Day One
Benny Abbott
The tree fell at midnight, but all I could see then was the silvery shudder of leaves illuminated by the moon.
Now I take in the full destruction with a sinking stomach.
My shed, once a pint-sized version of my mid-century ranch, has been reduced to a heap of rubble beneath a half ton of eucalyptus.
Richie sniffs at the wreckage, burrowing under a dense branch until all that’s visible is his pointy white-tipped tail.
There’s a metallic squeal, the slamming of a door.
Over the fence, I spot my neighbor Ted plodding onto his back porch.
He’s in his bathrobe, white belly exposed and straining his belt.
We say nothing—we’ve spoken only through lawyers this past month—but I note the I told you so written all over his face.
He’s been warning me about this tree since I moved in.
“Richie,” I call. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”
He ignores me.
“Treat? Do you want a treat?”
This does the trick. He comes running, leaves and bark stippling his fur, and we dart inside. Richie knows the drill. In the kitchen, he sits and waits by the counter where I keep his snacks. Crinkled beside them is Joy’s note: Meet me tonight. Here. 7pm sharp. Very important.
Seeing it, my hangover flares.
I hadn’t known what to expect when I first dug it out of my pocket.
Given Joy felt the need to be sneaky, I thought this “very important” meeting might have something to do with Mallory.
Or the live shows. Or, relatedly, the “incident” this past August. Joy and I were overdue for all manner of heart-to-hearts, including how distracted I’ve been since my divorce.
I arrived at 7:00 p.m. sharp as instructed, ready to talk.
But what came next was unexpected, and no matter how I replay the scene in my head, I’m still not sure what happened.
One minute she was greeting me with a hug, the next … disaster.
For the twentieth time since I rolled out of bed, I check my phone. Not a single response to the humiliating texts I sent after I left, the latest of which asks if we’re still recording today.
Richie wags his tail, and I realize I haven’t yet given him his treat. I award him with two for his patience and have just started making coffee when my phone buzzes. My heart jolts, but it’s not Joy. It’s a calendar notification: Cleaning Day.
Of course it is.
Resignedly, I survey the kitchen through my house cleaner’s eyes—the overfull trash can, the pile of unfolded laundry on the breakfast table, the half-empty bottle of Michter’s, the pizza I burned and left out on the stove.
Ordinarily, I would have made an attempt to tidy the worst of it, to perpetuate the fiction that I’m still a capable adult.
Ordinarily, my whole body isn’t thrumming with regret.
IT’S 1,528 STEPS from my front door to theirs.
Joy calculated it when I moved in. 1,528 steps for me, 1,600 for her, and roughly 4,000 for the pups.
Richie pulls at his leash, and we hopscotch through palm fronds and other wind-related debris, sticking to what shade we can find beneath the cedars and oaks.
The second Joy and Xander’s bougainvillea-laced fence and white stucco home come into view, a knot forms in my chest. People say dogs mirror our energy, but our mirror must be broken because Richie bounds eagerly down the terraced yard the instant I lift the latch.
Wiping the sweat from my temples, I tap at the side door before turning my key in the lock.
“Joy?” I call, soft-footing it across the creaky hardwood floor.
In the living room, I stop mid-step. There are leaves everywhere— on the sofa, the coffee table, the chairs. The broken swing-door window sways in the breeze.
Another tap at the side door. Another key in the lock. The shuffle of feet.
Mallory enters with a sigh. “I guess our fix-it job didn’t work.” Instead of her usual tank top, she’s mixed things up with a black fitted tee advertising her wife’s business in vintage typeface: QUINN’S CUPCAKERY.
I’m relieved she’s here. Joy may not be answering my texts, but clearly we’re still recording today.
Mallory considers me when I don’t respond. “You okay? You look—” She waggles a hand.
“I’m fine.” I’m unconvincing, so I add, “A tree smashed my shed last night.”
“Shit.”
I nod.
“Wait. Not the Zen Den.”
I nod again.
“Bummer.” She whispers this with the reverence of a eulogy.
It’s more than a bummer. That twenty-by-fifteen outbuilding was the reason I bought my house in the first place, and I’ve put a lot of money into it since.
But I have bigger problems right now. Watching my feet as I proceed down the stairs, I brace myself for Joy’s face.
All I need is a one-dimpled smile. If she smiles, we might be okay.
Only, she’s not here. The workstation in the main room is empty, as are the adjoining offices. Which leaves the bedroom. The door is cracked, and the bed is made. “Joy?” I call quietly.
No reply. Of all the scenarios I imagined playing out today, this did not make the cut.
“No one’s here,” I say when Mallory joins me downstairs.
Mallory scans the room, as if I might have overlooked two fully grown humans. “Are you sure?”
A worry slithers up my spine. I try Joy’s cell. Straight to voicemail. Avoiding the other unanswered messages on the screen, I write, We’re at your house. When there are no ellipses, I add, cringing, We said 11, right?
“They’re probably running an errand,” Mallory says, waving off my concern. She sits in her usual chair at the desk and starts prepping the audio equipment.
I try to do the same, but my head hurts.
Reluctantly, I reread the texts I received from Xander last night.
The first, just after Joy kicked me out: Call me.
And then five minutes later: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
I haven’t responded to either. Seeing that he wasn’t home when I was here, I’d hoped, perhaps naively, that his messages were unrelated to the matter Joy and I discussed.
There are probably a dozen things I’ve done this week that warrant an all-caps admonition. Feeling sick, I type: Where are you?
Richie scratches to be let in from the private terrace. I open the door, and he patters past me and up the stairs. His nails click click click on the hardwood as he circles the house, and then he’s back, staring up at me with expectant eyes. I glance around, understanding. “Have you seen Potsie?”
Mallory twists her lips. “Maybe they’re walking him.”
She knows that neither Joy nor Xander would take their dog for a walk when we’re supposed to record. I humor her with a “Maybe” and slip outside.
The Santa Anas are picking up again, blowing in another round of torrid air.
Fir needles flurry to the ground as Richie tails me up the stone-step pathway to the detached garage.
I poke my head inside; it smells of must and turpentine.
Xander’s Maserati is parked in its usual spot, but his 1964 MG is notably absent.
“Where’s your brother?” I say to Richie, kneeling down to scratch behind his floppy ears.
My head throbs when I straighten, and I shade my eyes against the dappled sunlight.
What I see next confuses me. Retracing my steps down the hill, I stop to stare at the gaping hole in the exterior side wall, right between the tall firestick plant and the overgrown laurel.
There should be a window here, but looking inside, I can see the glass has shattered spectacularly, violently, covering every surface of Joy’s bathroom.