Chapter Eight #2
His face fell. I stepped in to finish the transaction so he could take the call.
In all the years I’d worked there, his mother had never phoned.
I only recognized her voice because we’d met a number of times when I’d first started and she’d come into the branch.
She still lived in town, but her agoraphobia had grown to the point where it was keeping her from leaving the house.
Like her son, she was an avid reader, so now he brought the books straight to her.
He also ran her other errands, cooked many of her meals, and did her yard work.
Caring for her was essentially his second job.
“What happened?” he asked her. And then, “Is she okay?”
But his mother wasn’t the sole person he had to worry about, and it was obvious that today’s bad news had something to do with his aunt.
Macon was an only child, his father had never been in the picture, and the only other family member he was close with was his mother’s sister, who had helped raise him before she’d gotten married and moved away.
Her husband had passed away a few years ago, and shortly afterward, she’d injured her back trying to clean out the gutters.
Her doctor had prescribed opioids for the pain.
It went as terribly as these things could go.
She’d overdosed more than once and had been in and out of multiple rehab facilities.
“Is she still there?” he asked.
Christina Castillo, the mom of the preschooler, was also listening to the call. We exchanged a worried glance. She gave me a tight nod— I hope everything will be okay —and then put on an overly animated expression to lead Miguel and his shark books out of the building.
“I’ll figure it out,” Macon said. “No, that’s okay. I’ll call Will. Yeah, I’m leaving right now. I’ll be careful.” He hung up.
“I’ve got this,” I said. “Go.”
“Bonnie was arrested again. She’s being transferred to another rehab facility, or she’s already been transferred—I’m not sure—but her neighbor called my mom, and apparently Bonnie’s place is a disaster.
I’ve got to drive to Durham to sort it all out.
” Bonnie’s stepson, Will, usually handled these situations, but he was living in Myanmar for the year while his wife did a stint with Doctors Without Borders.
Macon had been expecting to have to step in at some point and help.
He grabbed the back of his chair for his duffel coat, but it was already on.
He’d been wearing it all day. He was making plans, half in his head and half out loud.
“I’ll have to call my neighbors so they can feed Edmond— Shit. They’re on vacation.”
I stepped forward. “I can feed him. Mornings, right?”
“And evenings.”
“Oh. I thought his owner fed him at night?”
“Edmond doesn’t live with him anymore. He lives with me. He’s my cat.”
My head drew back. “Really? When did that happen?”
“Uh, end of January. Shawn moved to the coast and didn’t want to take him.”
“Oh my God,” I said. Because I couldn’t imagine leaving a pet behind. Because Macon hadn’t told me, and I’d been sitting beside him this whole time. It stung.
He disappeared into the annex to talk to Sue and returned a minute later, fishing for his keys in his pocket. “Mornings and evenings,” I said. “I can do that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I can feed him, play with him. Get your mail. Whatever you need, for however long you need it.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you. I know you’ve been busy—”
“Jesus, Macon. It’s not an inconvenience.” I didn’t mean for it to come out so short.
He stared me down again before relenting. “I’ll put a spare key underneath the smallest planter by the door, and I’ll leave instructions inside.”
I drove straight to Macon’s house from work.
His neighborhood was older and darker than most in Ridgetop.
Fewer streetlights. Street lamps . He was lucky to live in an area that still had the city’s original decorative posts.
They gave off less light than the taller posts along the main roads but added a whimsical charm to the twisty, woodsy neighborhood.
Macon had once told me that he preferred the lamps because they produced less light pollution, which was better for the birds and animals.
I’d never considered the effects of light pollution before, but now I often did—all those miserable chickadees and chipmunks trying to sleep.
I’d been to Macon’s house once before, a long time ago, during my first year as a librarian.
He had invited us all over for a dinner party: Sue and Russell, Alyssa and Tim, Cory and me.
Our former coworker Richard and his wife, Lucy, had also been in attendance.
Rail-thin and white-bearded, Richard resembled a skinny Santa Claus and was generally as mild-mannered, apart from his zealous diatribes on climate change.
He and Macon still met up a few times a year to rage.
Richard was in his mid-seventies when I was hired, already retired from the National Park Service.
The paging job was supposed to be temporary—a supplemental income to help with Lucy’s medical bills—but he’d ended up working at the library for six years.
Next month would mark my fifth year. The library job was supposed to be temporary for me, too, until it wasn’t.
I wasn’t sure when it had turned into my career.
It was a good career, and I felt fortunate, so I wasn’t sure why I didn’t love it as much as I should.
I didn’t know how to reconcile having a desirable job that I could do well yet still not be satisfied with.
It stank of privilege. But even though I was bored and restless, I still panicked whenever Sue mentioned library school, which could get me a job away from the desk.
It made no sense. She’d been nudging me again, and I knew I had to apply, but it wasn’t the right time.
I couldn’t picture myself back in school any better than I could picture my life with Cory being anything other than what it already was.
Why did my future always look so static?
I would apply to library school when Cory returned, I promised myself. When things were steady again and we were moving forward.
I slowed my car so I could read the house numbers, and sure enough, number twenty-four was exactly where I had remembered it. Strange how I could recall its location after all these years. Even in the dark, Macon’s house had been easy to find.
I parked in the driveway and checked the mailbox. Nothing was inside, so I went and found the key where Macon had promised it would be. His front door had a unique round window. I remembered this, too. It was dark now, but that night it had beamed like a sun.
His whole house had been warm and inviting that night.
Candlelight in every room, soft bohemian wall hangings, plants and rugs and pillows, crystals and rocks arranged on the windowsills, and enough chairs that everybody had a comfortable place to sit.
The dinner had been thoughtfully prepared, a full menu with courses, and Sue and Richard had each brought a bottle of wine.
I’d felt bad that I hadn’t thought to bring a gift, but thankfully Alyssa hadn’t either.
We’d been young and hadn’t known the rules of adults, and we’d exchanged giggles of relief away from the others.
The food had been outstanding, the conversation lively, and my usual party jitters had relaxed with the easy companionship, everyone flushed with wine and laughter.
It wasn’t until now, as I crossed back over the threshold, that I realized how much I treasured those memories.
Whenever Macon mentioned his house, I pictured it trapped in amber, warm and candlelit.
But when my patting hand located the light switch—it was a little button, another charming detail—there were no candles, no pillows, no sparkling quartz or prisms. There was hardly even any furniture.
His house was tidy and clean, but it was also sparse and empty.
I was looking at the absence of a person. The absence of Danielle . Because of course his ex-girlfriend had been at the dinner party, too.
A forgotten but familiar squirm wriggled through me.
Macon and Dani had been partners for a long time.
I had liked her well enough, but I had also not liked her.
I had known her, but I had also hardly known her at all and had grasped on to every breadcrumb of information that Macon had ever dropped.
She was one of those good people who’d made me feel bad for not being as good as her.
She taught at the Appalachian School of Herbal Medicine, and she ate healthfully, like Macon.
Meditated and did yoga. Never wore makeup, but she had perfect skin, so big deal.
If I had perfect skin, I wouldn’t wear it either.
But she was also a pessimist like Macon, only with far less levity.
And she’d never seemed to like me much—I suspected I was too smiley, too unserious for her.
But that night, in my memories, she had also been happy and filled with laughter.
“Edmond? Edmond Dantès?” I called out into the darkness that lay deeper inside the house.
“We’ve never met before, but I’m your dad’s friend.
” Although it felt silly, it seemed important to explain myself to the cat.
Even if friend might not be the correct word.
It was like talking to a young child and leaving out the difficult bits.
The house responded with silence.