Hope Is Stupid

HOPE IS STUPID

“Can I have lunch in here, Miss Crane?”

Madison stands in the doorway of my classroom, holding a thermos in one hand and a copy of The New Yorker in the other. I would much prefer to be alone for the opportunity to put my head down on my desk and whimper softly to myself for the next forty-five minutes, but . . . I’d feel guilty saying no to a student who’s just looking for somewhere to be. I’ve been that kid.

I still am that kid.

“Sure,” I say.

She sits in the desk directly across from mine. “Beth is absent today and I cannot deal with the rest of them. I cannot.”

She unscrews her thermos. I get a whiff of an earthy smell.

“It’s kombucha,” she says. “I brew it myself. It’s really good for you.”

“Is that all you have?”

“I eat. Don’t worry,” she says. “I just don’t really believe in lunch.”

She opens The New Yorker and I gather a stack of papers that I’ve been putting off grading.

When the bell rings, she screws the top back on her thermos and smiles sweetly.

“Thank you for letting me hang in here, Miss Crane,” she says on her way out, her eyes wide, her expression earnest. She looks so young right now. She is young. It’s easy to forget that kids these days don’t act like kids.

Kids these days. Oof. Let me just disintegrate into dust and be carried off by a gentle breeze.

“You’re the only cool teacher here,” she says.

I wish it were possible to catch a compliment, to hold it in the cage of your hands like a firefly and never let it go.

But . . . it isn’t. The high is transient.

After school, I stop at the Verizon store in Aster to get a new phone. The guy who sells it to me seems annoyed by my very existence, and to be honest, I find it deeply relatable.

I go to Tops Friendly Markets and get a rotisserie chicken and a liter of ginger ale. Then I stop at Simple Spirits for a bottle of bourbon.

“What’s the occasion?” Alex asks me, her eyes narrowing with their usual judgment.

“Had a hankering,” I say, surprising myself with my lack of shame.

If I want to drink straight from a bottle of bourbon on a Monday night, that’s nobody’s business but my own.

I let this attitude keep me company as I plow through a hefty fraction of the bottle while eating the rotisserie chicken with my hands, sitting on the kitchen floor.

When I’m done, I leave the carcass on the counter and go straight to bed.

---

—On Friday, I run into Jill while getting coffee in the teachers’ lounge.

“Hey!” she says. “I was just thinking about you.”

I don’t say anything. I search the fridge for half-and-half.

“Are you sure you don’t want to meet Pascal? We saw him last weekend and I just really think you guys would hit it off.”

“There’s no half-and-half,” I say. I give a long, defeated sigh as I pour 2 percent milk into my tumbler.

“We could all do dinner. Or drinks?” She’s persistent. “Double date.”

Of course, I’m thinking about the picture. Of course, I’m thinking about Sam and Shannon.

I wonder how he’d feel if he saw me with someone else.

Probably indifferent.

“Sure,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

“Really?” she squeals.

“Yeah,” I say.

“It’s going to be so fun,” she says. “When are you free? Next weekend?”

“Whenever.”

“Yay! I’ll talk to my husband and see what we can see! I love setting people up,” she says. “I’m good at it, too.”

“High success rate?”

She nods, her ponytail bobbing.

“All right,” I say. “I have class.”

“I’ll let you know about plans!”

I give her the thumbs-up on my way out. I hate myself for it.

On my walk back to class, I begin to regret my decision to accept Jill’s offer. What have I just gotten myself into?

Why am I willingly subjecting myself to a blind date? A blind double date. And they already know one another, so they’ll either be rehashing shared memories the whole time with me just sitting there pretending to be engaged, or they’ll be asking me questions about myself. Questions like: Where did you grow up? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Did you play sports in school? Do you like Star Wars?

And what if Pascal sucks? What if he chews with his mouth open or watches golf for fun? What if he owns a red hat?

How is it that when trying to climb out of a hole, I always seem to dig myself deeper?

---

—The next morning, I stop at the Good Mug for coffee on my way to Sophie’s. No one is there, except for Oskar, who is pouring coffee beans into the grinder.

“Morning,” he says. “What can I get for you?”

“Thinking,” I say. “I’m heading to Sophie’s. Wondering what I should bring her.”

He frowns.

“What is it?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Let’s go with vanilla cinnamon,” I say. “Two larges, please.”

“Yep,” he says.

