Souvenirs of Starling Falls

“Well,” said Tom, “like I said, I’ve also put quite a bit into my character developments, and they’re pretty strong at this point. But, uh, back to the outline, now that I’m, you know, happy with it, and I feel like I know where the story is heading, I’m putting flesh on the bones, you could say.”

I’d never heard him talk like this. I wasn’t sure whether his regurgitated MFA babble or his blushy, stammery nervousness was more annoying. I tried to calm back down into a reasonably irritated person instead of a psychotic monster. I decided I’d have better control over my emotions if I focused on what annoyed me about him instead of my hatred toward Barnaby.

Look at me! I’m a writer; I can’t tell you anything yet. I’ve developed characters! I’m putting pen to paper! I’ve made an outline! Now I’m fleshing it up! He thought he was so smart, yet he sounded so stupid.

There, that was better. Bitchy but not crazy.

I took another sip of my water, feeling like I might be regaining some control.

“The process is remarkably rewarding,” he was telling them.

“Have you ever considered speaking with a hoity-toity British accent?” I asked Tom. Aloud. And then I burst out laughing.

Everyone turned to look at me.

“What did you just say?” asked Tom. He was trying to stay composed but his nostrils were flaring and his eyes were burning straight through me.

“Do you mean that his characters should have British accents?” asked Priscilla.

I ignored her, focusing on Tom. “Or what about a Spanish accent like Antonio Banderas? Something fancified.”

“What are you trying to say?” asked Tom.

“I’m just trying to help,” I said.

“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” he said to Barnaby and Priscilla. He twirled his finger by his ear and glanced my way a few times, in the universal symbol for She’s coo-coo.

Naturally, that didn’t sit well with me. I yawned a big old yawn. Nice and loud and rude. I realized that even when the monsters weren’t taking over, I was starting to hate my husband. And—I knew this would be even worse tomorrow, like a hangover—myself.

I looked over at Barnaby and saw that his head had returned to its normal pill-shaped size. My pulse seemed to be slowing back down. Fury was leaving me, shame was seeping in.

I didn’t know why any of this was happening. Not long ago, I’d been cheerful all the time. Once I got out of Pennsylvania and moved to Seattle, how couldn’t I be?

Daily, I’d hear, “Courtney, are you ever in a bad mood?” and “I knew I could count on you to cheer me up!”

Back then, my love for Tom had been huge. Solid. Passionate. Respect-filled. Fun and strong. Silly and enduring. I had loved him perfectly and completely in every moment prior to our move to Starling Falls. Even during arguments, I never thought I didn’t love him. But everything inside me was turning cold and mean, and worse.

Tonight’s madness was no exception.

It was really getting out of control.

Daydreams of my foot in a steel-toed boot, slamming against Tom’s shins, interrupted regular tasks like staining woodwork. One second I’d be painting on a coat of Walnut Wonder, the next, my mind would be transported to another place, the vivid image flashing before me like a brief, unexpected commercial. Must be the fumes, I’d tell myself. The sound of his voice now occasionally filled me with a dreadful certainty that he deserved to suffer. And something told me he was experiencing similar feelings for me.

Hopscotch began whining. “I think somebody has to go out,” I said.

“We should be going anyway,” said Barnaby.

“Oh, already?” asked Priscilla, staying planted, looking at Barnaby like

he was deranged.

“You’ll see us again in a couple of days,” I reminded them pleasantly.

They got up off the couch and the four of us walked to the door. They lingered on our front porch working out the logistics of our Supper Club date. Just as it was decided that we’d stop by their house to pick them up and all walk there, unless it was raining, in which case Barnaby would drive, Priscilla said, “What’s that? Is that a package?”

“Oh, it is,” I said, bending down to retrieve the cardboard shipping box tucked behind a planter.

“Did you order some clothes?” she asked. Her eyes were bright and eager. She was waiting for me to open it in front of them.