Page 8 of The Shape of Night

“Dr. Ben should know,” says Emmett. “He’s our town doctor.”

“Actually, it’s Dr. Gordon. Everyone just calls me Dr. Ben.” He shifts the brass bathroom fixture under his left arm and reaches out to shake my hand. “And you are?”

“Ava.”

“Ava with the mouse problem,” he says, and we both laugh.

“If you don’t want to use mousetraps,” says Emmett, “maybe you just oughta get a cat.”

“I have a cat.”

“And he hasn’t taken care of the problem?”

“We just moved into the house yesterday. He’s already caught three mice, but I don’t think even he can take care of the whole problem.” I look at the mousetraps and sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to get these. They’re probably more humane than getting eaten by my cat.”

“I’ll throw in an extra pack of ’em, how ’bout it? On the house,” says Emmett. He heads up front to the cash register, where he rings up my purchase. “Good luck, young lady,” he says, handing me a plastic bag with my traps. “Just be careful when you set ’em, ’cause it ain’t much fun having ’em snap down on your fingers.”

“Use peanut butter,” says Dr. Gordon.

“Yes, I just heard that advice. It’s next on my shopping list. I guess this is just part of renting an old house.”

“Which house would that be?” Emmett asks.

“The one up on the point. It’s called Brodie’s Watch.”

The sudden silence speaks louder than anything either man could have said. I catch the look that flies between them and notice Emmett’s eyebrows knit together, carving deep furrows in his face.

“So you’re the gal who’s renting Brodie’s Watch,” says Emmett. “You staying there long?”

“Through the end of October.”

“You, uh, like it up there on the point?”

I look back and forth at the two men, wondering what isn’t being said. Knowing that something is being left out of the conversation, something important. “Except for the mice, yes.”

Emmett covers up his consternation with a forced smile. “Well, you come on back if you need anything else.”

“Thank you.” I start to leave.

“Ava?” says Dr. Gordon.

“Yes?”

“Is anyone staying up there with you?”

His question takes me aback. Under other circumstances, a stranger asking if I live alone would put me on guard, make me wary of revealing my vulnerability, but I don’t sense any threat from his question, only concern. Both men are watching me, and there’s a strange tension in the air, as if both of them are holding their breaths, waiting for my answer.

“I’ve got the house all to myself. And my cat.” I open the door and pause. Looking back, I add: “My very big, verymeancat.”

—

That night, I bait six mousetraps with peanut butter, leave three in the kitchen, two in the dining room, and the sixth one in the upstairs hallway. I don’t want Hannibal to trap his paw in any of them, so I bring him into my bedroom. Clever Hannibal is an escape artist who’s learned how to turn doorknobs with his paws, so I slide the latch shut, locking him inside with me. He’s not happy about this and he paces the room, yowling for a chance to go on another mouse hunt.

“Sorry, kiddo,” I tell him. “Tonight you’re my prisoner.”

I turn off the lamp and in the moonlight I can see him continue to pace. It is another clear, still night, the sea as calm and flat as molten silver. In the darkness I sit by the window sipping a bedtime glass of whiskey and marveling at the view. What could be more romantic than a moonlit night in a house by the sea? I think of other nights when moonlight and a few drinks made me believe thatthisman might be the one who’d make me happy, the one who’d stand the test of time. But a few days, a few weeks later, the cracks would inevitably begin to show and I’d realize: No, he’s not the man for me. Time to move on and keep looking. There’s always someone else out there, someone better, isn’t there? Never settle for Mr. Good Enough.

Now I sit alone, my skin flushed from my day in the sun and by the alcohol that now courses through my veins. I reach down yet again for the bottle, and when my arm brushes across my breast, it leaves my nipple tingling.

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