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  In contrast, Claire was as fragile as a wine glass, with the academic and social pressures of high school conspiring to render her an over-eating, painfully awkward introvert who spent as much time dabbing the constellation of pimples on her face with Clearasil as she did studying in her attic bedroom. Her grades were stellar, but her social life was barely a spark to the out-of-control inferno that was Jenny’s.

  “Hey, sissypie,” Jenny asked one hot summer afternoon, swatting closed Claire’s grocery-bag covered text book with an audible slap. “Wanna go on a ‘lil adventure?”

  Jenny’s boyfriend at the time was a high school dropout named Lucas Langevin. He looked more like an auto mechanic with a pack-a-day Marlboro Reds addiction than a just-turned 18-year old. His hair was greasy and unkempt, hanging well below his eyebrows, with a cowlick at the crown of his scalp that stuck straight up and made Claire think of a rooster. On this particular day, he was wearing a stained, ripped tee shirt that read “Pussy, Money and Weed.” Like Jenny, Lucas, when he was in school, was someone the other kids respected, in that he challenged authority in ways they never dared. He was one of the few students at Crestlawn High who actually had a “legit” (his word) criminal record, which included petty theft, assault, assault with a deadly weapon (his Swiss Army knife), trespassing and public intoxication. He drove a dilapidated green Toyota Tercel hatchback, one of its smashed back windows covered by a garbage bag duct-taped into place.

  “Ladies, I hear you need a ride,” he said, as he pulled up to the park down the street from where they lived. Jenny and Claire’s mother had forbidden Jenny from even referencing Lucas in the house, let alone riding in his car. “All me and Stevie-boy want in return is our knobs polished.” Stevie Mussey was Lucas’s best friend and, at 19, worked at his uncle’s gas station, presumably where similar jokes got the kind of back-patting laughter Lucas’s current comment elicited from his compatriot. Jenny, jaded for her young age, took it in stride.

  “Huh. I figured that’s why you two were late. Just sucking each other off in some parking lot somewhere.”

  “That’s my girl,” said Lucas, leaning through his open window to give Jenny a kiss before taking another drag of his cigarette and playfully blowing smoke into her face. “Can talk trash with the best of ‘em. Ain’t that right Claire?”

  “I guess so,” was all Claire managed, before breaking eye contact with Lucas and looking down at her sneakers, kicking a rock toward the car’s donut-spare back tire. “I mean, I don’t know.”

  “Hey Claire. What’s up?” asked Stevie, from the passenger seat, gently, as if to apologize for his friend’s brusqueness. “You still in band?”

  “Yeah, but it kind of sucks. You still play the sax?

  “I —,”

  “He’s really into oral sax, Claire. Think you can help him out?” Lucas chimed in again.

  Both Claire and Stevie blushed and looked away from each other.

  “Knock it off, asshole,” said Jenny. “Can’t these two lovebirds have a civilized conversation without you running your mouth?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get in for God sakes. That bonfire ain’t gonna light itself.”

  Crestlawn High students and graduated hangers-on, like Lucas, partied in a desolate wooded area known as the Falls, which was odd, because there weren’t any. Not that anyone did, but if the town’s teenagers had cared to know, there was, long ago, a waterfall and an actual stone watermill about a mile down river from the area. All that remained of the mill was bits and pieces of its rock walls, strewn over the muddy forest floor, and its foundation, which was, by town tradition, where teenagers from multiple generations lit large fires and howled skyward, like animals enjoying a primal rite of passage.

  The dirt road off Highway 216 that led to the Falls was shaded by a dense mid-August canopy, practically turning day into night. It was suddenly so dark, in fact, that Claire wondered how Lucas, wearing mirrored sport sunglasses, could even see through the car’s dirty, cracked windshield. He drove as if he couldn’t. The car’s nearly bald tires were struggling to grip the dry dirt, fishtailing around corners and bottoming out in deep, muddy ruts left by larger, better-equipped 4X4 vehicles.

