This Won’t End Well, page 5
But Harper asked me to pretend I hadn’t seen or heard what happened yesterday. And for reasons that completely escape me, I agreed. In doing so, I essentially confirmed that I’ll stay out of her affairs. Which is exactly what I’ve already vowed to do.
So . . . why do I feel so bad about that?
Obviously I’ll contact the authorities if I see her being harmed. But in the meantime, am I really supposed to just wait? I can’t befriend her. But neither can I unsee what I saw nor erase the sound of her crying and arguing with that man.
My hope is that he simply won’t come around more than once, and the situation will resolve itself. But “once” is perhaps the most misused word in the English language—as the incident with Todd recently reminded me, almost every behavior and thought is soon revealed to be part of a pattern.
I only pray that Jon’s French exit proves to be the exception to that rule.
—AEM
TEN
August 4
TO: Jon Nichols
FROM: Annie Mercer
SUBJECT: Sabbatical
Dear Jon,
I promise this will be my last letter until you return. In fact, I would not have written at all—well, other than to find out when your flight gets in—were it not for an unsettling encounter I had at Community Cup this morning.
I was feeling a bit sluggish and had an hour to kill before I was due at Seth Williams’ (an old classmate of mine, for whom I’m now cleaning house—my business is rapidly expanding), so I decided to treat myself to a cup of coffee. I’d just ordered my usual when a man came charging at me with an enormous smile on his face. “Annie Mercer, I thought that was you!” He thrust his hand out at me before I could place him. “Ben Farber. I work with Jon at County Day.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, because by that point I had remembered that he was the math teacher with the perma-grin.
“Surprised you’re not in Paris with Jon,” he said jovially.
“Yes, well, that makes two of us.” I retrieved my coffee from the bar, hoping that would be the end of it. (I’m not unhappy for you, but it’s hard for me to go about my day knowing you’re on the other side of the Atlantic having a blast without me.)
Alas. “What a lucky guy he is to be on a trip like that. Meanwhile, I’m teaching summer school. Melinda’s due with number four in October. Our next vacation will be eighteen years from now,” he said, chuckling at himself.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks! It’s finally a girl.”
“That’s great.”
He was still smiling at me like a sociopath. “So are the rumors true?”
“Rumors?” I said blankly. My first thought was that he somehow knew I’d left SCI, but it quickly occurred to me that he’s probably never heard of SCI and had no idea that the T-shirt and sweatpants I was wearing weren’t my normal work attire.
“So you two aren’t planning a move to France?”
“Uh, no,” I said.
“That’s what I told everyone,” he said, bringing his hand down on the bar. I jumped, but he didn’t seem to notice he’d surprised me. “But when we saw the post about a long-term French substitute teacher go up, a lot of us were worried. No one wants Madame LeBlanc to come back,” he said, pretending to shudder.
“Maybe they’re looking for another teacher to expand the language program,” I supplied.
He shook his head. “Budget cuts, budget cuts, budget cuts. They’re talking about getting rid of German altogether, and forget raises. Anyway, I don’t want to bore you when Jon’s probably told you all this. It was nice seeing you, Annie,” he said.
“Yeah, you, too,” I mumbled. “Good luck with the baby.”
“We’ve got it down to a science by this point,” he said, and though I knew he wasn’t being literal, it was perhaps the most compelling argument for childbirth I’ve yet to hear. “Tell Jon I said hi and that I’m relieved he’ll be back in September. It’s not every day a teacher like him comes along.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed, because I know how hard you’ve worked to make French a living language for your students, Jon.
Which is why I’m wondering why a substitute position has been posted for your job. While I trusted Ben was telling me what he knew to be the truth, I still verified it as soon as I got home from Seth’s. Sure enough: a three-second web search led me directly to the listing for a position that looks identical to yours—at County Day.
