Reptilian

Four of Five

She told Arnold she was feeling ill. She insisted that he left for dinner with his cousin while she stayed in. He left the car with her, in case you change her mind and want to get dinner somewhere, he said. His cousin had picked him up, and she pretended the idea of walking around the town did not make her more nauseated. She tried sleeping, she tried showering, she tried reading and studying. She already knew none of it would distract her.

It was the town, she told herself. That fucking town. Trapping her inside bars of scotch pines, smothering her with malicious whispers, chewing her, deliberately grounding her under its molars, and spitting her out like rotten meat. It was a cage. But she left, she reminded herself, she left.

She puts the vials aside and picks up the file hidden among her research notes, filled with old letters from Esther. Sometimes she replied, but most of the time Esther's letters just accumulated among more important documents, sometimes unread, mostly unanswered. The guilt cuts her fresh again.

She opens some of them, reading the lines in neat handwriting. She remembers thinking Esther too naïve, too passive, too sweet. All she wanted was to get married, to get out of her parents' house, to work at an antique store. She had mentioned before not being able to leave their parents to grow old alone. She was the youngest, and the only one left to take care of them. The only one who wasn't selfish enough.

Most of the letters spoke of idle and common events in Esther's life. Their neighbors, the garden she was planting, her dog. She picks up another letter, one she remembers reading. It dates eleven days before Esther's death, the last letter she sent. They just don't understand how much Lady meant to me, Esther wrote, about her dog. Her dying dog. The veterinarian says she'll be gone in a few days. I'll miss her so much. Wouldn't it be nice if I could just keep her around, for company?

At the time she thought a strange, morbid request. To keep a dead dog around.

Strange, but not uncommon.

She drops the letter and picks up the car keys. She goes for the door but, before leaving, goes back and opens the case filled with the samples of venom and compounds. She takes one of the vials, a medical syringe, and leaves the room.

She has to drive through the town to get to the woods. Her stomach recoils as she passes the chapel, the bell tower lit up like a lighthouse, as it always was when she was a child, as it has always been. The stone steps are now clean, the flowers have been removed, and to any passerby, there was never a funeral there only hours earlier. There was never a death.

It doesn't take her long to find the cabin. There are only so many houses near the woods, and the cabin's lights are on. Her mind rattles with assumptions. If Esther did go see him, why was she wearing a nightgown? Why run to the chapel? Why her, of all people?

She turns off the headlights and stops the car some yards away from the cabin, far enough that he wouldn't hear the motor approaching.

She knocks on the door, setting her spine straight. The cabin isn't large, firmly planted at the edge of the pine tree forest. It doesn't look intimidating; the structure has a comforting look to it, all warm and rustic, smelling of wet wood. Esther had always been too trusting, she recalls. And looks can be deceiving.

The man opens the door and stares at her.

"Hello," she says, smiling. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I have a question. My fiancé loves otters, you see, and I didn't see any in your store. Can I order one?"

She stands unwavering, waiting for this response. He isn't wearing the same plaid shirt now, only a white tank top and jeans. She catches the sight of fading red lines on the side of his neck and shoulder, which had been hidden by the flannel's collar.