Cackle

by Rachel Harrison

I’d forgotten the difference between choosing not to participate and being excluded.

“How’s your morning so far?” she asks. “Good,” I say. “Everyone is really nice here.” “Ah, yes. That’s because we kill anyone who isn’t nice.” She looks back at me, wearing a smirk like a mink coat. “Don’t worry. It’s very humane.”

Oh, no,” she says, laughing. “No, no. I don’t bother with men in that way. Or women. Or anyone. I haven’t for a long, long time. I’ve discovered, over the years, that I’m much happier alone.”

“But,” she says, pausing to take a sip of her coffee, “you’ll discover for yourself soon enough the things that devastate us most in the moment are always the things we look back on with such gratitude.”

“Annie,” she says, “that was just a courtesy. I’ve actually kidnapped you and you don’t know it yet.”

The other face. It floats over my shoulder, an orb of pale skin. Two eyes. A nose. A mouth. It’s small, far behind me. I gasp, the sound surprising me as I spin around to look. There’s no one there.

In the morning sun, her skin is flawless. Pearlescent. She doesn’t have a single wrinkle, a single pore. She keeps insinuating she’s old, older than me, but she doesn’t look it.

It’s the fact that I let a good mood delude me into thinking happiness was something I could hold in my hands, that it wouldn’t slip through my fingers the moment I stopped fearing it would. See? my cynicism hisses. See!

“That’s all right,” the woman says, her voice squeaky. She shakes her hands at me. “No worries. Sophie’s in here all the time. We love Sophie. Love Sophie.” There’s obviously something else going on here.

Terrible things can happen to women who are alone. And here I am. No family, no friends. No boyfriend.

I don’t know why. Why she wants to be friends with me, hang out with me. I’m not special. I’ve always been realistic about who I am, about my perfectly average, unexceptional trajectory. I’ve always been fine with it. But as she moves her fingers through my hair from behind me on the couch, humming some tune I can’t identify, I wonder if maybe I am special, and it only took someone else special to point it out to me.

At the circle of headstones, she simply says, “Old friends.” I leave it alone.

Most of the time, with Sophie, I feel like the clueless, uncool little sister, but every once in a while, I’m the big sister with the allowance money and the jeans she wants to borrow.

“I’m never going to advocate looking for a romantic partner, especially not a male partner,” she says, and pauses to shudder. “I don’t much care for men. Or romance. I think both are a waste of time. And I’m someone with a lot of time.”

“Fate is just another invention to trick us into complacency. Inaction. If one assumes that they cannot change their circumstances, they won’t try. When you think about it, really, there’s a myriad of ways we’re conditioned to passivity. Women, especially. Of course, I realized all of this a long, long time ago. It saved me. It could have just as easily drowned me.”

Once you’ve lived in New York, it becomes like a sibling. I can bash it, call it names, but no one else can.

“There it is! Some gratitude. You’re welcome,” he says, smiling. A big dumb, self-satisfied grin. He has no idea how much of an asshole he’s being. I imagine it started in his youth, a few bad off-color jokes that people laughed at to be polite, or because they had terrible senses of humor, or because they were family and loved him so much they’d marvel at anything he said or did, or because his primary audience was a bunch of prepubescent peers. And as time went on, he continued to get this positive reinforcement. If the occasional person didn’t laugh at his bad jokes or bullying or general shtick, he’d assume it was their fault, that they were no fun, sticks-in-the-mud. In adulthood, he’s surrounded himself with like-minded idiots to insulate himself from any negative feedback. And through this lifelong cycle of validation and fortification, his ego has transformed into something large and dangerous.

“Some men are so foul you wouldn’t even bother to save their blood,” she says.

It’s astonishing what you’ll accept when you want love. When you need it. You’ll welcome it in any form, from anyone, anything, regardless of circumstance, however peculiar. However fantastical.

“I learned to impress boys,” I say. “Darling,” she says, “you’re in desperate need of new motivation.” “This was back in high school. Sixteen years ago. But yeah, you’re right.”

None of this has been by choice. Sam and I didn’t break up. He dumped me. And if he hadn’t done that, there’s no way I’d be out here proclaiming how wonderful it is to make risotto for one. I’ve spent the past few weeks convincing myself that I’m becoming empowered, but I know that if someone, if anyone, wanted me, I wouldn’t be here. Maybe independence is just the flag we wave to distract from the pain of being alone. And if everyone’s afraid of me, alone is all I’ll ever be.

It was only when I met Sophie that I started to feel like I could be brave. Like I didn’t have to sit on my hands all the time being polite, swallowing my own needs and desires so as not to bother or inconvenience anyone else. That I felt like I didn’t have to tolerate a flat, unobtrusive paper doll existence. That I could want more and not feel wrong to want it.

When it comes to Sophie, I’ve always been keen to let certain things slide for the sake of our friendship, but it’s at the point now where I can no longer ignore my mounting distrust.

What is it about a woman in full control of herself that is so utterly frightening?

“Please, pet.” “I’m not your pet!” This particular outburst surprises both of us. I was completely unaware this term of endearment bothered me until this moment. Suddenly, I realize how patronizing it is. How it implies ownership and reinforces an unfair power dynamic. This resentment must have been simmering in my subconscious for months.

Has he ever thanked me? “I’m really happy,” he says, licking some chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “This is what was missing. Us being together. Being present with each other. Paying attention. Gestures.” He helps himself to another cookie. What he missed was me revolving my entire world around him. He broke up with me, and I took fucking turns with him sleeping on the futon.

“I gave you so much of myself,” I say, “and you wasted me.” His face. Such pure, exquisite horror. Such fear. I don’t mind. He fears me because he is small. I will not meet him there. I will not shrink myself down to his size, or anyone else’s, for their comfort. For their appeasement.

I watch a reality TV show marathon about women trying on wedding dresses. “They’re so excited for one day in a pretty dress,” I say. “Someone really should tell them. They can wear a pretty dress whenever they want.”

It’s best not to be specific with wishes. Otherwise, you end up getting what you think you want instead of what you really need. How dangerous.