As I hope you are aware, the beginning of the school year is four brief weeks away. It took you six months to decide to move from St. Louis to Michigan, and you can spend half an hour staring at a menu before making up your mind. Believe me, that’s a compliment—I’ve always loved your analytical approach to the world. So I’m trying to believe that there’s some other logical explanation for what I discovered today.
Please write back at your earliest possible convenience.
Love,
Annie
ELEVEN
August 7
I was not doing particularly well when I set out for Viola’s house this morning. Because the run-in with Ben and Jon’s continued silence have illuminated something quite unfortunate: the life I’ve carefully crafted appears to be crumbling faster than I’ve allowed myself to admit.
At one point, I must have been a relatively worry-free child—I don’t remember all that much before my father left. What I do remember is that after he took off and my mother fell into the hole of her own emotions, I quickly realized the safest way to navigate the wider world was to stick to the facts.
Fact: Leesa was my friend regardless of arbitrary factors (e.g., whether I wore brand-name clothes or hung out with the popular kids—neither of which I ever did, obviously). She never took advantage of me (e.g., trying to get me to help her cheat on tests). She accepted me for the person I am, and though she’s always been a social butterfly, she still made time for me. I could count on her.
Fact: Science allows for possibilities within a defined set of rules. While there’s often no such thing as a “correct” answer, every outcome is measurable, and in many cases can be predicted in advance. I know how to operate and excel within those confines. I can count on science.
Fact: Jon and I both enjoy road trips within the continental US, long tangents, and clean, modern spaces. We share the same visceral aversion to the sound of food being slurped, and neither of us wants children, or so I was led to believe. We look forward to moving somewhere other than Michigan (Cambridge, perhaps?) in the next five to ten years. We are perfectly suited for each other. I can count on Jon and our relationship.
Except now my friendship with Leesa has new requirements. I’m not just supposed to hold my tongue over her peddling “wellness” products that purport to have properties that are completely unsupported by science, let alone rational thought. No, she actually expects me to be enthusiastic about her ill-advised venture.
And science is no longer my safe space. I loved waking up every morning, putting on my lab coat, and running the data on my latest experiments. The days flew by so quickly that I didn’t even feel bad that I’d put graduate school on hold. Then Todd popped that bubble. Even if I had not shoved him, I couldn’t have stayed at SCI knowing my own supervisor felt my body was his property.
But Jon . . . as completely out of character as his hopping on a plane to France was, I believed it was an anomaly. And most anomalies are soon revealed to be the result of a systematic error or faulty interpretation, at which point they can be corrected. Whatever Jon is going through, I expected him to get over this.
Now I’m not so sure.
Though a few tears escaped this morning when I checked my inbox and found it empty, I managed to arrive at Viola’s with a brave face. “Annie, my girl! You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said, wrapping her thin arms around me. She’s one of the few people I actually enjoy hugging, but today her embrace only made me feel sadder.
“Thanks, Viola,” I said, trying to ignore the saltwater tingle at the back of my throat. “Did you send your letter about Line 5 to the governor?”
Viola and I have spent hours upon hours discussing the oil pipeline that runs through the Mackinac Straits. The Great Lakes are already teeming with bioaccumulative toxins and can’t afford another oil spill, but based on probability alone, we agree the pipeline is guaranteed to leak.
“Yesterday, in fact,” she said, passing me a spray bottle full of white vinegar. (Viola is the only client of mine who doesn’t complain about the smell, which quickly dissipates. Her mother had the cleanest house in all of greater Detroit, she says, and she only used vinegar and baking soda.)
I followed her into the living room. “I’m glad. How are you feeling?” She looks frailer every time I see her. I suppose that’s not a surprise for an eighty-two-year-old woman, but it still concerns me.
“I’ve been having a little gut trouble,” she said, patting her midsection with the feather duster she just picked up. “Is there a supplement I could take? I don’t want a prescription.”
