Page 13 of The Vacancy In Room 10

“I’m fucking done,” I yelled when I opened the envelope.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”

“I’m a complete loser.”

“Don’t say that.” He sat next to me on the couch.

“You want me to show you the box?”

“Not the box,” he said, but, of course, I pulled a shoebox from the bookshelf anyway and tossed the rejection letter on top of the growing pile.

“Why do you even keep those?” he asked, but I ignored him and pulled one out theatrically.

“Dear Ms. Hartley, you’re the worst. Please never send us anything again.” I threw the paper over my shoulder and took another out.

“It doesn’t say that.”

“Dear Ms. Hartley, suck a bag of dicks.”

“Okay, come on,” he said, exasperated.

“I even tried poetry again, Hen. You know? I mean...”

“I do know,” he said patiently, accustomed to my rants.

“And did I even get into the Midwest Review? No. Let’s see who did!” I pull out the journal and open it. “Olivia Hackerman, age six.” I clear my throat for dramatic effect before reading her poem:

“‘We went to the pond. There were fish in the water. Why are fish ugly?’ A literary masterpiece.”

“It’s a haiku,” he says.

“I know that.”

“And it was cute they chose a kid for the slot, Anna, come on that’s—”

“It is cute. It’s adorable! But... I just... I quit. Like for real this time. Maybe it’s time to accept that and just. Go.”

“Go where?”

“Ibiza. Get jobs on the beach, whatever. Something different and far away because fuck this. No one wants me, and I reek of failure. Smell me.” I offer the sleeve of my dress, and he pulls me down to sit beside him.

“Hey, no, you don’t,” he said. The hurt in his eyes is something he couldn’t hide. He thought I was disappointed in him—our life together, like it wasn’t enough. And it wasn’t that, not really. Now I ache with the memory.

I’m jolted out of my thoughts and stop cold as I approach my apartment door, and I see a small package. Who would have sent a package? I haven’t even had time to change my forwarding address yet. Was this there earlier when I was distracted on my way to Callum’s and I just missed it? Or was someone looking for me while I was gone? It’s unsettling either way.

When I kneel down to pick it up, I see my name written across the brown paper it’s wrapped in. My heart speeds up. I hesitate to open it. I look around, down the long stretch of balcony on either side of my door, I peer down over the railing, but the poolside is empty. Then I look at the box in my hands again and decide to open it. I slowly pull the string that’s tied into a bow at the top and peel back the paper.

When I pluck open the cardboard top, I scream when I see the box is overflowing with wriggling white maggots. Some fall out onto my wrist as I gag and try to seal it back up as quickly as I can. I throw up in my mouth and swallow it down as I run the length of the concrete walkway around the side and toss the box into the thicket of locust trees behind the building.

Tears prick my eyes as I hold my hand to my heart and catch my breath. Someone wants to get rid of me. It’s not a prank. It’s a threat. I walk back over to my unit and stare down at the property, the pool, the warm light behind each apartment window. Something is very wrong here.

6

CASS

I snake a wet clump of black hair and gray slime the size of a golf ball out of the bathtub drain in 107. I toss it onto the tile floor with a smack and try not to gag.

“It’s fixed,” I holler out to Crystal who is on the sofa with a Twinkie, caressing her very pregnant belly and watching an episode of Maury on the TV. She tries to make her six-and seven-year-old girls rub her feet, but they run around the room, squealing in mock disgust. Then when the TV studio audience roars and cheers on the Maury show, I hear Amber or Tiffany, I can’t tell which kid it is from here, ask what a paternity test means, and Crystal tells them to shush up, go out and play.

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