Karolina Waclawiak: The Invaders

He was happy living in his past and I couldn’t fault him for that.

We rode the water in silence for a while, past the big quarry barges, the trolley bridge, and the bird sanctuary. The outboard made the cranes fly out of the marshes and into the air. I watched them and understood why Cheryl liked walking here.

“How are your parents?” Tuck asked. “You know, Jeffrey and Cheryl.”

I knew who they were. I knew he wasn’t talking about my mother.

“They’re fine.”

“Haven’t seen them on the golf course,” he said.

“My father’s been away on business.”

“Cheryl must be lonely,” he said, taking a sip of beer. Like he was trying to choke back what he just said, like I didn’t actually hear it. “What do you think she does all day?” he asked.

“I know what she does. Wanders the house,” I said.

“What else?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Plays cards at the club. Sometimes she plays golf. Walks a lot. Collects shit.”

“Like what?” he asked.

I thought for a minute. “Those little bottles from hotels that my dad brings her,” I said.

Tuck stared out at the line of homes like they were specimens.

“She likes to garden,” I said.

Tuck nodded. “Yeah, I see her out there sometimes,” he said.

Everything on our lawn was dying, so I wasn’t sure she was doing a good job. My father would be pissed for sure, when he came home. He was all about curb appeal.

“Interesting lady,” he said.

I guess Cheryl did it for some people.

“Things bad with that thing?” He pointed at my arm as if it were some kind of foreign object.

“Well, it’s not going anywhere,” I said.

He laughed and had another swig of his beer.

“Fucked up,” he said while staring out at the waves. I understood that he was trying to be deep, that we needed a moment of silence. I got that about Tuck, he was a deep person.

He was getting closer to the club and I saw the big yachts in their slips, the blue of the clubhouse, the pool. Our houses. The fence was a joke, but all of this had to be protected and we were the ones to do it. Instead of going to the docks, Tuck veered around the rocks and back into the ocean.

“Are you in a rush to get home?” he asked.

“Kind of,” I said, but he didn’t care.

He weaved the Whaler into the open waters of the sound. I watched the big houses that leaned up against the seawall. The fence created a barrier between it and the lawns. He sputtered the boat to a stop in front of my house and we stared at it, sitting in high tide.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What does that look like?” Tuck said.

“That’s my house,” I said. “I don’t know where you’re going with this, buddy.”

We were both going to start using vaguely insulting names on each other, I could tell.

“This place belongs to us and she thinks she has a right to dictate what happens here. Like none of us matter.”

He lost me. Who was “she”?

“What I’m saying is… she needs to be stopped.”

He stared at the row of houses and shook his head. I was afraid to ask because he was talking like I should know. He looked at me and took another swig of beer. I felt like I had cotton in my mouth and the beer wasn’t helping.

“You’re totally out of touch with what’s going on here, aren’t you?”

He was challenging me. “I see the fence, man,” I said. I stared out toward the fence and the seawall and tried to determine how far I’d have to go to get to the fence. If I could even propel myself over it. I realized that it was too far and that I couldn’t. Before it would have been easy.

Tuck looked exasperated, waiting for me to say something more.

“I’m hearing what you’re saying and it sounds like you’re pretty pissed off. I understand. I just don’t know who you’re talking about,” I said.

He took another sip of beer.

“Lori Hughes, man. She’s bringing us all down. This neighborhood is a sinking ship.”

I tried to stay out of neighborhood politics because Cheryl and my dad were always bitching about someone building a too-big garage, or unkempt flower pots, or dog shit, or whatever.

“It starts with the sand and it ends up with putting a choke hold on this whole place. She canceled the sailing race.”

I shook my head, confused. He was nearly slurring and I wanted him to stay on topic. “One thing at a time. What’d she do to the sand?”

He cracked open a new beer and said, “Imported it. I saw the trucks myself. Dropping it down, covering up that beautiful Connecticut sand. Who does she think she is?”

I stared at the beach, her house, and said, “I don’t know. Someone with too much money.” I took another beer. “What do you mean she canceled the race? That’s total bullshit. She doesn’t have the power.”

He was rocking the Whaler back and forth with all his anger and aggression. “Does she own the water that touches her beach, too? Does she own the waves that crash onto her expensive sand?” he yelled.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“When does it stop?” He moaned. “How much does she have to own to make herself happy?”

“Someone should do something,” I said.

And then he said, “Don’t you know it.”

I looked at him and knew he was going to be the one to do it. Good old stoner-dad Tuck had finally gotten riled up about something.

We stared at the houses and floated.

CHERYL

I DROVE AROUND IN CIRCLES for hours, up and down backcountry roads, through small immaculate towns with quaint Connecticut-town names. Past old-town creameries serving cups and cones to small children and apple orchards with rows of trees brimming with new fruit. I thought about early autumn orchard fairs and hayrides and apple cider, warm and steaming. I thought about hiding in far-flung rows of apple trees with boyfriends as a teenager, rolling around on rotting fruit, not caring at all. It was hard not to see all my life choices on a loop.

Finally I ended up in front of my mother’s house. I drove up and down the street at first, and then parked in front. Her driveway was empty and there was a For Sale sign in the front yard. The windows were no longer covered in tinfoil. I could see inside if I wanted to. I looked through the windows and saw furniture and rugs and rooms filled with things I remembered. I tried the door and it was locked. The broken window had been fixed. I wasn’t going to try to smash it again. My hand had finally healed. I was starting to feel frantic being so close to the remnants of my life but unable to touch them. I walked around the small garage and tugged at the heavy rolling door.

It was musty inside and full of broken pieces of brooms and vacuum cleaners and other household things. Things my mother should have thrown away. I stood in the garage, inhaled the spores of dust and mold. The concrete floor was covered in layers of faded oil spots, some probably mine, and I thought about my mother’s old Datsun that I used to drive around, looking for some excitement in this small town. I remembered there was a spare key to the house here somewhere, I’d hidden one for the times I’d try to sneak back in after my mother had kicked me out, always looking for a way back in.

I looked through the cobweb-covered paint cans on the shelves, checking under each one. I knew none of them had been moved since I left, so there was a chance. There was always a chance. I found the key hidden under a box of nails and screws. It had been untouched for so long, the outline of the key was imprinted on the wooden shelf. My hand shook as I walked over to the metal-sided door and pushed the key into the lock. She wouldn’t be in there. What was I afraid of? The door opened and the dusty air moved as I moved through it and clouded around me. I stood in the kitchen and didn’t know what to do except stare at the ceramic orange jars that had held cookies and treats for us as kids. I opened them and found them empty and had to sit down. Everything was just as I remembered it, but vacant. A shell of a memory.