Page 11 of Nothing Ever Happens Here

She’s looking at him with googly eyes, although he’s far too old for her. He’s my age and she’s twenty-six, but by the Jim Halpert looks I have caught him expressing to her in return when she’s not looking, I think we’re in the clear there.

I come back into the rec room, which is really the main open area inside the front door next to the small office. It has a kitchenette, a Ping-Pong table nobody uses, a big community table and chairs, a plaid couch and scattering of mismatched armchairs. It’s not the spa-like community living facility I wish we offered.It looks more like my parents’ basement in the 1980s—a stack of board games and puzzles stacked precariously on a bookshelf, an old dartboard on the wall, a minifridge. It’s tacky and kitschy, but we have all found a home here, so I guess nobody is really complaining.

I see Heather chatting to Evan at the card table where someone has finished the Bigfoot puzzle with the exception of one missing piece, which I am certain has Mort in fits. Heather’s introducing everyone; they’re all excited to have new blood in the place. I perch on the edge of the sofa next to Florence, who’s plucking away at a laptop I’ve never seen her use before, and I pop open the foil off a leftover Santa chocolate from the candy bowl on the coffee table. Millie walks in and hands Evan a crumply reindeer gift bag, smiling proudly.

“Oh. Uh…thank you,” he pulls out a rainbow-colored blob of yarn. “Wow.”

“It’s a pot holder,” Herb says, trying to help explain.

“It’s for you,” Millie beams.

“Cool,” he smiles, examining it.

“This is Millie. She likes to give a pot holder to everyone she meets,” Heather says, patting Millie’s arm, oblivious of Millie glaring back at her. I can see the words “up yours, Heather” practically forming on Millie’s lips, but we have company so she just goes and sits down instead.

“It’s the only thing she knows how to knit,” Herb adds. “And she’s flirting with you.”

“Oh, take a pill. It’s not like I’m walking around here in my bra and panties,” Millie says.

“And the world breathes a collective sigh of relief,” Herb replies, and I stifle a giggle.

“And this is Erb,” Heather says, gesturing to Herb.

“Herb,” Herb corrects, shaking Evan’s hand, an unlit cigar hanging from his lips.

“Erb is a cigar collector,” Heather says. Evan’s eyes flit over to me,and I give a quick closed-eye shake of my head to indicate it’s not worth asking. Heather was corrected by a teacher once in high school, after calling things like basil and cilantro “herbs.” She was told that theHis silent. They are “erbs” and she’s applied this knowledge to the first Herb she’s met, and no one can tell her otherwise.

“Cigar aficionado, really,” Herb says. “You a cigar guy? I got a few gems recently. Nicaraguan Perdomo if you’re interested.”

“You don’t have to say yes,” Florence adds, still clicking away on her computer. “Nobody wants to stand out by the dumpster in the freezing cold with you to smoke cigars, Herb.” Then back to Evan, “Seriously. You can get cancer just smelling him.”

“And that’s Florence.” Heather smiles, eternally ignoring the bickering. At that, Heather stands, smooths the front of her pants, and excuses herself to go and finish her office work. She possesses not one iota of a sense of humor, bless her.

“You can smoke a cigar with Herb or play video games with the guys or whatever you like really, you don’t need to man the front door like a royal queen’s guard or anything. We’re just happy to have a little security—someone to keep an eye out,” I say, and chills run along my arms thinking about someone out there in the frigid night—someone who’s watching me.

“It’s nice to be halfway needed again,” he says. “And my father’s house is so depressing and needs so much work that it’ll give me a little break from all that.”

“I can imagine it’s a lot,” I say, “but it’s good to have you back.”

“Good to be back.” He smiles and picks at the edge of Bigfoot’s ear, but I can imagine losing his big-city dreams and collecting disability while living in his neglected childhood home feels very far away from “good to be back,” but I don’t say that. I put the third foil chocolate I was about to unwrap back in the bowl and stand to go. We’ve already done all the boring paperwork, and I’m ready to get out of here and see my girls,so I pluck a strand of hair off of my sweater and tell him to call if he needs anything.

