Fern had gotten herself lost.
The bookstore she’d worked at for over a decade had gone out of business, and what she assumed would be a brief blip of unemployment advanced towards month three with no end in sight. To help fill the excruciating amount of free time she now had–and to avoid the sound of her husband Nick’s breathing–she would take long walks through their labyrinth of a town. She wore her largest pair of sunglasses and kept her hat pulled low to ward off both the cold and any neighborly attempts to engage her in conversation. Ignoring street signs and the time, she walked aimlessly, allowing herself to slip into a pleasant mental fog. For at least a few hours, she could be a ghost, untethered to the responsibilities of the living.
She’d been listening to a true crime podcast when one of the hosts cut off mid-word, as if they too had fallen prey to the Silver Lake Strangler. She unearthed the phone from her pocket; even through her glove, it felt like an ice cube. The battery had been at fifty-two percent when she left the house, but the temperature had plummeted twenty degrees with the setting sun, and it must have been too much for her ancient phone.
None of the street names looked familiar. Robbed of the maps app she relied on, she picked a direction at random, only to second-guess herself after a few blocks. She doubled back, turning down a different street, but after walking half a mile, she suspected she had been right the first time. An elderly man collecting his mail called out to see if she needed help. Fern picked up the pace, pretending not to hear him.
By the time she returned home, she’d lost feeling in her fingers and toes. Her snot had frozen solid like her nostrils were a pair of popsicle molds. All she could think about was cocooning herself on the couch and zoning out to the new game show she’d discovered in which contestants had to eat the most pickles in a minute. She found the slow-motion instant replays– jaws gnashing, saliva and pickle juice misting the air–particularly revolting and had binged three seasons in the past week. She felt a pang of guilt whenever she looked at her stockpile of unread books, but they reminded her too much of her dearly departed bookstore, a problem she didn’t have with People vs Pickles.
When she got inside, Nick was pacing, frazzled. He must have been trying to reach her. Fern flushed with guilty pleasure at seeing him look so concerned. “Fucking finally,” he said. “Did you forget we’re seeing the play?”
She scoffed. “Of course not.”
It wasn’t that she had forgotten so much as willfully chosen not to remember. They would be driving almost an hour away to see some comedy written in the 70s called Blanket Statement. At least, she assumed it was a comedy. She often had trouble deciphering Nick’s interpretation of things. This was the same man who had once described Jurassic Park as a “heavy watch.” They didn’t know anyone involved with the production, and neither of them had been to this theatre before, or even the town where it was located. All Nick would say when pressed was that he had seen a production of the play when he was younger, and though he couldn’t remember what it was about, he wanted to see it again.
“When did you want to leave?” she asked.
“Like–ten minutes ago.”
She gestured to her coat and hat. “Well, I’m ready.” She looked down at his bare feet and raised her eyebrows. It was crucial that she didn’t give him an inch at the beginning of an argument. It had been one of the best tactics she’d learned from him.
“Do you have the spare charger?” she asked as he yanked his scarf taut, briefly strangling himself. He nodded and made an affirmative grunt before shooing her out the door. After they’d been driving for a few minutes, and his jaw looked less clenched, she asked about the charger.
“It’s in my backpack.”
She twisted to look in the backseat but only saw a carpet of drive-thru bags and crumpled napkins. “Where?”
“Huh?”
“Where is your backpack?”
“In the living room.”
She stared at her husband’s dumb face as the wind whistled against the windows. He fiddled with the heat, oblivious. After mentally counting down from five, she said, “My phone is dead. So that doesn’t really help me now.”
He continued adjusting the heat. “Goddamn, it’s cold.” He glanced at her. “Ok. Well, we’re late. What do you want me to do, turn around? We’re already on the parkway.”
“It’s fine.”
“You want me to stop and buy a charger?”
“No. It is fine.”
“Ok. So…” He shrugged. “Not like you can use it during the show, anyway. Can’t be checking your Insta or whatever in the middle of a play.”
Her shoulders climbed up to her ears. “When have I ever done that?”
“You literally had your phone out for half the movie last night.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s disruptive.”
