mmassirer

Sophie wasn’t supposed to be there. She was supposed to be at the theater, trying to act in the play she’d memorized lines for, paid good money to avoid work for, but this was her Construct, her experience. She’d go wherever she damn wanted.

The play had been boring anyway. She already knew she couldn’t act, never could. That’s why she became a lawyer. It was stable work, secure work, but lately it hadn’t been so secure. Rumor had it that her whole division was getting the axe, all because their world-renowned jerk of a boss Gus thought AI could do their jobs better than they could. He’d probably get a raise. Saving the corporation money: employee of the month.

Staring up at her work building, the skyscraper loomed over Boston, all dull glass and colorless steel. She still couldn’t believe how identical The Construct was to the real world. She could’ve been in the Financial District on any weekday. The traffic clogging up the Greenway, the bustle of pedestrians, the faint roar of planes leaving Logan overhead, the frigid wind ripping off the Atlantic. She could see why people got lost in these things, how some had even decided to stay. Dr. Holiday had warned her before she’d entered the world he’d designed for her. What she was experiencing was a momentary tango with a fantasy, a snapshot of a life she’d never managed to manifest in the real world, not only because she lacked talent, but because, like most people who abandoned their passions, she lacked the courage to pursue it.

Sophie had tried everything before going to RealityPlus, the brainchild of Dr. Holiday. Television, wine, sex. Hobbies like pickleball, pottery, paint night with friends. They’d all helped for a short time, but the feeling that life was grey and pointless always crept back. She also had pesky stomach issues that no specialist could figure out. Eventually, she made the connection that her ennui and health problems were the result of living a life of routine and monotony, a life on autopilot. So she did what everyone did these days. She called up Dr. Holiday, preeminent designer of virtual realities, builder of dreams. Before starting his business, the computer scientist had worked for NASA, designing virtual experiences for astronauts who preparing for space travel.

And business was good. People flocked to his lab in Cambridge to tell him their dreams. What would you do if money weren’t an issue? What would you do if you couldn’t fail? There were no consequences? That was easy, Sophie had thought, when Dr. Holiday first asked her those questions: she’d punch that blowhard Gus right in his crooked nose. But that seemed like a waste of a weekend and ten grand, so she decided to play out some young adulthood fantasy of acting in a play. But when she got there and acted for that packed audience, delivering her lines as best she could, it didn’t feel like she’d imagined. She’d stumbled a few times, and someone in the audience snickered when she flubbed a line. She didn’t get along with the other actors, either. So at intermission she took off, not knowing where she’d end up. The cast would lose their lead actor, but this was her world, all those people were artificial creations, algorithmic phantoms that would go poof when they pulled her out of her Construct.

It sad, really, Sophie thought, as she walked into the building’s lobby, that she’d had a whole world built for her and she decided to come to work of all places. She didn’t even really know why she was there, but she no intention of going there to do work. She didn’t do much anyway since the merger, since everyone above her was trying to figure out what she did, so they could hand it to the chat bots. When the elevator opened on the eleventh floor, Christmas music was blaring and the smell of cookies and cannolis from Mike’s Pastry wafted in the air. She walked by her cubicle and saw her coworkers packed together in and around the main conference area, holding beer or wine, trying to pretend they cared what their colleague was saying.

They looked exactly like they did in real life. She bet if she walked up to them and engaged them in conversation, they’d act just like they would in the real world. Coming here was a bad idea, she thought. She’d had this Construct built so she could escape from this hellhole. She spun to get back in the elevator, and crashed into Gus, knocking her boss’s papers to the floor. Of course he was holding a stack of papers, and not a drink. The square had gone dry in December and liked to tell anyone who’d listen. He repositioned his stupid Santa hat on his bald head and said Sophie was late to the party! As she helped him pick up his papers, she caught that crappy smell of aftershave that always turned her stomach. He asked if she had a second and that he’d love to talk with her in his office. There was something he’d been meaning to tell her. Was he going to fire her in her own Construct? She thought about turning around, going back to the play to see if it’d crashed and burned, but curiosity won out.

It didn’t matter what happened, because this Gus wasn’t real. It was an artificial creation, just computer code. If she wanted, she could tell him what she’d always wanted to say, that he had a weird nose and smelled like manure. When she went to work on Monday, he’d never know. But she’d know! That was the big sales pitch Dr. Holiday always gave. Whatever you needed to get out of you, you could get it out in your Construct, purge it, so you’d feel better in the real life. It was no surprise that many people had affairs, though it wasn’t really considered an affair if you slept with your celebrity crush; the culture had changed enough so that most spouses tolerated such indiscretions. Many wanted to see things they thought they’d never see in real life because they didn’t have the time or money or ambition. They’d ski in the Swiss Alps, drive a van around New Zealand, or run with the bulls in Pamplona. You could do almost anything in your Construct. The only commandment that couldn’t be broken was murder. You couldn’t kill in the Construct. Why? Because, for some people, it had normalized the act of killing, and had led to several murders in the real world. The company almost didn’t survive the last incident.

