“It’s Mallory. From next door?”
She unlatches the chain and opens the door. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you scared the heck out of me!” She’s wearing a purple kimono and clutching a canister of pepper spray. “What are you thinking, banging on the door so late?”
It’s just a few minutes past seven and the little girls down the street are still out on the sidewalk playing hopscotch. I present a small plate of cookies covered in Saran Wrap. “Teddy and I made gingersnaps.”
Her eyes go wide. “I’ll put on coffee.”
She grabs my wrist and pulls me into a darkened living room, and I blink my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The house is dirty. The air has a musty, skunky smell that’s part cannabis and part high school locker room. The sofa and armchairs are shrouded in clear plastic slipcovers, but I can see a layer of grime on the surfaces, as if they haven’t been wiped down in months.
Mitzi leads me into the kitchen and I find the back of her house a little more pleasant. Her shades are open and the windows overlook the forest. Spider plants hang from the ceiling in baskets with long leafy tendrils spilling over the sides. The cabinets and appliances are straight out of the 1980s and everything feels familiar, cozy, like my neighbors’ kitchens in South Philly. Spread across the Formica kitchen table are sheets of newspaper and several oiled pieces of black metal, including a spring and a barrel and a trigger. I realize that if a person assembled these pieces in the right order, the result would be a handgun.
“You caught me cleaning it,” Mitzi explains, and with a sweep of her arm she pushes everything to one side of the table, jumbling all the parts. “Now how do you take your coffee?”
“Do you have decaf?”
“Yuck, no, never. That’s just chemicals in a cup. Tonight we’re drinking good old-fashioned Folgers.”
I don’t want to tell her I’m in recovery so I just say I’m very sensitive to caffeine. Mitzi promises one little cup won’t hurt me and I figure she’s probably right.
“I’ll take some milk, if you have it.”
“We’ll use half-and-half. It has a fuller flavor.”
An old Kit-Cat Klock hangs on the wall, grinning mischievously, its tail swishing back and forth. Mitzi plugs an ancient Mr. Coffee machine into the wall and fills its reservoir with water. “How’s everything next door? You like the job?”
“It’s good.”
“Those parents must drive you crazy.”
“They’re fine.”
“I don’t know why that woman works, if we’re being honest. I’m sure the husband makes plenty. And you know the VA hospital doesn’t pay squat. So why not stay home? Who is she trying to impress?”
“Maybe—”
“Some women don’t want to be mothers, in my opinion. They want children, they want cute pictures to put on Facebook. But do they want the actual experience of mothering?”
“Well—”
“I’ll tell you one thing: The boy is adorable. I could gobble him up. I would babysit him for nothing, if they’d asked me nicely, if they just showed me a little common courtesy. But that’s the problem with Millenniums! They don’t have any values!”
She keeps talking while we wait for the coffee, sharing her frustrations about Whole Foods Market （overpriced）， #metoo victims （whiny and entitled）， and daylight saving time （never mentioned anywhere in the Constitution）。 I start to wonder if coming here was a mistake. I need to talk to someone, and I’m not sure if Mitzi is much of a listener. I’m developing a theory about Teddy’s drawings but I don’t want to worry Russell and I definitely can’t tell the Maxwells; they’re such devout atheists, I know they’ll never consider my ideas. Mitzi is my last best hope.
“Can you tell me more about Annie Barrett?”
This stops her short.
“Why are you asking?”
“I’m just curious.”
“No, Princess, that’s a very specific question. And forgive me for saying this but you don’t look so hot.”
I make Mitzi promise not to say anything—especially to the Maxwells—then I place Teddy’s latest artwork on the table.
“Teddy’s drawing some unusual pictures. He says he’s getting these ideas from his imaginary friend. Her name is Anya, and she visits him in his bedroom, when no one else is around.”
Mitzi examines the drawings and a shadow falls over her face. “So why are you asking about Annie Barrett?”