“We were watching it at home.”
“Disruptive to me, Fern.”
Fern bit the inside of her cheek. Most of their recent attempts at communication ended up like this. It seemed to invigorate Nick. He would do squats and push-ups while they argued, then sleep like a baby, while she would be stuck awake, vibrating with adrenaline. Since she’d lost her job though, she had been eating and sleeping and talking and breathing mostly out of routine. If nothing else, fighting with Nick reminded her she was still alive.
Nick turned on the radio, and Fleetwood Mac filled the car. Before Fern could place the song, he changed the station. They listened to the entirety of an ad for a car dealership. He changed it again. After changing stations fourteen more times, he turned off the radio.
Fern stared at her door and considered unbuckling her seatbelt, tugging the handle, and rolling out onto the parkway. Would Nick notice or just keep driving? Maybe he’d slam on the brakes and race back to save her, only for a truck to come along and smear them both across the pavement like butter on toast. She found this image uncomfortably arousing and tried to think of something else.
“Son of a bitch,” Nick muttered. She looked over to see him shifting in his seat, digging a free hand into his pockets. She asked what was wrong. “I think I left my phone at home.”
“You know you can’t check your Insta during the show.”
He ignored the comment and changed lanes. “I was gonna use it for directions. Is your phone completely dead?”
“Yes, it’s as dead as it was ten minutes ago.”
He rolled his eyes. “Christ, I’m just asking.”
She pressed on her eyelids with her fingertips. “So…should we stop and buy a charger?”
“It’s fine. I know how to get there.” He then added, “Sorry,” but he said it like a teenager forced to thank someone for a gift they hate.
They drove in silence. Fern’s window had frosted up, so she drew a frowny face with her index finger. She then added a crude penis pointing at the face like a finger of accusation. Nick said nothing.
Light flurries divebombed the windshield. Nick turned on the wipers and took the next exit, slowing the car to a crawl. “Keep your eyes peeled for any signs for Ghostlight Players.”
She looked out her window. The penis she’d drawn pointed to a thrift store, a hair salon, a coffeeshop–all of them dark. “Is the theatre on this road?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“So…” Fern said before stopping herself. She had recently read an article that said the key to a relationship is reframing. It isn’t you against your partner, it’s the two of you against the problem. Couldn’t she try to be the bigger person?
“Hey,” she said brightly. “Remember when you said you knew how to get there?” He didn’t respond, but his face scrunched in on itself, and she knew she’d hit her target. At the next light, he hooked a left followed by another, immediate left. “Why don’t you stop and ask for directions?”
Nick peeled one hand off the steering wheel and made a broad, sweeping gesture. “Do you see anyone to ask?”
“When you see someone, ask them.”
Nick nodded a single, slow nod, punctuated by a loud exhale through his nostrils.
A few blocks later, Fern spotted an elderly couple shuffling their way down the sidewalk, their arms interlocked and heads bowed together. Did they cling to each other because it was icy, or did they always walk like this, still crazy for each other after all these years? She studied them from her sideview mirror as they drove past and decided the former would be more romantic. Maybe they were rarely affectionate anymore and holding onto each other would spark some memory from when they were young and first dating. Those early, easy days when you fall for the outline of the person, the ideal version they allow you to see, and by the time you realize there’s a discrepancy between the real person and the façade, it’s too late. You’ve convinced yourself the one you fell for must still be in there somewhere, if you could only dig them out again.
“Shit,” Fern said, snapping out of it. “There was a couple.”
Nick jerked his head back and forth. “Where?”
“Back before the light.” She pointed behind them. “We should ask if they know where the theatre is.”
“We already passed them.” He cut her off as she began to respond. “I’ll find it. I am going to find it.”