Sure, Sophie would go to his office, she thought. But, it turned out, Gus didn’t want to go there. He led her back to the elevator and brought them to the rooftop. What were they doing here? Stepping onto the rooftop, the frigid winter air bit at her face, stinging her cheeks and lips. Why hadn’t she chosen the summer season? Gus walked her to the edge of the building so they could look out over Boston, a small city when you compared it to New York or Los Angeles. She was standing there admiring the clock tower, waiting for him to tell her they didn’t need two legal teams (thanks, AI!), when he placed a hand on her lower back and tugged her a little closer.

She held her tongue, but she wished he’d get his chubby hand off her body. She’d noticed his weird hands in the first meeting they’d had together. He droned on about optimizing processes and upgrading their digital tools and platforms, and all she could do was watch his hands, the black ring on his finger tight and strained, as if it didn’t quite belong there. The self-awareness of a cinder block, Guy couldn’t see how uncomfortable his gesture had made her. He said he’d seen she didn’t wear a ring, that she never brought anyone to company outings, that she hadn’t brought anyone tonight. And then, unbelievably, he leaned over and put his lips on hers. Those thin, chapped, asymmetrical lips—on hers.

She pushed him off. You’re married! He was sorry, he whined, backpedaling. He just—just what, she demanded. Thought she’d be interested in a power-hungry nepo baby who was firing everyone she knew and soon firing her? This was a bad idea, he muttered. Please don’t bring this to HR. HR, she said, her fingers curling into fists. And then she thought about where she was. This world was literally designed to fulfill whatever fantasy she’d decided to indulge. Initially, she’d wanted to live out some pipe dream of being an actor, some ridiculous dream that’d never happen, but whatever reason she’d ended up here, with fat-finger Gus, with the adulterous Gus. Her lips curled in disgust as she watched this little man baby back away from her, like he was afraid of her. Yes, scared. Of her! It was intoxicating.

She wondered what Dr. Holiday was thinking as he and his army of analysts watched this play out on their surveillance screens, like digital Gods. She wondered if they’d stop it, if she’d stop it, take a deep breath and walk away, get back in the elevator and do whatever she wanted for the weekend, maybe visit a bar and seduce a young man, get drunk like she’d done in college. But no, here she was, with Gus, and she wasn’t going to waste the moment. He was telling her to calm down, please, and then she just did it. It didn’t take much force, actually, just a little shove really, two hands to his chest and he’d tumbled backwards, the backs of his legs buckling when they hit the wall, and he fell over the ledge. He let out a pathetic little yelp and he was gone.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light and she was back in a sterile exam room and a nurse was removing her helmet and stripping off sensors. The door burst open and Dr. Holiday was there, his long white coat as crisp as the day he’d bought it. He was irate. The rules, the scientist explained, were clearly described in the contract, which she’d signed, and an assistant next to him actually turned his iPad so she could see it, like she had to be reminded. He sat there for a few minutes and jabbered on about the rules, about how murder in virtual worlds wasn’t allowed. But this was her money, Sophie told Dr. Holiday. If she wanted to ditch the play and off her boss, so be it. And that was it. She was banned. He kicked her out and said never return.

In a rideshare back to her condo in Beacon Hill, she realized that she felt great. In Dr. Holiday’s mind, her virtual experience had been a disaster. From her perspective, it had done exactly what it needed to do. Not only because she’d confirmed she was a terrible actor, neutralizing the silly, decades-long fantasy of hers, but also because she’d been able to satisfy an urge that was impossible in real life without going to prison: pushing that corporate wolf off the thirtieth floor of a skyscraper. She could still see his frightened face in her mind’s eye, call to mind that little yelp, that last yip he’d made before his fell to his death.

Sophie decided to get out before her apartment and walk through Boston Common. She’d killed someone, she kept thinking, actually murdered them, and it had been someone she hated, someone she’d even thought, on some level, deserved it. Wait, she thought, Gus was a piece of work, a true psychopath, but he didn’t deserve to die. Criminals deserved to die, and even then did they really? A good case could be made that even the worst offenders in society should rot in a cell, not fry in electric chairs. Sophie was educated, cultured, civilized, and she’d just killed someone—and liked it. She could’ve just slapped the guy, but pushing him off a ledge was a choice, a decidedly unlawful one. And this, it turned out, began to trouble her. Was Dr. Holiday right? Did she deserve to be kicked out of the club? Yes, she thought, she’d been wrong. Suddenly the world that felt so bright, felt dark, and her mood sank as she scurried back to her condo and poured the biggest glass of wine, and tried to forget what she’d done.

On Monday morning, Sophie couldn’t shake the weirdness of seeing her boss prancing around the office like nothing had happened. Nothing had happened, and yet something had changed in her. She couldn’t shake his fearful expression, his pleading, that yelp before he went splat. The first meeting of the day was a check-in with Sophie and her team of three in-house lawyers, who had worked tirelessly for the company and raked in millions for it and its shareholders. What were they doing here, one team member asked. Was this it? Were they getting fired? Sophie truly didn’t know but thought this could, indeed, be it.

Gus strolled into the room and made a joke that he hoped some of them had gotten some rest since a few had gone pretty hard at the party. Not him, though. Dry December. The meeting wasn’t officially starting for some reason. It was curious and made Sophie worried. Gus said they were waiting for one more person. And there it was, Sophie thought. That one more person was no doubt Linda from HR who’d tell them they were all cherished employees, that their commitment was appreciated, but with the widespread adoption of AI in the workplace—

Gus cut Linda off minutes later and said he’d been forced to make some tough decisions. He kept mumbling, kept lying and all Sophie could do was look at his fingers, those baby carrot-looking fingers. Everyone got a packet, a little sheet that let them know what information to give to the government, so they could live on a few hundred dollars a week.

