She crossed the small foyer that divided the house into two uninteresting halves, the living room to the left only
marginally bigger than the dining room on the right, the kitchen behind the dining room barely big enough to accommodate the round white table and two folding chairs she’d picked up at a secondhand shop, along with most of the other furniture. An oddly shaped brown sofa that had probably been some designer’s idea of modern took up most of the living room. It sat against the front window next to a surprisingly comfortable beige-and-green armchair, a small set of white stacking tables in between. The dining room consisted of four gray plastic chairs grouped around a square, medium-size table, the table completely covered by a floral tablecloth Emma had bought to hide its deeply scarred surface. The walls throughout the house were dull white, the floors bare and crying for carpets. Still, there was something about the idea of putting down carpets that smacked too much of permanence. How could she think of planting roots, of settling down, of moving ahead when she was always looking over her shoulder? No, it was still too early. Maybe one day …“Okay,” Emma said. “Enough of that.” She mounted the steep set of stairs to the second floor, each step a reminder that one day was pretty much the same as the next on Mad River Road.
Emma entered her bedroom and threw herself across her unmade double bed, wondering why anyone would name a street Mad River Road when the river in question was miles away. Rumor had it there used to be a tributary somewhere nearby, but that it had dried up long ago. Why the name Mad River anyway? What had made the river so
Mad?
Had it seemed angry, wild, uncontrollable? And could the same adjective be used to describe the street’s inhabitants? Another one of life’s
unsolved mysteries, Emma decided, closing her eyes. She had more pressing things to worry about.
Her son, to name one. She had to do something about his nightmares. They were occurring with increasing frequency of late, and it was taking her longer and longer to calm him down. As it was, he insisted on sleeping with the overhead light on and playing his radio all night. Not only that, but a series of nonsensical bedtime rituals was occupying more and more of his time: he brushed his teeth for thirty seconds, using exactly fifteen strokes for the top row, followed by another fifteen for the bottom; he then rinsed out his mouth, starting on the left side and moving to the right, before spitting into the sink three times; he touched the wooden baseboard of his narrow bed twice before he climbed under the covers, then reached behind him to tap the wall above his head. No action could be left out or modified in any way without, he feared, the most dire of consequences. Her son was afraid of everything, Emma realized, groaning out loud and wondering if he’d always been so fearful and just hadn’t shown it.
True, the last year hadn’t been easy for him. Hell, it hadn’t been easy on either of them. They’d moved three times, and Dylan still didn’t understand why they’d had to leave home in the first place, abandoning everything that was familiar and comfortable: his nana, his room, his friends, his toys. He was always asking where his father was, and if anyone was looking after him. He didn’t like their new names, even after she explained she’d named him after a character from her once-favorite TV show,
Beverly Hills 90210
. And Emma was the name Rachel had given her baby on
Friends
, she’d told him, and didn’t he
agree it suited her much better than her old name? He had to be very careful, she reminded him regularly, not to slip up and use his old name around strangers. It was important, she’d cautioned him repeatedly, although she didn’t say why. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth about his father. He was way too young to understand. Maybe if they had to move again, she’d let him choose his own name.
Emma flipped from her back onto her side and opened her eyes to stare out the front window. Delicate wisps of cloud floated across a blue, untroubled sky. A tree branch, newly furnished with leaves, blew toward the glass. It was cool for May. The outside air smelled damp. It carried the threat of rain, which she hated. Emma took the weather very personally, which she knew was stupid. Still, did it have to be so damn unpleasant so much of the time? She’d grown up in a place of warmth and sunshine. Maybe one day she’d be able to go back.
In the meantime, she was stuck here on Mad River Road. Another month, and school would be over. What would she do with Dylan then? Even if she had the money to send him to camp, she doubted he’d go. And she couldn’t very well take him with her to work for two months. So how could she even think of getting a job? Maybe she could convince old Mrs. Discala to babysit. Dylan liked her. He said she reminded him of his nana.