“And you’re technically on shift from 5:00 to 10:00,” I add “but Heather does overnights, so if you ever need to leave a little early or anything, I mean just let me know. We wanna keep you happy.” I think about asking him not to tell anyone what time his shift is because I don’t want anyone to know when we don’t have security. I don’t want them to know when we’re vulnerable, but if someone was in my lot placing a threatening note on my windshield, I have the sinking feeling that I’m so fucked no matter what that none of this even matters—none of us are safe. His words “I won’t even kill you. I’ll just make everyone around you pay and make you watch,” echo in my mind. I try to shake the thoughts away.

I head to the office and finish up a few items of paperwork, and after an hour, I hear Herb’s distinct giggling, so I peer out to see what no-good he’s up to when I see him pouring out a Windex bottle in the sink and washing it out. He hands it to Evan, who fills it halfway with his bottle of blue raspberry Gatorade and they poke each other as Heather walks through. I see Herb give a nod over to Evan, trying to control his snort-laughing, and Evan takes a drink of the Gatorade from the Windex bottle, sending Heather into a howl, and the whole gang in the rec room begin roaring with laughter. I know right away that Evan will fit in at the Oleander’s.

I don’t need him making everyone paranoid guarding the front door, like I said. I’m just happy to have a former police officer around who could shoot somebody if we really need him to…but the friendship he’s quickly making with the gang is more than I could have ever hoped for. I find myself smiling as I walk to my car until fear sets in again—something primal that stops me in my tracks. I look at my car sitting alone on the packed snow that covers the lot, the streetlight above it illuminating the blowing snowflakes in a beam of light above my lonely-looking Nissan. I imagine all of the horror stories I heard as a child—a man waiting in the back seat to wrap a cord around my neck and strangle me when I sit in the driver’s seat; a man waiting underneath the car to sever my Achilles’ heel with a steak knife when I approach.Or maybe he’s lying in wait in a dark SUV a block away, ready to follow close behind and run me off one of the rural roads home. And there’s nowhere to run—it’s all thickets of trees and black two-lane highways for miles, and it’s below zero outside.

I look back to the glowing triangle of light from the front door and feel a rush of panic—a feeling of being watched. I run back inside the way I used to run up the basement stairs as a child after convincing myself there was a monster at my heels, and rush through the front doors. Everyone looks up at me.

“Forgot my keys,” I say, and then I go into the front office with my head down, knowing everyone is aware I probably had another panic attack. Heather’s not in there now, so I close the doors and try to calm down. I can feel hot tears run down my face, and I can’t afford to just break down. Clay has a shift later tonight and I need to pull it together and take care of the girls.

I’m not getting in that fucking car right now though, that’s for sure. I call Clay and make him pick me up instead. He doesn’t grill me on the phone. He just says that he’ll pick up takeout from Dragon Wok and we will swing over and get the girls when their ballet lessons end at six. I wait for him at the front glass doors, telling everyone my car battery died and holding back tears until he arrives.

On the dark and quiet drive to the dance school, I crunch on a wonton and flip through radio stations. He doesn’t press me because he knows I have…episodes…ever since the “tragic event.” And I don’t press him because I know how helpless and angry the topic can make him—he couldn’t help me, and there are a few fist-shaped holes in the garage drywall to prove how much he wants to kill the person who hurt me. To add insult to injury, he’s also taken on night shifts at the hospital again;just front desk triage stuff to make ends meet because the bait shop we own barely breaks even. After spending his entire day there, watching his dream deteriorate with each slow, customerless day, he is also overworked and worrying about me. I try to only tell him what I absolutely need to most of the time, so that the palpable tension stays at a manageable level.

When the girls are settled in the back seat, June clicks on the pink heart reading light clipped to the seat pocket and shows Poppy a picture book calledGrumpy Monkeyshe checked out for her reading homework and they giggle at the illustrations with mouthfuls of orange chicken, which I usually wouldn’t let them eat in the car, but right now a quiet ride home is more important today.

“‘Norman was slumped. His eyebrows were bunched,’” I hear June read, sounding out some of the words slowly, then some more giggling and wrappers crunching.

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