Back in her cubicle, Sophie was in a daze as she tossed possessions into a box. Good luck with AI, she thought. Sure, it had all of the world’s knowledge, but it couldn’t do what she and her team could do and often it just made shit up. Her box was full when she heard a light knock on the door. It was Gus. Really? He said he wanted to say he was sorry, that he’d fought to keep Sophie’s team, especially her. He valued her, cared about her.

He said had a dinner meeting tonight and there were some folks from big name tech companies coming who could use a talent like her. This guy had a lot of nerve, Sophie thought. Where was it, she asked, and he said it was at his apartment. You just fired me and my team and now you’re inviting me to your house, she shot back. Lighten up, it was a dinner! Free drinks, finger foods and sweat treats, an opportunity to network. Sophie rolled her eyes, lifted a pen and thought about saying that she’d rather put the pen in her right eye than go to his house, but she politely declined, instead. Well, he prattled on, it was the Hayward building in the north end, if she changed her mind. Good luck working with your robots, she said, and stormed out.

At her condo, Sophie poured a glass of wine and crashed into the couch. She turned on the TV ready to rot, but she couldn’t help but let her mind drift back to her Construct. Not only had she been a failed actor in real life, now she was a failed lawyer. There had been one good thing about that night. She’d been able to see fear in his eyes and there had been something satisfying about hearing him hit the pavement at high speed. She wondered what Dr. Holiday’s computer-programmed Gus had thought as he tumbled off the building. Someone should make that fucker pay in real life, she thought. These corporate pro-social psychopaths just floating around like menacing great white sharks exploiting and psychologically abusing everyone they came into contact with. Wouldn’t it be nice to hover over his computer code in the real world and hit delete. At least she’d gotten to feel that, even for a moment.

As shitty TV played, Sophie’s mind ran ahead to the next few months. Applying and reapplying to jobs, firing off cover letters no one would read, pathetically begging friends and colleagues to let her know if they’d heard of anything, she’d love to connect! She did the math on her phone, and her heart sank when she realized unemployment would probably only cover half of what she needed. Maybe it was worth entertaining Gus’s offer to network. Maybe his friends could hook her up with something. Or maybe that was just another stupid fantasy.

When Sophie knocked on his door, she had the same thought she’d had when she walked to her office building in the middle of her high-priced Construct. Gus opened the door wearing a horrendous Christmas sweater and an even less appealing grin. He also had a glass of red wine in his hand and, shrugging, said he’d given up on dry December. He was sick of everyone calling him the Grinch. Sophie barely made eye contact when she walked in, and mentioned she was a glass of wine ahead of him.

The living room was decorated like a dorm room, but the space was enormous and had ceilings that were over twenty feet high. Where was everyone, Sophie asked. Gus said they were late, and he set some chips and guacamole on the table and invited her to sit, chill. She did and he poured a glass of wine, filling it to the brim. Gus then made his best frowny face and said he needed to apologize again for today. The board had pushed him to make the changes and he’d delayed it as long as he could. Sophie didn’t give a shit about how hard it was for him to manage the weight of firing his employees, but she said it was helpful that he’d offered to help find a job, since there was no way she’d survive on unemployment without—

Listen, Gus cut in, he couldn’t keep this ruse up any longer. What did she mean, Sophie asked. Nobody was coming. There was no dinner party, he said. It was just him and her. You lied to me, Sophie shot back. He had a confession, he muttered, biting his lip. He was crazy about her, thought he might be in love with her. Ever since the merger, ever since they’d met, he couldn’t think straight whenever he was around her. She couldn’t believe this. He was married, for God’s sake, but he lifted his hand;  he’d taken off his ring. Separated! Sophie was beside herself, dizzy with rage, and asked Gus for a glass of water.

This fucking guy, she thought. First, he fires her, then he tricks her to his apartment, to what? Enter into a relationship? As if she’d even for one second entertain hooking up with this douche. As he was in the kitchen getting water, she walked to the fireplace and stared into the flames and then she had a thought. She pulled out her phone and opened Facebook and found Gus’s profile and clicked on it. She saw a message on his profile from his wife who’d written that she was going to race him down the mountain at Killington this weekend. This weekend. This guy was an unimaginable piece of shit. She needed to get out of here now.

Just then, Sophie felt two hands wrap around her waist and she smelled that disgusting aftershave fill up her nose. He’d always loved redheads, he whispered, rubbing his face into her neck. She screamed, jerking her head back. She heard a crack and a shriek and turned to see Gus’s wine glass shatter on the floor. He was holding his nose, blood poured through his fingers. She watched the blood squeeze through his fat fingers and stain his expensive carpet.

And then, it just happened. Too fast, almost like she’d stepped outside herself, watching as she reached down and wrapped her hand around the fireplace poker. He stumbled backward, hand clamped over his nose. She lifted it and swung as hard as she could, the poker connecting with his head, splitting it open. Blood spurted as a ragged flap of scalp slid open, and he stared at her in stunned disbelief. She lifted it again. No pause this time. She swung harder, faster, smashing into his cheek, the impact knocking his jaw crooked, inches out of place.