A headache blossomed behind Fern’s eyes. She wiped her finger drawing from the window and pressed her damp palm against her forehead. If her calculations were correct, they’d been in the car for seventeen hours. As the streets blurred into one another, she silently counted the seconds, willing herself to say something–anything–once she reached a minute. Then two minutes. Then five. She stayed silent. Since she wasn’t following through on the action anyway, she upped the ante. In one minute, she would scream. In two minutes, she would poke Nick in the eye. In three minutes, she would grab the steering wheel and yank–
Nick swerved suddenly into a crowded church parking lot, slamming on the brakes. Fern pitched forward, her seatbelt biting into her shoulder. Nick turned off the car, unbuckled his seatbelt, and hurled himself out, slamming the door behind him. He returned almost instantly, smacking his palm against the windshield.
“Let’s go!”
Fern opened her door and looked past him, confused. “Is this a church?”
“Yeah, the theatre’s in the basement.”
This only raised more questions, but Nick was already powerwalking away. She jogged to keep up with him. “Is the play religious?”
“No, just–come on.”
They ran, the brisk air slapping Fern awake. A confused burst of adrenaline had flooded her system. After being in the car for so long, she wanted to keep moving, maybe never stop. She felt a brief, manic impulse to open the church doors with a karate kick and immediately wiped out on a patch of ice.
Inside the church, a handwritten sign for Ghostlight Players directed them down a set of stairs, Nick barreling ahead as Fern limped after him. The basement vestibule was empty aside from a teenager wearing a pineapple bowtie. He cheerfully informed them there could be no late seating. “That’s fine, kid.” Nick looked past him at the door to the theatre. “We don’t mind, we’ll be quiet.” The teen held up both hands as if to physically restrain Nick and repeated himself, a little less cheerful.
As Nick began to argue with him, Fern wandered off to inspect a poster for Blanket Statement taped to the wall. It was a drawing of a group of people, a sheet thrown over them so that you could only see their legs and feet. It made the show look like one of those old bedroom farces, which would make this a far more progressive church than the one Fern had been forced to attend as a child.
A piercing scream startled her. She froze for a moment before remembering the play had already started. It must have been one of the actors. She pressed an ear against the wall but could only make out a furious garble.
A few months into working at the bookstore, an older coworker of Fern’s had a nervous breakdown in the travel section. Elaine was a small woman in her fifties who moved through the aisles as if worried she’d damage the books by breathing too loud. On a random Tuesday, with seemingly no provocation, she began tearing books off the shelves, screaming, “ENOUGH!” over and over, so many times the word seemed to lose its meaning. Customers stared, their faces etched with pity and mild fear, but Fern had been pinned to the floor by a curious envy. Elaine left the next day on permanent leave of absence. Fern fixated on the incident for years, wondering what happened to her, until last spring, when she spotted her in the frozen foods aisle at the grocery store. It felt like running into a celebrity. She followed at a distance as Elaine finished her shopping, paid for her groceries, and loaded the bags into her van. Fern watched her drive away, disappointed. The last thing she expected was for her to still look so utterly normal.
Nick stormed over. “The little asshole won’t let us in until intermission.”
A small pang of hope. She might make it home in time to catch the new People vs Pickles. “So…we’re leaving?”
He squinted at her. “We’re already here.”
Fern’s headache knocked on the inside of her skull a few times to remind her it hadn’t gone anywhere. She sat heavily on a nearby bench. It was twelve minutes past eight, and she hadn’t eaten since lunch. “Maybe we could get some food and come back?”
“And miss the start of act two?” Nick shook his head and sat down next to her. “Nope. No way. I’m not moving from this spot.”
Fern turned to ask the boy in the pineapple bowtie what happens in act one, but he had disappeared inside the theatre. She looked back at Nick, but he was slumped against the wall, eyes shut and air whistling out of his left nostril, somehow already asleep.
She wanted to check her phone, but since it was dead, she studied Nick’s face. She tried to picture him when he was younger. Maybe he’d gone to see the play with his parents, all of them laughing together, some precious memory that he hoped to recapture with her? Or he saw it with a high school girlfriend who had given him a discreet hand job in the darkened theatre, and that was why he couldn’t remember a single goddamn thing that happened in the play. She fought the urge to flick his ear.
