A Density of Souls by Christopher Rice Page B

Upstairs, Mahler’s Second Symphony was resetting itself on the record player. “However,” Nanine said, lifting her glass to her mouth and taking a sip, “I must admit, that no matter how extremely, you have demonstrated a
    . . . how should I put it? A sense of appreciation.” She gestured to the garden around them.
    “As for Jeremy, don’t try to fool us. We all know that if he had his 76
    A Density of Souls
    way this house would be a crumbling wreck. But he has you. And I guess whether we asked for it or not, we have you, too.” Nanine set the glass back down on the table with just enough force to convey that she would not be lifting it to her mouth again.
    Neither of them spoke. The Mahler played on. Elise was lost somewhere inside the house. In the trees overhead, the birds and cicadas were beginning their tribute to the slanting sun.
    Forgive me, Monica thought. Forgive me, Jeremy, for letting this woman do this to me. Forgive me for wanting our children to have a neighborhood and a history. If you ever do forgive me, try to understand that I did this for my mother, who died in the company of rats, with many ghosts to lead her toward death and only one daughter to remember her.
    “I accept,” Monica finally said.
    “Our next meeting is on Sunday,” Nanine announced before rising from the chair and moving out the front gate, leaving her daughter-in-law behind. Monica sat and watched as Nanine disappeared around the corner of Chestnut Street.
    Her new yard had been a small triumph. Yet a heavy defeat kept her sitting in the middle of it, glued to her chair for long minutes she didn’t bother to count.
    Shattering glass startled her from her stupor. Elise appeared in the doorway, holding half of a picture frame.
    “I’m sorry,” Elise mumbled, “I just bumped into it.”
    Monica rose from her chair slowly and took the shards from Elise’s hand. Elise’s palm was slightly scored by the frame’s jagged edge and her whole body seemed flushed and sweaty with embarrassment.
    “Where’s the picture?” Monica asked without offense.
    “It’s on the floor in there. I’ll sweep it up. I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”
    She was trembling. Monica set the glass down and gripped Elise by both shoulders. “It’s all right,” Monica whispered, looking into the other woman’s dark, doe eyes.
    Elise nodded.
    “I’ll see you on Sunday evening,” Monica said as she released Elise’s shoulder, and promptly turned away from her.
    “She . . .” Elise faltered, surprised, her jaw dropping. Monica turned and nodded.
    “I’ll see you then,” Elise managed, then turned and descended the front steps.
    The Falling Impossible
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    Monica did not watch her go.
    That night, she found Jeremy at his desk, bent over a notebook, his pen clutched in one hand and a half-empty bottle of Merlot on the desk next to him. He did not glance up at her as she lingered in the doorway for a moment. The frame Elise Charbonnet had broken contained a snapshot of Monica and Jeremy minutes after they had been married in a chapel just outside of Reno. Monica held the tattered picture in her hand. Jeremy finally noticed the picture. “Have you been accepted?”
    Monica nodded.
    Jeremy looked back to his notebook.
    Monica shuffled into her bedroom, making it to the bed where she curled into a fetal position without bothering to untuck the covers.
    She cried for an hour. Jeremy was right.
    She had lost her husband. The thought crippled her before another displaced it. I need a child, Monica thought.
    Behind Stephen, the windowpane was fogged with ice but the snow on the ledge had melted. Monica could not look at her son for a while. He finally broke the silence.
    “Why did you tell me this?”
    She leaned her head to one side of the pillow to meet her son’s eyes.
    “Never give in to them,” she whispered. “No matter what they do or how important you feel it is to get their acceptance. Never kill part of yourself for