some minimalistic aesthetic choice. They were itinerant circus travelers after all, most likely living out of secondhand Winnebagos and camper-trailers, enduring and adapting to gypsylike caravanning. Perhaps they have yet to experience the challenges of domestic stability and therefore know nothing of the concept of classic American household clutter.
I was surprised by the lack of toys. Aside from a stuffed corduroy cat that was more of a throw pillow than a child’s companion, there was little if any evidence of toddler life. Regarding Bethany, I thought I might find a series of circus-themed photos of her arranged around the living room walls, the sequined trapeze-artist parents thrusting her joyously into the air as celestial big-top lights glint overhead…a clown riding a miniature tricycle over a sawdust floor, little Bethany perched on the handlebars…an elephant standing in the center of a ring of paper lanterns with Bethany cradled safely in its trunk. But save for what appeared to be a wool Navajo blanket hanging above the sofa, their walls were blank.
In their entertainment console, an archaic TiVo’s red light was engaged. I imagined them recording The Oprah Winfrey Show , an episode dedicated to the epidemic of Missing Children in the Heartland. The Bunches would view it encamped on their itchy calico sofa, their legs extended on their unremarkable coffee table, as they ate microwaved Stouffer’s.
Mary Bunch keyed in while I was clutching their remote control. I have no idea why I was suddenly holding it, and I was forced to hide it in the pocket of my bathrobe.
“What are you doing?” she asked. Her voice was high and faint and trapped in her nose.
I told her that I’d heard a strange noise in her apartment as I was walking up the stairs. She asked me what kind of noise, and I said, “A sort of scrabbling. There were coons in the attic last night,” I lied.
“Coons?” she said.
“Yep,” I replied. “Scrabbling raccoons.”
She said she was under the impression that raccoons were in hibernation mode.
And I told her that, yes, the majority of raccoons were indeed engaged in deep hibernation mode, but that sometimes it was necessary for a few of them—a brave select few—to venture out for the purpose of foraging for food. I could hear my voice sliding into its higher bullshit register.
“During a blizzard?” she asked, dubious.
“Especially during a blizzard. The stakes are higher. Hunger becomes paramount. They have to refuel.”
“ Whose apartment did you hear them in?”
I told her in rare cases such as this—in “coon cases”—that I always do a quick check of the other units. “A cursory inspection,” I offered, and explained that I had keyed into Harriet Gumm’s and Bradley Farnham’s apartments too.
She hadn’t blinked yet, and the space between us was acquiring a strange density, like the air before a thunderstorm. Her light-blue ozone eyes appeared to be somehow glued open. I had never noticed it before, but Mary Bunch has freckles. The kind where the pigment appears to have dissolved and settled over the paler layer of skin, more infusion than dusting.
“They’re pretty resourceful creatures,” I added. I breathed through my nose. A trail of cold sweat was running from between my shoulder blades to the small of my back. Time was slowing down. I said, “By the way, how’s your heat been?”
“Our heat is fine,” she replied.
A dollop of embarrassment began slogging through my intestines. “Sorry if I crossed a line,” I finally offered, swallowing the dry mouth. Swallowing twice actually.
She was wearing a ski vest over a weather-resistant anorak, accompanied by a gnomic, conical red winter hat and mismatching collegiate jogging pants. The ski vest, puffy and hazard orange, looked bulletproof and gave the impression that she was either a municipal worker or a deer hunter.
“Can I help you with those?” I asked, pointing to her bag of
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