A Density of Souls by Christopher Rice

engagement rings rose.
    Several weeks later, Nanine Charbonnet was released from Southern Baptist hospital after an intense bout of what the doctors thought was pneumonia. Her son, Roger, and his pretty new wife, Elise, picked her up from the hospital and dropped her at her house, where she told them to leave her bed so she could resume her routine. Nanine owned two Pekingnese, Hershel and Stanwick, and she walked them every afternoon at four.
    Nanine’s route brought her to the corner of Third and Chestnut around four-fifteen. On the day she was released from the hospital, Monica was waiting on her front porch with a gin and tonic.
    When Nanine rounded the corner that day and saw the Conlin-Dobucheaux house, she clutched her pearls in shock, inadvertently releasing Hershel’s and Stanwick’s leashes.
    Bougainvillea burst up the front two columns of the house. Morning glory vines curled up the house’s side porches. The front lawn had been cut through by flagstone paths that wound between meticulously placed beds of crocus and azalea. Elephant ears poked through the corners of the high wrought-iron gate. Two medium height banana trees stood like sentries on either side of the house.
    From where she sat, on a wrought-iron patio chair purchased just three days earlier, Monica raised her glass to Nanine and wished for a heart attack to strike the woman right there on the corner.
    The Falling Impossible
    73
    Nanine retrieved her two dogs and hurried home to phone Elise.
    As new daughter-in-law, Elise had warmed to her duties as Nanine’s lady-in-waiting quite well.
    Several days later, when she was sure Jeremy was ensconced in his third-floor studio, Monica called Nanine and invited her over for tea.
    “Tea!” Nanine exclaimed over the phone at Elise, a half-hour after she accepted Monica’s invitation. “Does that woman really know how to serve high tea? Should we be expecting scones or doughnuts?”
    Before their visit, neither Nanine nor Elise bothered to consult Monica’s immediate neighbors about the new Conlin garden. If they had, they would have discovered that Monica had become one of the first women in their neighborhood to hire a landscaper. For a hefty fee, he had redesigned and replanted the entire front yard in just one month.
    Still, Monica’s application to the GDLS and the subsequent denial had driven a wedge between Monica and Jeremy that would never be bridged, not even by the child they would have five years later. Jeremy felt betrayed. His angel from the wrong side of Magazine Street had sold out, and the magic he had dreamed of creating with her was dwindling in the process. Occasionally, depending upon the amount of Merlot he drank, he would stumble downstairs. Monica would start awake with the thud of Jeremy hitting the mattress beside her. The night before Nanine and Elise called on Monica, she had opened her eyes to find Jeremy’s mouth against her ear. His breath was hot from wine.
    “Poor little Irish girl,” he whispered.
    Monica froze.
    “Go upstairs,” she hissed back.
    “What are you serving tomorrow? Let me guess . . .”
    “Jeremy. You’re drunk. Go upstairs. I don’t want you in the bed.”
    “. . . tea, scones, and bite-sized portions of your own soul.”
    She shot up in bed so fast her shoulder cracked Jeremy’s chin. He stumbled backward into the night table. Monica said nothing as Jeremy struggled to his feet with the help of the bathroom doorknob.
    “I guess I’m not invited then,” he mumbled, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him.
    Monica did not sleep for the rest of the night. Nanine and Elise arrived at the Conlin residence on a July afternoon to find a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses set up on the wrought-iron table on 74
    A Density of Souls
    the front lawn. The front door was open. The roar of Mahler’s Second Symphony could be heard from the third-floor studio. Nanine squinted at the sound of the music; Elise’s jaw fell slightly in awe.
    When