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‘That’s my name.’

‘Or Ryan Scott?’

Mary had not taken Ryan’s name when they got married. Being Mary Jordan was part of her identity and she didn’t really want to change it. She had changed it once before and it hadn’t worked out; when she had reverted to her maiden name she decided never to abandon it again. Ryan had pointed out that this felt like she was hedging her bets; their identities would soon be linked, and they should recognize that. She had nodded, and suggested that in that case he could become Ryan Jordan.

That, he had replied, is not the point. That’s not the way it generally goes.

Generally, she said. But not in this case. Not for now. Maybe we can think about it at some time in the future.

‘Maybe Ryan Scott, now I think about it.’

Mary nodded. ‘You didn’t tell him I’m Mary Jordan, though?’

‘No.’

She recalled the last words Trent had said before she came inside.

Mary Jordan. Nice to see you again, too.

Mary Jordan. Not Mary Scott, which was what someone would naturally have assumed.

‘He knew my surname,’ she said.

‘You must have told him when you met him earlier this week.’

Mary paused. ‘I don’t think I did.’

‘Maybe you’re not remembering it accurately.’

‘Maybe,’ Mary said. ‘Maybe that’s it.’

It was the obvious explanation.

But, she thought. I didn’t tell him my full name. I’m sure of it.

Realtor Jokes

Mary watched Trent take a large cardboard box from the U-Haul. He carried it into the house with ease; either he was much stronger than he looked or it was very light. She wondered what could be in a box that large – he had to put both arms around it to lift it – and be that light. Towels? Linens?

Nothing?

She shook her head. Of course there was something. Why would he be carrying empty boxes around? She was becoming paranoid; that note had her questioning everything. And as for her name, she must have told him, or maybe he had looked it up. And so what if he had?

She picked up her phone and made a call. Joanie Best was the selling realtor on the house; she had let Mary tour it after Wilf had died. It was sad; the house was shabby, and with a damp, mildewy smell coming from the heavy curtains and worn carpets. The kitchen looked like it had last been updated in the 1950s – which it probably had – but the detail that had stuck with her was the sole plate and glass in the drying rack next to a neatly washed can of Campbell’s tomato soup, ready to be recycled. That, then, was his last, solitary meal.

‘Hi,’ Joanie said, when she picked up. ‘Thinking of selling?’ It was always what she said. It reminded Mary of a Dad Joke: not funny in itself, but accumulating funniness through repeated use. Maybe she had identified a new genre of jokes: Realtor Jokes.

‘Not yet,’ Mary said. ‘But I was wondering about the house next door. I met the neighbour.’

‘Trent? I met him at the closing. Nice guy. Quite handsome. Married, but still.’

‘Joanie!’

‘What? It’s nothing I haven’t taken advantage of before.’

It was true. Joanie was single, having gotten divorced around the time Otis was born after a traumatic and often violent marriage. Since then she had dated exclusively younger men, including, a couple of years ago, a twenty-four-year-old who worked in a local bar.

‘Anyway,’ Joanie said. ‘You can’t talk.’