Time crawled. Fern’s stomach growled, her back ached sitting on the bench, her leg throbbed from where she’d fallen in the parking lot, and her headache bonked around the inside of her skull like a goldfish in its bowl. She tried to remind herself that this would eventually end. The interminable waiting, the play she had no interest in seeing, the long drive home with Nick – these were all finite. As she continued to pull on this thread, she decided almost everything fell into this category. Her complacency, the self-loathing because of her complacency, the thrum of annoyance she felt at Nick’s existence, the weight in her chest like a block of ice dragging her down–this would all end at some point.
Of course, the same could be said for the few bits of happiness she scavenged throughout the days. Or her job at the bookstore, for that matter. And then there were those fleeting moments of levity with Nick, like when a shared memory would spark laughter between them, a quick tug as if they were holding the ends of a length of rope, and all they had needed was the slightest resistance to remember they were still connected. This, too, never lasted.
Fern slipped a hand inside Nick’s coat and fished out the car keys. Aside from a brief snort, he didn’t stir. She rose from the bench and hobbled up the stairs back out into the parking lot. Snow dusted the cars like powdered sugar. A gust of wind blew across the lot, and she shivered with pleasure as it whipped flurries around her. Within a minute, she could be on the road. She could get food, or go home, or just pick a direction and start driving.
She stood there, unmoving. She could go anywhere, do anything. But which choice was right?
Were any of them wrong?
A faint shouting rose above the wind. She paused, listening. There it was again. She followed the voices, feet crunching over frost as she circled the church. Rounding the corner, she spotted a line of windows along the ground. She crouched and peered through into the church basement.
Rows of metal folding chairs faced the wall, upon which a sagging, linty curtain had been hung. A single, harsh spotlight illuminated a dining table covered in an old floral tablecloth. Six pre-teens sat around the table in the middle of a furious debate. They wore ill-fitting suits, jacket sleeves sliding up and down as they gesticulated. Fern tried in vain to make out what they were saying. Was this supposed to be a business meeting? Were they half a jury? She still had no idea what the play was about, but one thing was clear. These kids could not act.
They shrieked their lines, pulling exaggerated faces as they jockeyed for attention. If there had been a director, they had seen the writing on the wall early on and abandoned ship. Fern scanned the captive audience as they rustled their programs and shifted in their seats. She suspected most of them were the actors’ families.
She couldn’t wait to tell Nick. He would have to agree to leave now. Or maybe it would be better to say nothing, wait until the second act to rub it in his face that he accidentally brought them to some kind of youth theatre program. But as she continued to watch, she felt oddly charmed by the kids. What they lacked in talent, they somewhat made up for with an aggressive enthusiasm. Whoever they were, they loved being on this stage with every fiber of their being. If someone tried to stop the show, this pack of ferals would devour them.
One of the girls stood and slammed her hands on the table. With her round cheeks and diminutive size, she closely resembled an incensed chipmunk. She circled the others, jabbing a finger of accusation at each of them in turn. Fern watched, mesmerized, as the girl stepped on her chair and launched herself up onto the table. As she landed, though, the tablecloth skidded out from under her. She kicked a foot back to steady herself, causing the table’s front legs to lift off the floor like a rearing horse.
Fern’s hands flew to the window, pressing on the freezing glass so hard she worried it might crack. The girl pinwheeled her arms as she fought to keep her balance, the odds fifty-fifty whether the table would right itself or continue to pitch back and send her flying. She hovered there for longer than seemed possible, suspended between the two outcomes. A strangled cry caught in Fern’s throat as the table rocked back, then forward, then back again. Being in proximity to a church must have been influencing her, because she found herself praying for the first time in years. Don’t let her fall…don’t let her fall…don’t let her fall…
But to her surprise, the girl didn’t show a trace of fear. Instead, her face beamed with delight, like she knew nothing could hurt her up there. As if this was all just part of the show, and when she was done playing pretend, she’d return to the real world intact.
Jeff Ronan is a writer and actor living in Brooklyn. His fiction has appeared in over a dozen publications including The Saturday Evening Post, Neon Door, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Abyss & Apex, Twenty-Two Twenty-Eight, and Metastellar. His play Bunkmates is published and licensed by Concord Theatricals. Jeffronan.com
