freckles, because that would be self-destructive, wouldn’t it? Except, she couldn’t help but bother. Really, she was so depressed about it that she couldn’t get out of bed. Why, oh why, didn’t the man she kind-of-almost-loved, like freckles?
Audrey scrolled. In next the photo, a crew of blue bloods posed outside The Breviary, all dressed in three-piece suits and Gibson Girl swan-bill corsets. They smiled for the camera without a care in the world. New York’s party elite. The caption read:
Once the most lavish address in all Manhattan, by the turn of the century, a total of thirty people who’d lived within The Breviary’s walls were committed to insane asylums. They fared better than the seven who were murdered, by their own hands or otherwise.
“Bees knees,” Audrey moaned, then looked left, right, left, right. Okay, one more time: left-right! left-right! On the television, Carrie the idiot called her redheaded friend to commiserate about how they both had freckles, which clearly made them lepers.
Just then, the buzzer rang. She jumped. The buzzer rang again. Saraub?
She looked like crap! Her hair was a mess. The buzzer rang a third time. Zzzzt-zzzzt! It sounded like an outdoor bug killer. She smelled under her arms: musky. Good grief, had she even showered today?
Now he wasn’t buzzing. He was knocking. Polite little taps. She jumped up. “Coming!” Then she looked through the peephole, and stopped shivering. “Oh,” she mumbled.
A petite redhead in her early thirties grinned up at her, like she could see Audrey’s blinking eye through the backward telescope.
Audrey swung the door wide. Immediately, awkwardly, the woman stuck out her hand for a shake, and poked Audrey in the stomach. It didn’t even slow her down. “Hi! I’m Jayne! I live across the hall!”
Audrey didn’t know what to say. Except at cheap motels, where she’d known better than to answer the door, neighbors had never dropped by. Was this a joke? Was this woman a Jew for Jesus?
Jayne waited for Audrey to speak. Audrey waited for Jayne to grow wings and fly away. Her hair was the phony color of a fire engine, and she’d shaped it into a chin-length bob. Her mouth and teeth protruded, horse-like, from her face. She had three gold studs in one ear and two in the other. The skin surrounding them was swollen, like she hadn’t worn jewelry in a long time and had recently popped open her skin with the sharp ends of her earring posts to get them to fit.
“I’ll bet you had a long day,” Jayne said. Her voice was sandy. She smelled like fertilizer and smoke—Winston cigarettes.
“I wanted to say hi. Also, I thought you might like these.” Jayne thrust a pile of glossy papers in Audrey’s direction.
Audrey accepted them with a tight-lipped grin. She was sure they had something to do with Hari Krishnas, the evil Freemason conspiracy, or rescuing cats from cruel and unusual juggling. But no, she realized when she glanced down. Just take-out menus. Chinese, Indian, Greek, and Middle Eastern.
Jayne bopped her head up and down. “I figured…You know. You’d probably be tired. I heard it was somebody young moving here, and I thought, thank God. They’re all, like a hundred years old, you know?”
“They are?”
Jayne puckered her lips and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, in what Audrey could only guess was an imitation of a dead person, halfway decayed. “Fossils! Bat-shitcrazy, to boot. This one guy downstairs, Mr. Galton, only ever wears a plain, white mask. What is that? Fucking creepy.” She leaned in close, and lowered her voice, “And 14D’s a taxidermist. Evvie Waugh. Animals all over the walls. Basically, we live with Michael Myers and Norman Bates.”
Audrey lowered her voice, too. “I thought…I haven’t seen any of them, but they seem strange. I feel like they’ve been watching me.”
Jayne nodded. “Totally. That’s because they are watching you. They were born and raised in The Breve, and
Audrey scrolled. In next the photo, a crew of blue bloods posed outside The Breviary, all dressed in three-piece suits and Gibson Girl swan-bill corsets. They smiled for the camera without a care in the world. New York’s party elite. The caption read:
Once the most lavish address in all Manhattan, by the turn of the century, a total of thirty people who’d lived within The Breviary’s walls were committed to insane asylums. They fared better than the seven who were murdered, by their own hands or otherwise.
“Bees knees,” Audrey moaned, then looked left, right, left, right. Okay, one more time: left-right! left-right! On the television, Carrie the idiot called her redheaded friend to commiserate about how they both had freckles, which clearly made them lepers.
Just then, the buzzer rang. She jumped. The buzzer rang again. Saraub?
She looked like crap! Her hair was a mess. The buzzer rang a third time. Zzzzt-zzzzt! It sounded like an outdoor bug killer. She smelled under her arms: musky. Good grief, had she even showered today?
Now he wasn’t buzzing. He was knocking. Polite little taps. She jumped up. “Coming!” Then she looked through the peephole, and stopped shivering. “Oh,” she mumbled.
A petite redhead in her early thirties grinned up at her, like she could see Audrey’s blinking eye through the backward telescope.
Audrey swung the door wide. Immediately, awkwardly, the woman stuck out her hand for a shake, and poked Audrey in the stomach. It didn’t even slow her down. “Hi! I’m Jayne! I live across the hall!”
Audrey didn’t know what to say. Except at cheap motels, where she’d known better than to answer the door, neighbors had never dropped by. Was this a joke? Was this woman a Jew for Jesus?
Jayne waited for Audrey to speak. Audrey waited for Jayne to grow wings and fly away. Her hair was the phony color of a fire engine, and she’d shaped it into a chin-length bob. Her mouth and teeth protruded, horse-like, from her face. She had three gold studs in one ear and two in the other. The skin surrounding them was swollen, like she hadn’t worn jewelry in a long time and had recently popped open her skin with the sharp ends of her earring posts to get them to fit.
“I’ll bet you had a long day,” Jayne said. Her voice was sandy. She smelled like fertilizer and smoke—Winston cigarettes.
“I wanted to say hi. Also, I thought you might like these.” Jayne thrust a pile of glossy papers in Audrey’s direction.
Audrey accepted them with a tight-lipped grin. She was sure they had something to do with Hari Krishnas, the evil Freemason conspiracy, or rescuing cats from cruel and unusual juggling. But no, she realized when she glanced down. Just take-out menus. Chinese, Indian, Greek, and Middle Eastern.
Jayne bopped her head up and down. “I figured…You know. You’d probably be tired. I heard it was somebody young moving here, and I thought, thank God. They’re all, like a hundred years old, you know?”
“They are?”
Jayne puckered her lips and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, in what Audrey could only guess was an imitation of a dead person, halfway decayed. “Fossils! Bat-shitcrazy, to boot. This one guy downstairs, Mr. Galton, only ever wears a plain, white mask. What is that? Fucking creepy.” She leaned in close, and lowered her voice, “And 14D’s a taxidermist. Evvie Waugh. Animals all over the walls. Basically, we live with Michael Myers and Norman Bates.”
Audrey lowered her voice, too. “I thought…I haven’t seen any of them, but they seem strange. I feel like they’ve been watching me.”
Jayne nodded. “Totally. That’s because they are watching you. They were born and raised in The Breve, and
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