Gus fell to his knees as his face poured blood all over his carpet, and Sophie lifted the poker again. He weakly put a hand in the air to stop her, but she brought it down on top of his head, and it caved inward. He tipped over and started convulsing and coughing blood. She bent down and watched him twitch, watched him bleed out, watched his eyes go blank until they rolled into the back of his head.

A knock at the door cut through the silence. What the fuck. She thought about hiding the poker, throwing it out the window, but she shew she was fucked. The door flew open and people in white lab gowns poured in, moving past her like she wasn’t there. No one looked at her. They went straight to Gus, unzipping a black bag and spreading it out beside the body. To be honest, a voice said from behind her, nobody thought she’d do it. Sophie turned and saw Dr. Holiday standing there, shaking his head in disbelief.

What was he doing here, she asked. He said they had to keep an eye on her since she’d killed in her Construct. They knew she was at increased risk, but still they didn’t think she’d actually do it. It took a lot to kill. Most didn’t have the stomach for it, especially normies like her, even in virtual reality. Sophie was still in a daze. She could barely accept what she’d done, even if he’d had it coming. Dr. Holiday watched his team lift Gus’s body and place it in a bag, and others removed the carpet from the floor and placed it carefully into another bag, and others scrubbed the carpet, and another wiped the blood specks from the poker and placed it gently in the exact place it had been.

What about security tapes, and evidence and—Dr. Holiday waved a hand. He built entire worlds for a living; he could spin a story that’d throw authorities off the scent. Did he need anything from her? No, she should go, but he suggested getting out of town for a while. The assistant stepped forward with an iPad, showing her a flight to Florida in the morning, a little trip on them. She didn’t know what to say.

Don’t say anything, Dr. Holiday told her. She’d have days to process it all, to come to terms, or fall apart. But if it made her feel any better, he added, glancing at the bag being carried out the door, the world might be a little better off without a guy like him. So, this was it, she replied, as she held out her hand. Yes, he said, shaking it, this was it. Stay out of trouble.

Sophie nodded and left, and didn’t look back.

by Robert Boucheron

The home of Stephen and Beverly Nash was a brick ranch house in rolling country. Louisa Jones parked in the gravel drive that led to the carport. The yard and flowerbeds were raked. As buds swelled on the maple trees, and the green tips of bulbs peeped from the soil, the place looked ready for spring to burst. She followed a brick path to the front, pressed the doorbell, and waited on the brick stoop. A trim, middle-aged woman wearing an apron came to the door.

     “Mrs. Nash? I am Louisa Abernethy Jones from the Vindicator. May I come in?”

     “Stephen, the lady from the newspaper is here.”

     An equally trim man of the same vintage, wearing slippers and a cardigan sweater, shuffled into the living room. He shook hands with Louisa and showed her to an armchair decked with a doily and an embroidered pillow. On the wall hung a wedding photograph, in which Mrs. Nash wore a white dress and Mr. Nash wore a naval uniform. The fireplace mantel was crowded with photographs in tiny easel frames, porcelain figurines, and a shelf clock in the shape of a bell. Side tables bore a cargo of lamps, coasters, and bowls. Everything was as neat as a pin. Mr. and Mrs. Nash sat in matching recliner chairs and politely faced their visitor.

     “We read about the shooting in Hapsburg,” Mr. Nash said.

     “What a dreadful thing for you all to suffer,” Mrs. Nash said.

     “A tragedy,” Mr. Nash said.

     “And it happened on a Sunday,” Mrs. Nash said.

     “As you know,” Louisa said, “your son sang in the choir that Ralph Willis directed. He was also present at the house in the afternoon. He helped plant some bushes.”

     “That’s Gary,” Mrs. Nash said. “Always ready to lend a helping hand.”

     “That’s the way we raised our children,” Mr. Nash said, “all four of them.”

     “Gary is the baby,” Mrs. Nash said.

     “You should stop calling him a baby,” Mr. Nash said. “He’s twenty-four years old, for Christ’s sake.”

     “Please refrain from using profanity in the house,” Mrs. Nash said. “You know I don’t like it. And Mrs. Jones may take offense.”

     “Was Gary a friend of Ralph Willis?”

     “He mentioned him,” Mr. Nash said.

     “Gary phoned or came home once a week,” Mrs. Nash said. “He was very good about staying in touch and keeping us abreast. He was flattered when Mr. Willis asked him to sing at the Christmas concert.”

     “Did you go to hear it?”

     “Too far for us to attend,” Mr. Nash said.

     “St. Giles is an Episcopal church,” Louisa said. “Did that bother you?”

     “You mean the fact that he jumped ship?” Mr. Nash said.

     “That’s one way to put it,” Louisa said.

     “We raised our children Southern Baptist,” Mrs. Nash said, “the church we attend.”

     “What they do after they leave home is up to them,” Mr. Nash said.

     “Gary works as a nurse at the regional hospital, is that correct?”

     “Yes,” Mrs. Nash said. “He completed all the requirements to be a registered nurse, the four-year degree and the license examination. He’s been at the hospital for over a year.”

     “Two years,” Mr. Nash said.

