Half an hour later, in fresh clothes and makeup, Evelyn was nearly ready when the sound of hammering made her forget about drying her hair. She went down the hall to investigate. The door to the guest room was open, and Ingrid was standing in the middle of the bed, hoisting above the headboard an enormous stuffed white owl mounted on a wooden plaque.
“Um, hi,” said Ingrid, a little gaspy from the weight of the plaque. She managed to get it hooked over the nail she had just hammered, with a hammer that now lay on the bedspread. Evelyn stared.
Ingrid dropped to her knees on the bed.
“I was just hanging up my owl,” she said. “Ray said to just put up my own stuff if I wanted.”
“Ray did?” Evelyn looked around, trying to take in what had happened. The curtains were gone. Ingrid had threaded the curtain rods through the arms of four tee shirts instead, two per window. One tee shirt had a silkscreen print of Reagan’s head with a cartoon balloon over it that said, “The bombing begins in five minutes.” The brand new bedspread was nowhere to be seen, and the bed was already unmade. One pillow had disappeared, and the other pillow had books lying on it. Evelyn turned her head sideways and read the titles: Farewell, My Lovely; In the Matter of J. Robert Oppenheimer; Orienteering for Beginners; Silent Spring. There was a huge terrarium that appeared to be full of sand parked on top of the dresser; more books and piles of clothes lay scattered across the floor.
Ingrid cleared her throat. “It’s kind of a mess in here, I know,” she said. “It’ll take me a while to get everything set up.”
“I can see that. Where are the curtains?”
“Oh, I folded them up and put them in the bottom drawer. I um, I didn’t want them to get dirty or anything.”
But the curtains were nice, Evelyn wanted to protest. Her eyes fell on the missing pillow—on the floor between the bed and the nightstand—and she bent to retrieve it, composing in her head how she would phrase her complaints to Ray. But as she patted the pillow back in place she became aware of a sensation that had sprung up alongside her annoyance: something other than mess had transpired.
She straightened up and looked around the room again. Yes, there was no denying it. In the space of half an hour, Ingrid had done what Evelyn had not managed in over a year: she had made a part of Ray’s house utterly and unalterably hers. Ingrid’s, the room said. She had marked it: even the smell was different. Evelyn breathed in old cotton, tobacco, and—from the owl, she supposed—mothballs.
Ingrid was looking at her.
“Is there anything you need?” Evelyn said, just to be saying something. She hoped her tone of voice conveyed her disapproval of the mess, and not her admiration of the room’s metamorphosis.
“Everything’s great,” said Ingrid, oblivious to both. “It’s nice to have my own room for a change—I had a roommate at school.”
I want my own room, Evelyn thought. A silly thing to think when she had a whole house. This was her house, not only Ray’s but hers too, and yet Ingrid had just come right in and made herself feel at home. As if it were so easy.
“Well, I’ll bring you some fresh towels,” Evelyn said. “Your bathroom is down the hall on the—Oh!”
Right beside her on the dresser, in the terrarium she had thought was empty, lay a large mottled lizard. A head like a turtle’s, a pouch at the neck like a pelican’s. Dinosaur spines running from its head to the tip of its tail, snake markings. An exotic animal in a cage. Before Evelyn knew what she was saying, she had asked, “Can I take him out?”
Ingrid blinked in surprise.
Evelyn felt the fluttering panic of error stir in her chest, but before she could think of how to backpedal, Ingrid recovered herself, said, “Yeah, sure,” so Evelyn lifted the screen off the terrarium.
“Move slowly, and support his tail,” Ingrid instructed. Evelyn raised the lizard close to her face and breathed on him gently.
“Hey, how do you know that’s what he likes?” Ingrid asked.
“I—oh, is this what he likes?” Evelyn laughed, uncomfortable.
“Most people are scared to touch him,” Ingrid said. “Have you held a bearded dragon before?”
Bearded dragon. It sounded like one of her tattoos.
“No, never.” Pythons, tigers, an alligator—yes. But no bearded dragon.
“His name is Melvin,” Ingrid offered. “After my hometown. Look, he likes you—see, his eyes are rolling up in his head.”
“Like a snake’s.”
“You know about animals, huh?”
There was something like admiration in Ingrid’s voice, and Evelyn felt herself warm to it. “A little,” she said.
“I’m so relieved,” said Ingrid. “I thought you might be the type who freaks out at lizards.”
No, Evelyn thought wearily, I am not the type who freaks out at lizards. I am the type who is a freak.
Oh, why couldn’t Ingrid have been just a little more normal? Why couldn’t she have regular hair instead of that badly-dyed, spiky bird’s nest? Why couldn’t she at least like the curtains? Evelyn deposited the lizard back in his cage and replaced the screen. When she looked up again, she saw Ingrid was staring at her. Was some edge of tattoo showing? She glanced down and tugged reflexively on her sleeves. But Ingrid was looking at her scar. Evelyn’s own eyes went involuntarily to the thin line of white that began in the middle of her forearm and extended straight down over the back of her hand to where it ended between her first and second knuckle. She put her hands behind her back and said: “We’re dining at seven.”
“You mean you guys are going out?”
Evelyn pressed her lips together. “No, I mean that’s what time we’re eating dinner—here, downstairs. At seven.”
“Can I help with anything?” Ingrid asked.
“Just get your stuff put away,” Evelyn said. It came out sounding bitchy. “I mean,” she added, “take your time, get yourself settled in.”
Ingrid looked chastened. “Um, okay, thanks. For letting me stay here, I mean. I—I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” Evelyn said, and went down the hall. Thinking: Jesus, Evie Lynne, you’re the one invited her here. So how about act nice.
6.
The Shepards sat opposite each other with Ingrid between them, all three of them clinking silverware and glasses with the awkwardness of people on a blind date. Evelyn’s ham, decorated with canned pineapple slices and maraschino cherries stuck into it with toothpicks, would have been more at home on the cover of the women’s magazine where she had found the recipe; sitting on Ray’s grandmother’s Spode serving platter, surrounded by a wreath of sugar-glazed carrots, it looked out of place.
Evelyn made the first attempt: “We can’t let Ingrid sit around here bored all summer. Maybe she’d like to go to the mall with me tomorrow? I have some things to return.” The curtains, she was thinking, which were the wrong yellow anyway.
“The mall?” Ingrid looked up from her ham. The mall was where girls like Linda’s daughter Melanie went to sit on indoor benches next to fake plants, drink Diet Coke from McDonald’s and giggle when boys walked by. “Um, no thanks.”
Ray, realizing from