Page 85 of Cackle

“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.”