     “You know,” Mrs. Nash said, “when Gary was a little boy, he brought home injured birds and animals and nursed them back to health. The poor little things would quiver and shake. They were terrified and in pain. He fed them and kept them warm, and in a few days, they recovered enough to go back to the wild.”

     “Except for that squirrel,” Mr. Nash said. “It jumped out of the cardboard box, and we chased it all over the house. It was faking.”

     “We thought Gary might become a veterinarian,” Mrs. Nash said. “On career day at the high school, he announced he wanted to be a nurse. It might have been a documentary he saw on television on the healing arts.”

     “Why not a doctor?” Louisa asked.

     “He wasn’t that good of a student,” Mr. Nash said. “Four years of college and then four years of medical school is a slog. Then who knows how many years of residency. Hell, he barely made it through high school.”

    “Watch your language, please,” Mrs. Nash said. “Gary set a realistic goal and he achieved it. Better not to aim too high and miss. We’re proud of Gary, as we are of all our children.”

     “He’s also a talented singer?”

     “He was always musical,” Mrs. Nash said. “Even as a toddler, he crooned. He imitated what he heard on records and the radio. He made up little songs.”

     “When the kids were young, you sang all the time,” Mr. Nash said. “Nursery rhymes and nonsense. He picked it up from you.”

     “I suppose,” Mrs. Nash said. “Now there’s no one to sing to. Gary sang in the church youth choir and in school. He wasn’t good at reading music, though.”

     “He wasn’t good at reading period,” Mr. Nash said. “According to his teachers.”

     “When he mentioned Ralph Willis and possible friendship, did that concern you?”

     “Do you mean an older man and a younger man?” Mrs. Nash said.

     “Gary is gay,” Mr. Nash said.

     “We knew from an early age,” Mrs. Nash said. “Almost before he did. Do you disapprove, Mrs. Jones?”

     “My only concern is getting the facts.”

     “In a way,” Mrs. Nash said, “we were glad that he found someone. It was a relief.”

     “Do you think Gary saw Ralph as a financial source?”

     “A sugar daddy?” Mr. Nash said. “Gary has a good job. If anything, he earns more as a nurse than Willis did.”

     “Gary disappeared shortly after the shooting. Do you have any idea why, or where he went?”

     Husband and wife exchanged glances. Mr. Nash nodded.

     “Mr. Willis and Gary had scheduled a vacation,” Mrs. Nash said. “It was supposed to be last week in Philadelphia. Gary had lunch with us on Sunday. He normally works Sunday night at the hospital, the graveyard shift, but he was able to get a last-minute substitute. He could start his vacation a day early. He drove back to Hapsburg to help Mr. Willis plant the bushes. They were going to leave by train on Monday. They had tickets and a hotel reservation.”

     “We got a panicky phone call Monday night,” Mr. Nash said. “Something had happened to Willis, and he couldn’t go. Gary was going by himself. He phoned again a few days later from the hotel. By then, we had seen the newspaper story. Gary wanted to let us know he was okay. We didn’t discuss the shooting.”

     “Have you seen your son since then?” Louisa asked.

     “Briefly,” Mrs. Nash said. “He said he found a place to stay near the hospital. He was tired of commuting from Hapsburg.”

     “Is there a way for me to contact him?”

     “He’ll be at the apartment tomorrow morning to pack,” Mrs. Nash said. “A mover will be there for the furniture.”

     “We would appreciate it if you keep this information quiet,” Mr. Nash said. “In other words, the police don’t need to know.”

     “I promise to protect your son’s privacy.” Louisa stood. “I have a drive ahead of me, so I ought to go. It was a pleasure to meet both of you.”

     “One more thing,” Mr. Nash said. “Gary never handled a gun. None of our kids did.”

     “I oppose violence and weapons of all kinds,” Mrs. Nash said, “including toys. Killing people is not a game. Even pretending.”

*

     Early on Tuesday morning, Louisa drove to the Sylvan Apartments. A moving van was parked in the street, and a ramp extended from the open back. A big man squeezed backward through the front door of the building, followed by a sofa and another man. They skittered down the walk and up the ramp, into the dark void of the van.

     As the van resounded with thumps and scrapes, Louisa walked briskly into the building and up the stair. The door to Apartment 2B was propped open. She knocked and entered.

     “Mr. Nash? It’s Louisa Jones from the newspaper.”

     A slender young man emerged from the kitchen. Dressed in a gray sweatshirt and jeans dyed indigo and stiff with newness, he looked like Stephen and Beverly Nash, thirty years younger. Unsmiling, he stopped in his tracks, holding a dinner plate and a sheet of newsprint.

     “What do you want?”

     “Your parents said I would find you here,” she said. “May I talk to you?”

     “I’m packing.” Mr. Nash wrapped the plate and set it in a cardboard box, which was half-filled with crumpled newsprint. The kitchen cabinet doors were all open. There were plenty of dishes and glasses, pot and pans, utensils and gadgets to pack. He was not about to slow down for an inquisitive middle-aged woman in a long skirt and orthopedic shoes.

     “I’ve been interviewing people who knew Ralph Willis for an article on his life.”

     Nash wrapped another plate and deposited it in the box.

     “Do you sing in the choir of St. Giles Episcopal Church?”

     “Not any more. I’m leaving town.”