I turn toward the windows to observe the street. It’s getting cold out, but the flowers haven’t died yet. They’re not as vibrant as they once were, but they’re hanging on. I wonder if Sophie has anything to do with that.

“You shouldn’t go out there,” Oskar says, so low I can barely hear him.

I turn around. He’s frothing milk.

“Sorry?” I ask.

“You shouldn’t go out there. To the woods.”

“To Sophie’s?”

“Some people go out there,” he says, “and they don’t come back.”

The hiss of steam interrupts him. He begins to pour the milk into cups in the slow, meticulous way he always does. His jaw is clenched, but that’s its permanent state. He gives nothing away.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Eleven,” he says, setting the cups down on the counter in front of me.

I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Why the hell would he say that?

“Cash or card?” he asks.

I search my bag for my wallet. My pockets. I find it in my jacket and promptly fumble it onto the floor. When I reach down to get it, I narrowly avoid smacking my head against the counter.

Oskar doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just stands there, stoic.

I hand him my credit card. He swipes it and gives it back to me. When he does, he grabs my hand. It’s so quick and unexpected I almost scream.

He’s looking at me, his blue eyes bright and intense, like the sky on an all-too-perfect day. I wait for him to say something, to tell me something else. Explain. But he just releases my hand and says, “Have a good one.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You, too.”

I take the coffee and step out onto Main Street. I start toward the woods, toward Sophie’s, but my body is reluctant, my legs suddenly rubber.

What did Oskar mean?

Does he not know that I know the truth about Sophie? Is that what that was about?

I guess if I knew only what Sophie was and not who she was, I’d fear her, too.

I continue in a daze toward the woods.

It requires a lot of focus to walk through the woods holding two large lattes. It’s a feat of balance, especially on rubbery legs.

I also have never gone to Sophie’s without having Sophie herself to guide me, so I have to pay close attention to every familiar tree, every distinct dip in the ground, every unique rock. I get myself to the well. Part of me is tempted to peer in to see how far down it goes, but I’m afraid to get too close.

And the hut, too. I’m curious to look inside, see what it’s like, but I don’t have the nerve.

The circle of headstones I’m totally good with avoiding. All set there.

When I walk down the hill to her house, I see the front door is already open, and she’s standing there in a black gown with a plunging neckline. She’s waving to me. Waving me in.

“I’m coming,” I say.

“I’m impatient,” she says.

“I brought coffee,” I say, handing her one of the cups.

“My sweet! Come, let’s drink it in the parlor. I’ve cleaned it up.”

She leads me to a room I’ve never been in before, one with silky wallpaper and dainty furniture. There’s a baby white marble fireplace, an excess of reedy plants, a few watercolors depicting bucolic landscapes. We sit on two pretty but uncomfortable chairs, drinking our lattes.

Sophie tells me about her week, about a new balm she made for her cuticles and about how Monday is Halloween and no one in town likes to celebrate because of her.

“I don’t know what they think,” she says. “I threw a party one year, and nobody came! I like those tiny little chocolate bars just as much as the next person. It’s beyond aggravating.”

“Yeah,” I say, debating whether to disclose Oskar’s weird comment.

“There’s such a stigma,” she says, sighing. “You know I don’t believe in self-pity, but if I give myself one night a year to feel sorry for myself, that’s the one. I’ll probably mix myself a cocktail in a cauldron and get bloody drunk.”

“A cauldron?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.

“Mm,” she says.

I don’t have a response, which results in an awkward pause. The quiet recalls Oskar’s voice. Some people go out there and they don’t come back.

I look up at Sophie, and she’s looking back at me. Her amber eyes have gone dark.

“What is it, pet?” she asks, her chin ascending.

“Um, no-nothing,” I stammer. The coffee cup begins to crumple in my hands. I’m clutching it too tightly.

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” she says. “You can tell me.”

“Really, it’s nothing.” Why would Oskar say that to me? Why would he say it if he didn’t have good reason?

Have I been too accepting? Have I glued on my blinders for the sake of this friendship?

I always thought I was an exceptional judge of character. That I could see people for who they really are deep down. But isn’t that the kind of arrogant thinking that gets people called to the witness stand? Ted Bundy had a wife, didn’t he?

Oh, God. Would I have married Ted Bundy?

“Annie,” Sophie says, coolly examining her nails, “we’re friends, yes? Friends don’t keep secrets from one another, now, do they?”

