doesn’t have the usual coloring. Instead, it’s almost all white, barring the top of the head and neck, which are a pale taupe. It’s as if someone took a photo of it and turned the saturation and contrast way down, but in real life. Another variety, then? Or a genetic mutation?
Whatever it is, it’s trouble.Bigtrouble.
I let out a low whistle.
“I know,” she says.
“Nic.”
“Iknow.”
“This is a problem. This could be extremely illegal,” I say. “There’s a federal law prohibiting the possession of most native birds in any way, shape, or form.”
“I know,” she replies for a third time, her voice now a quiet whine. “I googled it. Oh, Cal. I have a felonious dead goose in my attic!”
I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the bird in case it…what, moves? “I said,couldbe illegal. There’s a chance, a small chance, that maybe…”
“Maybe what?” Nicole moves closer, peering over my shoulder as I bend to examine the wooden base. No markings or labels that I can see, though I would need to check it out more thoroughly, outside of its case, to be certain. A tap with my fingernail verifies that said case is glass, not acrylic.
“Maybewhat, Cal?” Nicole repeats.