     “I spoke to the rector of St. Giles and Bobbie Sue Metzger. They say that Willis invited you to join the choir last year after hearing you sing.”

     “Ralph and I met socially. He found out that I sang. When he heard that my range is tenor, he was interested. Tenors are always in demand.”

     “Do basses outnumber tenors?”

     “By genetic distribution, like blue eyes? I don’t know. Maybe it’s cultural.”

     “Did Ralph want to improve the balance in the St. Giles choir?”

     “That’s what he said. He made me an attractive offer, some solo work and free voice lessons. He was more likeable than Bobbie Sue Metzger.”

     “You didn’t like Mrs. Metzger?”

     “She has an edge. Have you met her?”

     “Yes.”

     “Then you know what I mean.”

     “Yes, I do.”

     “Did you know she’s also a volunteer firefighter? She trained in search and rescue.”

     “Does the training include firearms?”

     “She carries a handgun for protection at night and when she has to go somewhere alone. She showed me.”

     “When was that?”

     “We met once at church to rehearse a part I was singing.”

     “Did you leave First Baptist after that?”

     “Yes. Little did I know what I was stepping into.”

     “The feud between the churches?”
     “Right. When I moved here a year ago, Hapsburg looked like a sleepy, idyllic place, a fairy-tale village frozen in time.”

     “Is that why you chose to live here?”

     “I grew up in the valley, went to nursing school, and got a job at the regional hospital. I found this apartment near the college, and I liked the neighborhood. I started to learn my way around. First Baptist was a natural, given my upbringing. Then I discovered Sunday nights at the café and a few people like Ralph.”

     “Gay people?”

     “Queer, homo, whatever you want to call us.”

     “I interviewed Miss Lilac Arugg yesterday. Rural Virginia may be conservative, but there are alternatives.”

      Nash paused to look at Louisa. Maybe she was trustworthy. He brushed the hair from his forehead and stopped scowling.

     “Hapsburg turned out to be not so sleepy after all,” he said.

     “A hotbed of intrigue?”

     “You would know, writing for the newspaper.”

     “I’m still learning my way around. Did you and Ralph become friends?”

     “If you mean lovers, we never got that far. Do you think all gay men have sex at the drop of a hat?”

     “Sorry to be obtuse.”

     “There’s casual sex and true love forever, just like the real world.”

     “Did Ralph tell you about a long-term relationship?”

     “He didn’t volunteer the information, but it leaked. Later, the long-term ex turned out to be Captain Ryder.”

     “When did you find out?”

     “A few days ago, along with the rest of the world.”

     “But you were cautious.”

     “From my work, I’m well aware of sexually transmitted disease. For health reasons, I kept things out of the bedroom.”

     “Were you interested?”

     “I made it clear I was looking for commitment. For Ralph, that was a game changer. After years of carrying on a secret affair with a married man, he realized he did not have to play second fiddle. Starting in January, he said he was going to break it off.”

     “In mid-February, he did. Ryder gave me his version. Did you ever meet him?”

     “I had no desire to. I wasn’t about to step into another pile of cowpat.”

     “A neighbor named Wolfram says he saw you and Ralph in the yard on Sunday afternoon. You were planting bushes.”

     “It was a gardening date. At church that morning, he asked for help. It sounded innocent enough. Fresh air, exercise, and green plants. High culture and horticulture, we do it all.”

     “You planned to travel together for a few days.”

     “Ralph told me he had sent his boyfriend packing. It was a clean break, no messy details. We both had vacation time coming up. He thought a few days in Philadelphia would be a way to test the waters. An out-of-town try-out, in theater-speak.”

     “After the planting, did you stay at Ralph’s house?”

     “No sleepover. As a reward for agricultural labor, Ralph invited me to stay for supper. Eating alone gets old, and we both enjoyed the company. Also, he liked to cook. He refused to let me help wash dishes, and I left.”

     “What did you do after that?”

     “Work. The hospital rotates nurses through shifts. That Sunday, I was assigned the graveyard shift. It started at eight PM and ran to eight AM on Monday. I came home and slept a few hours. We were supposed to leave Monday evening. I saw the newspaper with the headline that Ralph was killed. It was upsetting. I packed and left.”

     “Have the police questioned you?”

     “Not yet. They left phone messages at the apartment and the hospital. Ryder last week, and then a detective named Blake. I’m in no hurry to fall into their clutches.”

     “Where did you go?”

     “I took the train to Philadelphia. Ralph had already bought the tickets and made the hotel reservation. Why let them go to waste? I thought the time away might be beneficial.”

     “Was it?”

     “I went through the motions, saw the tourist sights, went to the art museum. I felt numb, unable to appreciate anything. By the end of the week, though, I was sure about one thing.”

     “What was that?”

     “If that’s how this town treats people like Ralph, I want out.”

*

     Throughout the conversation, Nash methodically wrapped and packed dishes. Now the cardboard box was full. He folded the top flaps, sealed them with tape, and moved on to another box for glassware.

     “The death of someone close to you is always difficult,” Louisa said, “no matter the cause. But what you just told me does not match what others say.”

     Nash paused in his work.

     “You were scheduled for the Sunday night shift, but the hospital made a last-minute change. Instead, you went to the drag show at the Catharsis Café. There, you talked to J. D. Ryder. Why did you lie just now?”