This was all her fault, Emma thought, sleep tugging at her eyes. She was the reason her son was so fearful. If she didn’t do something soon, they’d both go crazy. Mad River Road indeed.
She drifted into a state that was half torpor, half sleep, fantasy mingling with reality as strange images, together
with actual events, began to flit in and around her consciousness. One minute she was frantically packing her bags and fleeing her home, the next minute she was diving into a turbulent stream. Familiar faces lined an unfamiliar shore, calling out to her in a variety of names, vying for her attention. They were throwing sticks and stomping their feet. Some were banging their fists against the heavy air, as if trying to beat down a door.
Someone’s at the door, Emma realized as the banging grew louder. Who? she wondered, almost afraid to move. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and it wasn’t like any of her neighbors to just drop in uninvited. She hadn’t exactly solicited anyone’s friendship in the months since she’d taken up residence on Mad River Road, shunning the initial overtures of other single mothers on the street. It was better that way. No point in forming attachments, in getting involved in other people’s lives, when her own life was so tenuous and fraught, when a surprise phone call or an unexpected encounter could once again cause her to flee into the night. Was it really so surprising this attitude had filtered down to her son? His teacher, Ms. Kensit, regularly bemoaned Dylan’s lack of friends. Was it Ms. Kensit who was knocking on her door? Was she here to tell Emma something terrible had happened to her son? That someone had come to spirit him away?
Emma bolted up in bed, trying to shake off the terror that was rapidly enveloping her, but it clung to her like a stubborn cold.
Had he found them?
She checked her watch as she pushed herself off the bed and into the upstairs hall. She’d been asleep almost half an hour. Was it possible that in that half hour, in
those thirty minutes when her defenses were down, her world had been once again, and forever, altered? All without her knowledge, and most certainly without her consent? “I do not agree to this,” she said as she inched her way down the stairs, her fingers pressing into the wall for support, leaving the sweaty imprint of her fear on the flat, white paint. “I do not accept this.” Taking a deep breath and holding it tightly in her lungs, Emma pulled open the front door and stared through the screen. I’ll kill you if I have to, she was thinking, staring at the uniformed stranger. I’ll kill you before I let you take my son away from me.
“Parcel,” a young man with a wide space between his two front teeth announced nonchalantly. “It wouldn’t fit through the slot.” Emma pushed open the screen door as the man, whom Emma now realized was the postman, handed her a large stuffed envelope along with her regular mail, then turned on his heel and skipped down the front steps to the sidewalk. She quickly closed the door and tore open the padded envelope, pulling out what appeared to be a very long letter, neatly typed and double-spaced. From whom? she wondered, the cloak of fear returning to drape itself across her shoulders as she flipped to the final page. But instead of a signature, there were two words—THE END. “What’s going on here?” she asked, returning to the first page. The letter began:
Dear Ms. Rogers
,
Thank you so much for the opportunity to read your short story, “Last Woman Standing.” While we found the story to be entertaining and well written, we don’t think it is quite right for the readers of
Women’s
Own.
We wish you the best of luck in placing this piece with another magazine, and hope you will think of us in the future
.
Sincerely …
What the hell is this? Emma wondered, understanding in that moment that the postman had delivered the envelope to the wrong address. In fact, all the mail belonged to somebody else. To one Ms. Lily Rogers of 113 Mad River Road.
113
, not 131. Emma knew who Lily Rogers was. She lived at the far end of the street, nine houses down, and waved to Emma whenever she saw her. Several times she’d tried to start a conversation, but Emma had always brushed her off and rushed away. “Wait a minute,” Emma called out now, pushing open both sets of doors and searching the street for the misguided mail carrier. But he’d already turned the corner and disappeared down the next street, and she wasn’t about to go chasing after him. She’d return Lily Rogers’s mail to her this afternoon when she went to pick up her son at school. There was no rush. No one was in a big hurry to be rejected.
Emma lifted up the letter of rejection to glance at the story beneath. “Last Woman Standing,” she read. By Lily Rogers.