“No,” I say. I don’t have a choice now. “It’s just . . . It’s Oskar.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“He said something to me. I just . . . It was weird. I thought it might . . . I don’t know. I thought it might hurt your feelings. You know, the stigma.”

She laughs. “Oh, pet. You don’t need to worry about Oskar hurting my feelings, though I am curious. What did he have to say about me?”

“It wasn’t anything bad,” I say.

She laughs again. Louder this time.

I swallow. “He said that I shouldn’t come out here. He said . . . he said . . .”

She leans forward. Closer to me.

Closer. Closer.

“He said . . . he said some people come out here and don’t come back.”

She latches onto me, her hand on my knee. She sinks her fingertips into my skin. Her eyes are wild. A sneer possesses her lips. “Did he really?”

I nod.

She lets go, settling back into her chair. “He still blames me. I suppose it’s easier than accepting any responsibility himself. He can’t bring himself to confront the reality of what happened. It’s too painful for him.”

“What happened?” I ask, nerves churning.

“His wife. Helen. Erik’s mother. She was unhappy. She was very young when she married Oskar, when she had Erik. She felt trapped, completely overwhelmed. So she came to me. We spent some time together. She was so lost. I thought she was seeking friendship, direction.” Sophie’s eyes catch on something. Some memory. She’s quiet for a moment. “Then she left.”

“Left?”

“One morning Oskar woke up and she was gone. He came storming over here, of course, accusing me. I hadn’t a clue where she went. He didn’t believe me. He asked to come inside. I didn’t much like the idea of letting an angry man into my home, for him to turn the place over, searching for someone I knew wasn’t here. He threatened to call the police. Imagine! I said if he did that, I’d harvest his teeth, pluck them from his jaw one by one and use them for jewelry.”

She sighs, stroking her bare collarbone. “A shame he relented. He does have nice teeth, don’t you think? They would have made a beautiful necklace.”

If I had any sensation left in my body, I’m sure I would feel my chin dropping into my lap.

“Anyway,” Sophie says, noting my expression, “I had nothing to do with her leaving. All I did was listen and give her advice. He was the one who drove her off. He was very dismissive of her needs. But no, as far as he’s concerned, and perhaps the entire town, it’s my fault.”

“Where did she go?”

“She talked about California,” Sophie says, and sips her latte. “Maybe there.”

“Maybe?”

She stares at me. Seconds pass. In these seconds, babies are born, people die, stars burn millions of miles away and I may or may not let out a silent, nervous fart.

“Helen isn’t dead,” Sophie says finally, “or missing, if that’s what you’re wondering. She resurfaced several years ago and has been in touch with Erik. I’ve not been informed of her whereabouts. From what you’ve just told me, it seems her reappearance has not absolved me. A stubborn grudge from a stubborn man.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“No, that’s all right. I suppose it’s best that you know,” she says, “and that I was the one to tell you. Now, do you have any more questions? Any other concerns?”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Already in the past,” she says. She sits up straight and smiles, her eyes bright again. “Now! Darling. Will you come? I have a surprise for you in the ballroom.”

Any lingering nerves are immediately mollified when she reveals her surprise. She’s set up a shuffleboard court.

“Have you ever played?” she asks.

“I haven’t,” I say.

“I’ll teach you.”

And she does. She teaches me. We spend the day playing shuffleboard in the ballroom, taking breaks to drink raspberry lemonade and eat shortbread cookies.

I feel guilty for entertaining any suspicions about Sophie. I mean, she went out of her way to make a shuffleboard court for us to have a fun afternoon together. She baked cookies and made lemonade. She dropped everything to come over when I was upset; she cleaned my apartment and made sure that I was okay. She’s the most generous person I’ve ever met.

I look at her now, dancing around to Blackout-era Britney Spears, and all I feel is an overwhelming love for her.

How could anyone not love her? How could anyone fear her?

“All these songs are about sex,” Sophie says. “Why is society so obsessed with sex?”

I shrug.

“If this singer is truly seeking a partner, someone should tell her good conversation is much harder to have than good sex. That should be her primary concern.”

“Yeah, somehow I really don’t think it is.”

“I can’t help everyone,” she says. “Are you hungry? Do you want to make pizza?”

Half an hour later, I’m covered in flour and Sophie, in her black dress, is somehow not. Yet we’ve both participated in making the dough. Kneading side by side. Now it sits in a bowl covered by a damp cloth near the oven, and we’re chopping vegetables.