“Hmm, I’m not sure,” I told her. Viola is constantly forgetting that being a chemist does not qualify me to dispense health advice. Then again, Leesa has a degree in American Studies and runs around telling people to swap their flu shots for oregano oil. I lifted a jade Foo dog on the mantel so I could wipe off the invisible dirt beneath it—from the state of Viola’s floors alone when I arrived, I knew she had been cleaning for hours this morning, and probably last night as well. Sometimes I wonder if Viola’s influence is the real reason I’m a neatnik. “You may want to ask your doctor about probiotic supplementation. The research is promising.”
She beamed at me. “You’re such a smart girl, Annie.”
I thanked her, because even though I think intelligence is mostly a construct made of curiosity, opportunity, and plain old hard work, sometimes it is the thought that counts.
“And how are you?” she said, readjusting the Foo dog sculpture. “How are you holding up?”
“Oh, you know,” I said, waving my microfiber cloth in her direction. “Happy to be keeping busy. I’m up to four cleaning clients now.”
“I’m glad. But surely you’re thinking about your next step.”
Aside from the wedding, I haven’t been thinking about next steps, because doing so causes me immense stress. Even if there weren’t the matter of the non-compete clause, who would hire me? I certainly can’t use SCI as a reference. “Not yet, but I will soon.”
“I should hope so. Graduating at the very top of your class and then getting a big job at a chemical company—surely this current juncture is a blip, and soon you’ll be off to even better adventures.”
Better adventures have to be put on hold until I’m sure my mother won’t relapse, which is why Jon and I weren’t planning to leave the state for several years. “I’m not unhappy,” I told Viola.
She sat on the edge of the sofa, looking a bit winded. “Not unhappy is not the same thing as being happy, you know.”
“Right,” I said. What I didn’t say is that happiness has never really been my concern. Or at least not happiness as it’s colloquially defined. I don’t need birds chirping in my window; predictability is what brings me true pleasure. Most people don’t understand that, but Jon always did. Or at least he used to.
She pointed a finger at the light fixture hanging in the foyer. “Can you do something about the cobwebs up there, love? Try as I might, I just can’t seem to rid this old house of spiders.”
“The Rogers swear their cats eat all the spiders and millipedes,” I said. It’s possible they’re correct about that. For all the fur tumbleweeds, I can’t recall ever seeing a single bug in their home. “Maybe you could get a cat.”
Viola looked at me as though I’d just suggested she adopt a wild boar. “Filthy,” she said with a little shudder.
“Right,” I said.
“And, Annie,” she said as I wielded my duster like a magic wand, zapping nonexistent web silk, “how is Jon?”
Viola’s always had an uncanny ability to work her way into my thoughts.
“I don’t mean to shine a floodlight on the elephant in the room,” she said, “but you’ve barely mentioned him lately. Are you two having trouble?”
“Not trouble, per se,” I said, polishing the banister like my life depended on it. “It’s just that he’s in France.”
“France!”
I nodded. “He’s been gone for almost a month.”
“My goodness. Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because it upsets me,” I admitted. “He didn’t tell me he was going until he was on his way to the airport. And . . .” I hesitated, unsure of whether to continue. It was as though saying it out loud made it sound even worse than it was. “He asked to be left alone while he was away. I haven’t talked to him once.”
Viola’s eyes were wide. “That seems very unlike Jon.”
“I know,” I said, relieved that she thought so, too.
“Well, you tell him to come home right this minute,” she said firmly.
“I can’t,” I said. “He needs this time to get his head on straight before we get married.”
She stared at me. “My dear girl. You haven’t asked for a single thing in your God-given life. Now would be a good time to start.”
“I’ve asked for plenty of things,” I said (a bit weakly, I’ll admit). “I requested a raise at SCI last quarter.”
“After how many years of accepting the same pay?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “And then after what that terrible man did to you . . .”
“I didn’t want to prolong the process any longer than necessary,” I reminded her. Viola and I have already discussed this, and I made it perfectly clear why I arrived at the decision I did.