  “For Christ’s sake, Lucas, are you drunk already? You’re driving like a total maniac!” laughed Jenny from the front passenger seat as she turned to give her sister what was meant to be a reassuring wink. “This ain’t no 4X4, you know.”

  “Have I ever wrecked? Ever?”

  “There was that one time you –,” Stevie said from the backseat near Claire.

  “Stevie, shut the hell up about that already. I paid you for that shit and you still cry about that damn Pinto like a total bitch every time you get a chance. That shit was not my fault, dude, and you goddamn know it.”

  “I know, I know, just sayin’,” Stevie concluded, casting a furtive glance at Claire’s bare knees, which were so close to his, he would exaggerate the impact of the bigger bumps by allowing his legs to hit hers. “Sorry,” he said unconvincingly, turning to face her, as if to invite her to a private conversation he expected them to have.

  “It’s okay. Have you ever, um, partied at the Falls before?” she asked, lowering her voice so only he could hear her over the wind and road noise coming through the open windows.

  “Oh, yeah, tons of times. Like maybe four or five times? It’s pretty cool.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Is this your first time?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, not partying, but going to the Falls.”

  “Right, right. That’s cool. What do you like to drink?”

  “Um, like, beer, I guess. Right?”

  “I don’t know what you like,” he said, with a forgiving and playful smile, his eyes a bright green even in the car’s dim interior.

  “Beer, definitely beer,” she said, blushing, while using her index finger to trace the top of her ear, pinning her long blond hair behind it. Her mother had identified this as a nervous habit.

  Lucas was making eye contact with her now in the rearview mirror. “Well, there is going to be a shit ton of beer at the bonfire. Marshall Diggs works at Hilltop Liquors and he threw seven cases of Bud in the dumpster out back of the store last night without his boss seein’.”

  “I don’t get it. Why’d he throw the beer away?” Stevie asked.

  “Bro, you are retarded. ‘Cuz he went back there after the store closed and got the cases out of the dumpster and, hello!, now we have beer to drink at the bonfire! Woohoo!”

  “This is going to be fun, Sissypie. Trust me, Claire,” Jenny implored.

  Claire’s right knee was trembling. She held it down with a sweaty palm, hoping Stevie wouldn’t notice.

  “Claire? Honey? Are you listening to a word I am saying?”

  Sam was standing in the doorway to the living room, wearing athletic shorts and his old, faded USC tee shirt, the underarms of which were dark with sweat. His expectant expression was clue enough a question had been asked. She threw the photos back in the box, but not before putting the one of Jenny in the back pocket of her jeans.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie, what?”

  “I asked you if you needed help unpacking these, or if I should go set up the bed?”

  “Sure, babe, yeah, do that, would you?”

  “Which one?”

  “The bed. God knows after today sleeping will be a top priority.”

  “Is there something wrong with you, Claire?” he asked, taking a few steps toward her now, as if to more accurately read her mood. “Are you homesick?”

  She wanted to tell him, Yes. Yes, in fact, I am homesick. I am really starting to wonder why we are living in a McMansion out in the middle of West fucking Virginia. I get it was priced ridiculously low and you want a nice quiet place to lose your mind, but honestly, darling, why have you reserved the entire front row of this slowly unfolding trage
dy just for me? What about our friends and family?Why must we go this alone? Way out here.

  “No, don’t be silly. I’m fine. Go do the bed. I was thinking about taking a walk around the neighborhood,” she said.

  He was already halfway up the back staircase leading off the kitchen. “Okay, babe,” he yelled as he crossed the second-floor landing. “Let me know if you meet any neighbors.”

  Claire grabbed a pink windbreaker, slipped into a pair of canvas boat shoes and walked down their front pavers to the sidewalk. It was dusk and the sky was Creamsicle orange, with just a few low-lying clouds tinged periwinkle and purple. She noticed how utterly quiet it was. It was unusual to hear her own footfalls…outside. The silence was so complete, it unsettled Claire, like the moment after a comedian tells a joke that isn’t funny, a soundless void that makes you wish, in that instant, you were anywhere else.