“Onions make me cry,” I tell Sophie.

“Not me,” she says. “But I don’t think I can have a proper cry anymore. I don’t think it’s physically possible.”

“You don’t cry?”

“I have,” she says. “I get sad. But emotions become . . . less and less over time. I feel things. And at times, I feel them intensely. But there’s a perspective that comes with age. It’s all fleeting. I savor the joy. The sadness, I let it pass. Crying takes a lot of effort. Not a lot of things inspire me to exert myself.”

“You want to chop the onion? I’ll trade for the broccoli.”

“Yes, darling,” she says. “Do you want artichokes? I think I have some down in the cellar.”

“Sure,” I say.

“I’ll get them.” She wipes her hands on a rag and pauses for a moment. “You shouldn’t go into the cellar.”

“Right, right,” I say, thinking it’s one of her cryptic jokes.

“No, pet,” she says, “I’m serious.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”

“The ghosts are there now. Don’t worry. They can’t leave. And there weren’t that many. It’s not as if the place was crawling with them.”

“Okay.” How many ghosts does she consider not that many? I’m of the strong opinion that any number of ghosts is too many.

“They’re trapped down there, so, you know . . . best for you not to go.”

“Not a problem.”

“Great,” she says. She opens the door to the pantry, then leans down to open the cellar. There’s an outburst of moans. Eerie, ghastly bellows.

“Oh, shush,” I hear Sophie say. Then she lowers her voice and begins to speak a language I don’t understand. Maybe Latin? Whatever it is, it shuts them up. There’s no more moaning.

She emerges moments later, holding a jar of artichoke hearts.

“My second favorite type of heart to have on pizza,” she says.

This is a joke. I can tell because of the look she gives me after she says it.

“What am I going to do with you?” I ask.

“What kind of cheese do we want? Goat?”

We cook the pizza on a stone over crackling red flames in the fireplace. We eat it at the dining table. Sophie lights some candles, but the room is so huge that a few small candles don’t make much of a difference. It’s dark, and where it isn’t dark, shadows dart in and out of the space afforded to them by the candlelight.

“Is it cold in here?” she asks me.

“It’s a little cold.”

She stands up. As she walks over to the fireplaces, I hear her snap her fingers. There’s a loud pop, and suddenly a fire roars in the first fireplace. In the new light, I watch Sophie throw a yellowish powder into the second fireplace, and a fire appears there instantaneously. She snaps her fingers again as she comes toward me. She sits down next to me and takes another slice of pizza.

“Fancy,” I tell her, staring at the two big healthy fires.

Shapes emerge in the flames. On the left, a lion. On the right, a regal bird. They change. A wolf, a mouse.

“Ooh!”

The shapes swirl and disappear.

“Do you think you’ll stay over tonight, pet?” she asks, pouring me some wine.

“Sure,” I say.

“Really?”

I hesitate. On one hand, I know for a fact that this house is haunted and that one of the ghosts attempted to kill me. On the other, I don’t want to go home. I’m having a great time. It’d be a bummer to trek back through the woods to spend the night alone in my apartment, thinking about Sam and potentially being too sad to masturbate.

If Sophie says she trapped the ghosts in the basement, she trapped the ghosts in the basement. I heard them down there.

“We can stay up late,” she says. “We could play more shuffleboard, or watch a film, or read. I can make hot chocolate. I’ve got some cream I can whip.”

“All that sounds great,” I say. But we’re too full after dinner for hot chocolate. Instead, we split another bottle of wine and Sophie puts on Jaws, which surprises me.

“I heard everyone talking about it when it first came out, so I had to watch. Have you ever seen it?”

“Yeah, a few times. It’s one of my dad’s favorite movies.”

“I quite enjoy it,” she says. “But of course, I always root for the shark.”

I think she’s kidding, but at the end of the movie, when Brody blows up the shark, she sighs, shaking her head like she hoped for a different outcome despite knowing there wouldn’t be one.

We walk upstairs arm in arm, and she kisses me good night. A quick kiss on each cheek. One of the few things I remember about my mother is that she used to kiss my cheeks like that. Kiss, kiss. Then she’d say, Good night, mini muffin. I don’t know why she called me that, but she always did.

“What is it?” Sophie asks. “Are you afraid?”

“No,” I say. “Just had a random memory come up.”

“Mm,” Sophie says. “A good one, I hope.”

She winks and heads toward her room.