     “That’s why.”

     “Because it was Ryder?”

     “He was trying to disguise himself, but I’m sure it was him.”

     “Let’s back up, Mr. Nash. Why were you there?”

     “Why not? I had the evening off, and I’d never seen a drag show. I asked Ralph if he wanted to go, but he said he was tired after a full day of work. His plan was to get a good night’s sleep and clean the house on Monday morning. He said to have fun, and we would meet up for the jaunt to Philly.”

     “So, you went to the café by yourself. Did you meet Ryder by chance?”

     “This heavy guy wearing sunglasses and a ball cap started to chat. The setting is informal. People move around and talk between songs. I wondered if this dude was looking for a pickup. I didn’t want to get up and leave, so I tried to stay neutral. But he seemed to know who I was. He said we had a mutual friend.”

     “Was he referring to Ralph?”

     “Had to be. Then things got hairy. Ryder said that if I knew what was good for me, I would stay away. Keep out of something that’s none of my business.”

     “That sounds like a threat.”

     “He was one scary dude. At the same time, I wondered why a police chief would be hanging out at a gay bar. Was it a sting operation? Did Ryder want payback for being dumped? Come to think of it, did he have anything to do with Ralph’s death?”

     “Those are some of the questions I’m trying to answer. You showed up unexpectedly. Ryder could have been afraid of blackmail. He knew who you were. Did he expect you to recognize him?”

     “Maybe that was the point. He didn’t want the bar crowd to know, but he wanted me to feel some heat. My boy’s night out was turning into a nightmare.”

     “What did you do?”

     “I said I had no idea what he was talking about. Isn’t that what you say when a thug threatens you? It was about nine o’clock, and the show wasn’t over. But I was.”

     “Where did you go?”

     “Here, to the apartment. I had had a drink at the show. Once I got home, I went to bed.”

     “You weren’t worried?”

     “There was nothing I could do about it, and I was tired. I made some noise coming in the street door, which rousted Mrs. Yoder downstairs. She opened her door to complain. She complains a lot.”

     “Can Mrs. Yoder verify that you were here Sunday night after nine?”

     “Look, Mrs. Jones, if you’re trying to establish an alibi, that would be it. Anyway, why would I want to hurt Ralph? If anything, I wanted the opposite.”

     “The evidence backs you up, Mr. Nash. Still, your sudden disappearance after the murder looks bad. If we understand anything about Ryder, he has mixed motives. Jealousy is possible, along with a desire to protect his status. Sooner or later, you will have to answer to Blake, the detective. You might want to have a lawyer present.”

     “Thanks for the tip.”

     “Meanwhile, I have one more question. In the dryer in the basement is a pair of plaid shorts. To whom do they belong?”

     “Not Ralph, that’s for sure. Probably Patrick. He was around. I think he stayed at Ralph’s house for a few days.”

     “That’s what Patrick says. Did Ralph mention a disagreement?”

     “He said the scales had fallen from his eyes. Whatever that means.”

     “Disillusionment with his brother. What about the neighbor?”

     “The day we planted the bushes the neighbor walked by wearing plaid shorts. After he left, Ralph went on a mock tirade. If I ever saw him committing a fashion felony like that, I should shoot him. It would be a mercy killing.”

     “Eric Wolfram was the neighbor?”

     “Right. He gave Ralph some gardening advice.”

     “What was that?”

     “He said that hydrangea blossoms can be pink or blue, depending on the pH of the soil. For blue, add acid, for pink, add alkali.”

     “What did you do?”

     “Ralph sent me to the garden shed for a bag of plant food, the type that increases acidity. He sprinkled it around the new bushes.”

     “What did you do with the bag?”

     “I put it back in the shed.”

     The movers appeared in the kitchen. One of them needed Nash’s attention.

     “We loaded all the furniture on the truck and some of the boxes. Nick here can help you pack the last of the boxes, while I tie things down.”

     Louisa gathered her notes.

     “Thank you for your patience,” she said, “and good luck with your move.”

     “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The hotel had no off season.

Outside, the world kept changing. Summer baked the parking lot into an uneven, pitted sheet of white glare. Autumn brought stubborn, resilient leaves skittering along the curb. During winter, Christmas lights appeared on distant shops, restaurants and houses beyond the highway. Then spring returned with rain that polished the asphalt black again.

Inside the hotel everything remained the same, felt the same, smelt the same; a mixture of coffee, laundry detergent and ‘lavender garden’ scent in the lobby.

The hotel was called The Haven, a place of eternal rest, even though everyone knew it was more like a station. A place people came to while something else happened elsewhere, ships docking before they went out to the sea again. A place for pauses that were supposed to be brief and yet, somehow weren’t.

Each ship had a different reason for being in the harbour.

The family in room 108 was waiting for a visa. Every morning the father checked his email before his feet touched the floor. The mother kept their documents in a neat blue folder as if order itself might hurry the process along. Their son had learned different ways to ask the receptionist for extra towels, toilet paper and dishwashing soap. He had also learnt enough patience watching his parents swinging at the pendulum of hope and despair, living among suitcases that remained neither packed nor unpacked.