  There were seven houses on Settlement Way, three on their side, three on the opposite side, and one at the foot of the cul-de-sac. They had only arrived last night, yet, aside from the guards, she had not seen a single human being, or passing car for that matter.

  “Everyone’s at work, Claire,” Sam said. Where the hell are they all working? As far as she could tell, the only businesses within 20 miles of “the Village” were a Bass Pro Shop, a Texas Roadhouse restaurant and a Wal-Mart. The broker had guessed a lot of residents were teleworkers, like her and Sam, but admitted she didn’t know much about the Village’s residents, either. Since every house had two- or three-car garages, the doors of which were always shut, it was hard to tell who was home and when.

  All the houses were as magnificent as the one they had bought, except the giant house on the hill. It was surreal, both in its sheer size and in the view the owners must command over the entire development. “Man, the people-watching they must get away with from that second-floor balcony,” she had remarked to Sam.

  It was incredible to Claire that not a single house looked like the other, yet the craftsmanship and tasteful design were a common denominator. In the suburbs of her childhood, houses reflected the wild variations in status found in the middle class of the time. Mr. and Mrs. Erickson, neighbors directly across the street from Claire’s childhood home, both enjoyed generous government pensions and salaries from second careers. Their Cape Cod-style house was meticulous, with a new roof, new siding, crisp, precise landscaping and a swimming pool that was the envy of every kid on the block. Just next door, however, the McPherson’s mid-century split-level’s crumbling driveway featured their teenage son’s car, sans tires, up on cement blocks. It had remained there for almost the entire time Claire was in high school.

  But here in the Village, there was a homogeny that was striking in its consistency. Every single house on her street was perfect in its own way: an exquisitely designed cupola, a manicured-to-perfection rose garden, a screened in front porch worthy of a spread in Better Homes and Gardens. The messy details were somehow missing. No litter. No kids’ bikes left hastily by a porch. No random pile of unraked leaves. It was as if the entire neighborhood had been digitally printed from an artist’s rendering. “Pin straight,” her mother would say. Not a single goddamn hair out of place. And not a single solitary person to be found.

  “Oh, hey there. Excuse us…”

  Startled, Claire leapt into the air, and spun around to face the deep voice behind her. The man was wearing aviator sunglasses just below lush black bangs that swept upward into a head of hair as dark and wavy as an oil spill. The starched collar of his gingham Oxford peeked out of a navy sweater, which bunched atop an intricate, stitched leather belt – probably handmade, she thought – encircling white designer jeans, which seemed to Claire a strange choice for fall. The woman standing next to him had thick brown hair pulled back into a tight bun. She wore large square sunglasses that looked more Hollywood than hillbilly. A turquoise linen scarf adorned a tight yet tasteful V-neck thick cotton pullover atop her retro flare-legged twill pants. If this was how people in her neighborhood dressed, they were going to die when they saw her in yoga pants and Crocs.

  “Oh, God, we didn’t mean to scare you. We’re the Halls. Your neighbors right across the street. Yellow gazebo. I’m Stephanie, and this is my husband, Marc.”

  “With a ‘c’,” Marc inserted, leaning forward slightly, as if speaking into a floor mic. Claire stared back at him with a confused look on her face.

  “Instead of a ‘K.’ M-a-r-c. Anyway, we wanted to say hi and welcome to the ‘hood.”

  “Yes,” Stephanie said. “Welcome. We’re really looking forward to getting to know you.” And when Claire failed to immediately reply, Stephanie added, “And Sam.”

  When she got home, Sam was napping in their bed, fully clothed. She could tell he was exhausted. Watching him sleep now, her worry for him overwhelmed her, and she felt a jolt of anxious energy race down her arms. It had been almost a year since the doctors told him he had about six to eight years of “somewhat manageable, intermittent symptoms” – visual and auditory hallucinations, dramatic, potentially aggressive mood swings, loss of empathy, acute memory lapses — before his grasp on reality and the ability to take care of himself would start to seriously degrade. And, to underscore just how bad a hand fate had dealt them, the doctor added, “Of course, these timelines vary from person to person. The disease could proceed slower than is typical, or it could accelerate without warning.”