“Oh Annie. I’m not trying to upset you, and I’m certainly not saying you’re a pushover. But you are entirely too skilled at putting other people’s needs ahead of your own.”
“Maybe,” I said, because I felt uncomfortable pointing out to a childless widow that putting others’ needs first is often the byproduct of having loved ones. What’s the alternative—become a recluse? Truth be told, that’s starting to sound more and more appealing. Forget new people. Maybe I should just avoid people, period.
“I have no doubt Jon loves you and will do the right thing,” said Viola. “And I know Fae counts on you for a lot. I just pray that you’re thinking about your next step, Annie, not someone else’s. As much as I’ll hate to have to use one of those generic cleaning services again, a gal like you . . .” She looked at me so adoringly that I wondered if her cataracts were back, because I was in an MIT T-shirt and leggings, which were relatively clean but happened to have a hole in the knee from where they caught on a nail while I was attempting to degrime Donna Guinness’ linoleum. Moreover, I was beaded with sweat; Viola keeps the house at seventy-five degrees, even in August. And as my mother pointed out just this morning, I’ve let myself go a bit. But I plan to address my own mess prior to Jon’s return.
“You’ve got great things ahead of you,” Viola continued, “and I have a feeling none of them are to be found on Willow Lane. Have you thought about applying to graduate school again?”
“I want to apply soon. Possibly as early as next year,” I said. This hadn’t actually been my plan, but it made sense as I said it, and now I’m thinking it might just be a good idea. Maybe after Jon comes home and we get through the archaic, overpriced party that is to be our wedding, my mother will be doing well enough that I can consider making the leap.
“Good,” she said, nodding. “Why don’t you go see about the upstairs bathroom?”
“I’ll do that,” I said, knowing she had made the suggestion to give me a little privacy. While there’s certainly room for two in the bathroom—which boasts his-and-hers sinks and has a short wall separating the toilet from the rest of the space for privacy purposes—it’s the one place Viola doesn’t follow me when I’m cleaning.
I closed the door behind me and had just lifted the blinds to spray the windowpane with vinegar when what should I see through the glass but the inside of the Novaks’.
I can’t say for certain which room Viola’s bathroom gave me a direct view into, but it was possibly Harper’s bedroom (I saw an empty bookshelf and some sort of wardrobe, though no bed). Regardless, her blinds were up and her window was open.
I should have looked away. But Harper was singing at the top of her lungs—or at least her mouth was wide open in a way that suggested actual vocalization rather than lip-synching. In fact, she looked so natural doing it—she even had a pair of round John Lennon–style sunglasses on, though it occurs to me now that maybe this was to cover her shiner—that I’m wondering if she’s a singer rather than an actress. At any rate, even with Viola’s window sealed shut, I could hear that she was singing along to “The Weight.”
And suddenly I was on the cold tile floor, sniffling into my filthy T-shirt.
When I was young, my mother used to turn it up loud when that song came on the radio, and she and my father would swing me in their arms as they sang, “Take a load off, Annie! Take a load for free!” It’s one of the few memories I have of the three of us together, and it’s a good one.
I was in college when Leesa overheard me belting it out with Joe Cocker (whose cover happens to be my favorite) and asked me, very quietly, if I was aware that the actual lyrics were “Take a load off, Fanny.”
In fact, I hadn’t been aware of that at all. Long after my father left, I continued to hear “Annie,” regardless of whether the Band or Aretha Franklin or Joe Cocker was singing. Because that is what my parents sang, and I had attached meaning to it. And that meaning-filled misbelief canceled my ability to be objective.
The music from Harper’s house had stopped, so I dried my face, pulled myself off the floor, and finished cleaning. But as I made my way through the rest of Viola’s house, I kept returning to one thought.
What if I’ve attached so much meaning to my relationship to Jon that I’ve missed some crucial detail indicating that he’s the kind of man who would walk out the door on the woman he claims to love?