The woman in Room 327 was waiting for her husband to wake up. Not from sleep, but from the long gray silence of a rehabilitation hospital twenty minutes away. She left every morning at eight. Returned every evening at six. She never stayed in the lobby, never chatted with anyone. Yet somehow everyone knew her. She would grab fruits from the breakfast buffet every morning , thrust them in her tote bag and rush out with impatient strides. She trudged back to the hotel every evening, her feet dragging behind her, her hope shrinking and growing like a tide.

The brothers in Room 151 were waiting for a court decision. The retired teacher in Room 280 was waiting for the renovation in her old apartment to be finished. The truck driver in Room 199 was waiting for doctors to tell him whether he could work again.

Everyone was waiting. Standing in the dock of life, waiting for their ship to come in.

The Haven had a breakfast room where strangers sat beneath a television mounted in a corner. They barely listened to the news or even glanced at the TV, and only nodded to one another with the familiarity of people who had shared days, weeks or even months of elevators and laundry machines without ever learning last names.

Yet, the family in Room 220 fascinated everyone.

A father, a mother, and a girl, a young woman really. 

Unlike the others, they weren’t waiting for news. Or paperwork. Or recovery.

They were waiting for a decision. A decision that they had to make.

The father worked mostly remotely from a makeshift small desk by the window as the daughter had taken the room with the actual desk and chair.  The mother spent afternoons researching schools, neighborhoods, weather reports, cost-of-living charts. Some evenings, as they sat in front of one of the three large televisions in their suite, they discussed places in hushed voices.

Chicago?

Houston?

India?

…Somewhere closer to family.

…Somewhere farther from everyone.

The girl listened while pretending not to.

Days passed. Every week they seemed on the verge of making a decision. Every week they remained.

The strange thing about indecision, the daughter often thought, was that it could look exactly like patience from a distance. Her annoyance was tempered by her wisdom, knowing that her parents were often indecisive, but seldom wrong.

People assumed the family was free. Lucky, even.

No deadlines. No emergencies. No bad news.

But from inside Room 220, freedom felt remarkably like being lost.

The father feared choosing the wrong future.

The mother feared choosing a future at all. She secretly hoped they would stay forever because in the hotel, things were predictable, unlike life.

She knew which vending machine swallowed dollar bills.

Which elevator rattled.

Which breakfast attendant smiled while scrambling the eggs in a plastic jar before emptying them out into a warm steel dish.

In the hotel, life was simple. Temporary. Unfinished. Elsewhere, a decision would harden into reality.

One rainy evening, nearly 2 weeks after they arrived, the power went out.

The lobby was filled with guests carrying flashlights and phones. Without televisions or laptops to retreat into, people lingered.

Someone made coffee on a camping stove.

Packets of overpriced cookies from the hotel market were opened.

Stories emerged.

The truck driver talked about highways stretching through deserts at dawn.

The woman from Room 327 admitted she was terrified her husband would wake up and no longer recognize her.

For a while, the waiting itself became visible,not as an inconvenience but as a kind of invisible weight everyone had been carrying on their shoulders.

Then the manager looked over and saw the family from Room 220.

The father and mother sat quietly together, it seemed their daughter had decided to stay in her room.

“What are you waiting for?” someone asked them.

The father smiled. It was tinged with sadness.

“We don’t know.”

Someone laughed gently…but the unanswered question still lingered in the dimly lit space.

He continued.

“We keep thinking there will be a moment when one decision feels obviously right.”

His wife nodded.

“A sign.”

“And?”

The father looked around the candlelit lobby.

The tired faces. The half-finished stories. The people suspended between one life and another.

“I don’t think the sign is coming.”

No one spoke for a moment.

The family continued to stand at the edge of a decision like travelers at the bank of a misty river. No one could see the far shore. There was no way of knowing all the ways things might go wrong … or right.

Then someone said

“No one knows what waits ahead, but the river of life has carried us this far and it will continue to carry us. Peace flows where water flows”.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

Outside, cars moved along the highway toward destinations they had already chosen.

Inside, the hotel held its small collection of unfinished lives.

There was sudden light and then several sounds emerged at once.  The power had returned. In the meantime something had shifted.

The family had made their choice.

That night, nothing changed. The rain still fell. The dishes still needed to be loaded in the dishwasher. The world offered no sign that they had chosen correctly.

A week later, the visa family received their approval.

Two weeks later the retired teacher moved into her apartment.

The truck driver got cleared to work.

People left, as people eventually do.

Room 220 checked out.

No announcement. No celebration.

Just three suitcases and other paraphernalia rolling across the lobby.

The manager asked where they had decided to go.

The mother looked at the father.

The father looked at his daughter

“North,” she said.

“North where?” asked the manager.

The family exchanged glances.

Then the father laughed.

The automatic doors opened.

Sunlight spilled across the floor.

And for the first time in weeks, they stepped into a future that was no less uncertain than before, only now it was moving.

The river was still cold, the fog was still thick, and certainty never really arrived. Yet they were sure the current would hold them gently, and the path would reveal itself one bend at a time. Looking back years later, they would not remember the fear as clearly as they remembered the trust, the quiet choice to move with the flow and let life meet them halfway.

The Haven stood behind them, exactly as it always had: part shelter, part crossroads.

A place where people arrived believing they were merely passing through.

And where many discovered that waiting was not the absence of life, but one of its most mysterious forms.