  Claire thought back to the long and dreary car ride home after the final MRI. D.C. was receiving a fresh dusting of snow, which looked like powdered sugar on the roads and rooftops. It fell from a sky so resolute in its graying gloominess, Claire could barely remember when it had last been blue. She had begun to cry.

  “Babe, don’t,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.” He took his eye off the traffic for a second, reaching out to grasp her chin between his thumb and index finger, as if to pick an apple. “I feel great and you heard Dr. Carlson, a lot of medical advances can happen in a decade.”

  “Eight years, Sam,” she sobbed. “And why are you not more upset? Why am I crying and you’re comforting me? Are you still in shock?”

  She knew the answer, and it was another reason she loved him. He was a scientist and approached everything, even this, logically. His mind was slowly shutting down and there was no cure and nothing to be done but relax and wait. Why get emotional? It was his genetic destiny to die this way.

  “No, it’s not shock. I don’t know how, Claire, but I’m already accepting it in a way. We will find a way, and we should enjoy what we have, when we have it. I am choosing to feel lucky that the Agency is still letting me work on the project and encouraging me to work from home if I need to.”

  “The project” was something he almost never referenced and certainly didn’t – and couldn’t – talk about in any kind of detail. What she did know was Sam was terrified NASA would revoke his top secret security clearance after he disclosed his diagnosis. In the end, he had gotten them to agree to let him keep working, so long as he submitted to routine psychological evaluations.

  “…And thank God we can get out of D.C. and chill out, do our own thing, enjoy each other. No more packed Metro rides and dodging electric scooters on the sidewalk. Maybe do some hiking and kayaking before it gets too cold. Maybe, and don’t laugh, get a horse or two. If you don’t like West Virginia, we can always move back to D.C. But give it a chance.”

  “It’s not that, Sam, I’m just so sad this is happening to you, to us,” she said, sniffling and wiping her running nose across her chapped hand. “It’s unfair.”

  “I agree,” is all he said before they both fell into a silence that held the whole way home.

  She didn’t want to wake him now but he stirred and sleepily opened his eyes.

  “Couldn’t find the sheets, huh?” she smiled.

  “They could be anywhere,” he said and they both laughed at the chaos that surrounded them.<
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  “Okay, keep an open mind, but I just met some neighbors and they sort of invited themselves over…tonight.”

  “Claire! No! Look at this place. Baby!”

  She sat at the edge of the bed and held his hand before making her case. “Sam, they are so nice. They came up to me on my walk and, well, they’re our age, professional, no kids, just really sweet and put-together and he – ‘Marc’ I think he said -- asked me if we had dipped into the wine cellar yet and I said no, that we don’t drink. And he was nice. He said they weren’t that into drinking either. I don’t know, it just seems like the right thing to do, to ask them to come hang out. You know, like a house warming party.”

  “Claire, I can’t even find our sheets. Ugh, how embarrassing.”

  “It was strange. They knew your name and I didn’t even offer it up,” she said, the retelling of the exchange jogging her memory.

  Sam considered this for a moment. “It’s small-town living, honey. We were probably welcomed to the neighborhood on some community message board.”

  “Oh, right. That makes sense. Now get up, we need to at least get the living room livable and chill a few near-beers.”

  For the first time, Claire felt optimism about their new home and the Village she could not describe. As they cleaned and readied the house, she struggled to explain to Sam why, but she felt an instant kinship with Stephanie and Marc Hall. She had stood talking to them, locked in effortless conversation, for over an hour, discovering they had a great deal in common with their stylish neighbors from across the street. Stephanie was in marketing; Claire had been in public relations. Marc was also an engineer, working for a company about an hour’s drive away that made industrial electrical components. They, too, had spent time living in D.C., and Stephanie had also been skeptical about moving to such a rural community. Both Stephanie and Claire were learning to cook. Like Sam, Marc played golf.