Pauline Brody is thinking of licorice sticks. The long, twisted, red ones that her older sister used to tell her weren’t really licorice at all, but some kind of plastic, full of horrible red dye that would give her cancer when she grew up
.
Yuck, Emma thought, returning the story to the envelope and dropping Lily’s mail to the floor as she retrieved
the morning paper, then carried it into the kitchen at the rear of the house. The sun poured in through the large window above the sink, spotlighting the smooth Formica counter that ran between the small white refrigerator and the oven. There was no dishwasher, no microwave, no fancy grill, for which Emma was almost grateful. She didn’t need any of those things. She’d had them during her marriage to Dylan’s father. She didn’t miss them. Hell, as long as she had her Mr. Coffee machine, she was happy. She rinsed out her mug and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee from the pot she’d made earlier that morning. Well, maybe not so fresh, she thought, taking a long sip and sitting down at the kitchen table, spreading the want ads out before her. Enough procrastinating. She needed a job.
Emma groaned, leaning back in her chair and stretching toward the drawer beside the sink. She couldn’t do this alone. She needed fortification. And there it was, at the back of the drawer, hidden among the dishtowels and cleaning rags: a pack of Salems, complete with a half-full book of matches. Talk about things that would give you cancer when you grew up, Emma thought, withdrawing a cigarette from the middle of the pack. She lit it and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. There were only so many things she could worry about, and the truth was that Emma loved smoking. She loved everything about it—the taste of the tobacco on her tongue, the slow burning sensation that traveled up her throat, the exquisite pressure in her lungs as they filled with smoke, the deeply satisfying release of that smoke back into the air. Emma didn’t care what the experts said. Nothing that made you feel this good could possibly be that bad.
Of course, she’d once felt the same way about men.
And then there was her promise to Dylan. Yes, I swear I’ll stop smoking. No, I’m not going to die. Yes, that was my last cigarette ever. No, I’ll never have another one. I promise. See? Mommy’s throwing out all her nasty cigarettes. There. All gone. Stop crying. Please, baby, stop crying.
She’d have to open some windows before he got home and air the room out, brush her teeth. Fifteen strokes, top and bottom, she thought with a sad smile, picturing Dylan going through his nightly ablutions. God, what was she going to do with that child?
“What am I going to do with me?” she asked, scanning the list of jobs under
General Help Wanted
.
A BLING BLING DEAL, the first heading began.
Looking for a cool job? Great atmosphere and pay are waiting for you
.
“Sounds good to me,” Emma said, reading the rest.
Fourteen F/T marketing reps needed for expanding marketing co. No telemarketing
.
“What in the world is an F/T marketing rep?” Emma asked, taking another deep drag of her cigarette and perusing the rest of the page.
A travel operator position (22 new jobs), $10/hr + $40–$100 cash daily …
Baker required for Portuguese bakery. Call Tony or Anita …
Eighteen travel consultants needed for reservations dept …
Program Supervisor for Halfway house. $50K a year …
“Now that sounds more like it.”
… Min. 5 years exp. E-mail résumé to …
“Shoot. So much for that.”
Another knock at the door. Another sharp intake of breath.
“Don’t be silly. It’s only the mailman, come to correct his mistake.” Emma took another long, last drag off her cigarette before throwing it down the sink and walking to the door, coffee mug in hand. She scooped up Lily Rogers’s mail from the floor, then opened the door.
The woman who stood on the other side of the screen door was young and blond and pretty. In a bovine sort of way, Emma thought, taking note of the woman’s round face, small upturned nose, and more than ample bosom. It was a shame. She’d be beautiful if she lost five pounds, drop-dead gorgeous if she could get rid of ten.
“Hi,” Lily Rogers said, brown eyes smiling. She held up a small stack of letters. “These came to my house by mistake. I think we must have a new postman or something,” she continued as Emma opened the door just wide enough for them to exchange mail. “The regular guy doesn’t make these mistakes. Oh,” she said, realizing the large envelope had been opened.
“I’m really sorry,” Emma said immediately. “I opened it before I realized.…”
“That’s all right. Good news, I hope.”