“Good night,” she says.

“Night.”

In my room, there are two new lamps and a giant box of chocolates on the nightstand. The extra light contributes to increased coziness. The fear I previously experienced in this space is gone.

I change into the pink silk pajamas that Sophie laid out for me. I eat the chocolates in bed while reading a book of collected poems. When I fall asleep, it’s deep and dreamless.

---

—The next morning, over pancakes at the diner, I decide to come clean with Sophie about my most recent stupid decision. My upcoming blind date.

I’ve been nervous about her response, but she doesn’t have much of a reaction.

“Any step away from the past is a step in the right direction,” she says.

“I guess,” I say. “I’m just worried it’s going to be a shitty experience, and then I’ll feel worse about everything.”

“Why? Are you not happy as you are? With how things are?”

“I mean, kind of. Not really.”

She sighs. “You don’t need a boyfriend, darling. You need perspective.”

“Probably.”

“Does the coffee taste funny to you today? It tastes funny to me.” And with that, the subject is changed.

I don’t think about the date again until the next day, when Jill comes prancing into my classroom wearing a bat costume. Apparently, the staff was meant to dress up for Halloween—information I might have learned if I cared enough to pay attention to memos, which I don’t.

“What are you?” she asks me.

“Forgetful.”

She laughs. “You’re so funny. I told Pascal how funny you are.”

“No pressure.”

“You want a Mounds?” She offers me a fun-sized candy bar. I take it. It’s very warm. Molten inside its wrapper. “I have good news. You have plans Friday.”

“Cool.”

“With me! And my husband, Dan. And who knows? Maybe your future husband. Pascal!”

“Again, no pressure.”

“Seven work for you? Have you been to Rhineland?”

“No.”

“You’re going to love it. They have this cheese dip appetizer that might be my favorite thing ever. So seven?”

“Yep. See you there,” I say, instead of what I want to say, which is Kill me now.

“Great!” She hands me another Mounds before flapping out of my classroom.

As soon as she leaves, Madison enters. She’s always early.

“No costume?” she asks. She’s wearing Ouija board knee socks and a blouse patterned with skulls.

“No,” I say. I toss her the Mounds.

“Here,” I say flatly. “Happy Halloween.”

The rest of the week I spend every spare minute brainstorming viable excuses I could use to get out of dinner. A variety of illnesses. A head cold. A chest cold. The flu. Allergies. Strep throat. A stomach virus. Food poisoning. Pink eye. Ringworm. Or maybe the death of a relative? I have a lot of dead relatives. It wouldn’t be a lie to say that my grandpa died. It was six years ago, but he did die.

I wasn’t raised religious, but a common warning from my grandmother (still alive) is that you get out what you put into the universe. The ole “What goes around comes around.” Karma.

Since things already aren’t going so hot for me, I can’t risk any cosmic consequences.

By Thursday afternoon, I’ve resigned myself to going.

When I get home, I open my closet, readying myself for a long, frustrating solo fashion show in which I get to confront how terrible I look in everything I own, but instead I find a new dress hanging front and center. It’s a deep yellowy gold. Crushed velvet. V-neck, A-line.

I try it on. It’s a perfect fit. There’s never been a more flattering dress.

There’s a note tucked into the sleeve.

To what’s ahead. Have fun on your date. XO, Sophie

I’m so moved by the gesture I could cry.

The dress reframes the way I look at the date. It could be fun. That’s a possibility. Pascal could be really hot. He could be nice and smart and charming. We could hit it off. He could want the same things that I want. Maybe we’ll get married at the courthouse and have an intimate brunch after. Maybe we’ll honeymoon in Barcelona, hold hands and kiss in the streets, have strangers come up to us to tell us how in love we look. Maybe we’ll buy an old house with character, with good bones, and we’ll fix it up ourselves, then post pictures so people can marvel at the before and after.

Maybe we’ll have a tradition of sleeping in late on Sundays, and we’ll wake up in each other’s arms just shy of noon, spooning so we don’t have to endure morning breath.

What if I get to have one of those great stories? Like how some couples talk about how they met, like how he found her glove and then chased after her and then they kissed in the snow and the rest was history? I could say I was with someone for almost ten years who I thought was my soul mate, but then we broke up and I moved here and got set up on a blind date and found my actual soul mate.

I look at myself in the mirror, in this dress, and it’s hard not to feel a spark of hope. It’s impossible not to consider the chance.