she was looking in on from the outside, half afraid she would never be in vited and half afraid she would. Now this place, with its squared edges and rounded windows, its three and a half stories, its incon gruous widow’s walk that was at least three hours from the ocean: this place was in her blood the moment she saw it, and they were going to have to drag her out of here in a straitjacket, or carry her out feet first, before she would go back to that apart ment.
When she opened the front door, she found that it swung easily this time, without effort. Francie stepped into the foyer and down its length, then into the outer living room, listening to the sound of her own footsteps reverberating through distant, empty spaces. It was up to her now to fill this house with furniture, and art, and things; it might very well take years. Excitement roiled in her at the thought of it. This is it , she told herself. This is the place where things will finally be as they ought to be.
Hand in her coat pocket, Francie fingered the plastic cylinder that had once held fifty pills, and now held one; she could feel the lone survivor rattling around against her palm, a single, tiny pink pebble.
The Good Neighbor 85
And suddenly, she was reminded of something.
When she was a little girl, she’d been in the habit of saving her lost milk teeth, carrying them around in a baby-food jar as if she couldn’t bear to part with them. It was an old and familiar ges ture, this veneration of artifacts of the self. She went through compulsive phases sometimes, saving hair, fingernail clippings, sometimes used tissues by the dozens; but only now did she re member how that had started. The problem was that in those days, she couldn’t believe that the Tooth Fairy would really come to her, not when one considered how very many children there were in the world whose teeth had also fallen out. And if she did come, Francie couldn’t bear the thought of a part of herself being taken away by a total stranger—even a part she didn’t need any more.
Her father had finally taken her teeth himself. He said it wasn’t normal—she’d been bringing them to school, to church, even tak ing them to bed, and the other children teased her about it. Fran cie didn’t disagree with him. Even then, she was waiting for someone to tell her it was all right to let things go, that it wasn’t necessary to hang onto everything . When he finally took them, it was a relief, but it was not the last time she would have to be told how to feel.
Which was why, in a manner of speaking, she was on the pills now: she didn’t feel anything. They made it so that she didn’t have to wonder how she had to be. She could just be .
But they were treacherous, duplicitous little tablets. Everything was actually their fault, she thought. Her life as it was now was all because of them. They were why she hadn’t written any good poems, for one thing. Also, they were what allowed her to agree with Colt on so very many issues. Like having babies, for one. He didn’t want any children, not ever; he was always saying he didn’t have the energy for both career and family. True, he worked so much that if they were to have kids, he would never see them. Twelve-hour days were normal; fourteen, or even sixteen, not un
86 W ILLIAM K OWALSKI
usual. But what about me? she thought. I don’t work sixteen hours a day . I don’t do anything ! I could have a baby, and take care of it myself. Couldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I be allowed to try, at least? Don’t I get to have a say in that, too? Why should he be the one who gets to decide everything, just because he’s the one who makes all the money?
It must have been a sign, her losing the prescription. Just like getting the house. It must mean that she wasn’t supposed to take them anymore. What if she were to go off the pills? She was a dif ferent person now than she was at twenty-one, anyway. She was no longer a helpless girl. She was a
When she opened the front door, she found that it swung easily this time, without effort. Francie stepped into the foyer and down its length, then into the outer living room, listening to the sound of her own footsteps reverberating through distant, empty spaces. It was up to her now to fill this house with furniture, and art, and things; it might very well take years. Excitement roiled in her at the thought of it. This is it , she told herself. This is the place where things will finally be as they ought to be.
Hand in her coat pocket, Francie fingered the plastic cylinder that had once held fifty pills, and now held one; she could feel the lone survivor rattling around against her palm, a single, tiny pink pebble.
The Good Neighbor 85
And suddenly, she was reminded of something.
When she was a little girl, she’d been in the habit of saving her lost milk teeth, carrying them around in a baby-food jar as if she couldn’t bear to part with them. It was an old and familiar ges ture, this veneration of artifacts of the self. She went through compulsive phases sometimes, saving hair, fingernail clippings, sometimes used tissues by the dozens; but only now did she re member how that had started. The problem was that in those days, she couldn’t believe that the Tooth Fairy would really come to her, not when one considered how very many children there were in the world whose teeth had also fallen out. And if she did come, Francie couldn’t bear the thought of a part of herself being taken away by a total stranger—even a part she didn’t need any more.
Her father had finally taken her teeth himself. He said it wasn’t normal—she’d been bringing them to school, to church, even tak ing them to bed, and the other children teased her about it. Fran cie didn’t disagree with him. Even then, she was waiting for someone to tell her it was all right to let things go, that it wasn’t necessary to hang onto everything . When he finally took them, it was a relief, but it was not the last time she would have to be told how to feel.
Which was why, in a manner of speaking, she was on the pills now: she didn’t feel anything. They made it so that she didn’t have to wonder how she had to be. She could just be .
But they were treacherous, duplicitous little tablets. Everything was actually their fault, she thought. Her life as it was now was all because of them. They were why she hadn’t written any good poems, for one thing. Also, they were what allowed her to agree with Colt on so very many issues. Like having babies, for one. He didn’t want any children, not ever; he was always saying he didn’t have the energy for both career and family. True, he worked so much that if they were to have kids, he would never see them. Twelve-hour days were normal; fourteen, or even sixteen, not un
86 W ILLIAM K OWALSKI
usual. But what about me? she thought. I don’t work sixteen hours a day . I don’t do anything ! I could have a baby, and take care of it myself. Couldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I be allowed to try, at least? Don’t I get to have a say in that, too? Why should he be the one who gets to decide everything, just because he’s the one who makes all the money?
It must have been a sign, her losing the prescription. Just like getting the house. It must mean that she wasn’t supposed to take them anymore. What if she were to go off the pills? She was a dif ferent person now than she was at twenty-one, anyway. She was no longer a helpless girl. She was a
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