had acquired the reflexes of the guilty—as though the very shame he rejected had taken up residence in his bones. And though it may not have been Dory’s fault, he blamed her anyway.
He opened the door after a quick glance downwards to verify that he was fully dressed. Noticing a hole in one of his socks, he slipped his feet into the brown loafers on the mat.
“Hello, Professor,” said Edith. She liked to be called Ed and he obliged her, but the mental modification was beyond him. Using her hip, she insinuated herself inside without waiting for him to open the door any wider, and consequently he felt rude, old, out of step with time.
“Good morning, Ed,” he said. His voice, at least, wasn’t rough. There was one advantage in talking to oneself. He could feel himself smiling.
“Where would you like me to leave these?”
Keelan watched as the pile of books and photocopies Edith had cradled in her arms began to sag lower. “You can put the materials on the chair by the desk.” He regretted directing her so close to the letter, but though he saw her glance at it, she didn’t stop and stare.
“That was heavy.” Edith wiped her hands on her jeans and adjusted the black baseball cap she was wearing in lieu of her usual Alice band. Her hair hung down on either side of her face, and the overall effect was so transformative as to nearly be a disguise. She was looking around the large foyer with frank curiosity—the desk, the staircase, the console table with its assorted collection of flashlights. “This is a beautiful house,” she said. She pointed to a large frame hanging on the opposite wall. “I like that picture.”
“Thank you. It’s a Marc Chagall reproduction.” Annie’s taste, but there was no point in saying so. He kept it as a kind of amends, since he had exerted himself so strenuously against its prominent placement. He forced another smile until he could feel it becoming real. “Would you like some tea?”
In the kitchen, Keelan opened the pantry with a grim expression. Initially with reluctance, and then with wholehearted acquisitive panic, he had joined a recent minor stampede at the local Walmart while trying to buy some of the last remaining flats of canned goods in stock. It was galling to remember, especially in light of his public statements against giving in to fear. He had been casually stockpiling for a few weeks and hadn’t expected to feel quite so invested. The whole thing was nonsensical given that the store was going to be restocked as usual with bulk food on Sunday. At least, that’s what three employees in blue vests were trying to tell the panicked customers who were almost in tears at the prospect of leaving empty-handed. But his age and natural politesse meant that he had missed out on the good cans of stew, managing only one flat of Alpha-Getti and one flat of Zoodles—foods he vaguely remembered from Julia’s childhood. She used to like them, of that he was certain. And it gave him some hope that they would end up laughing about this together: she would forgive him and they would weather this global calamity over bowls of Zoodles. He allowed the superstition in the idea with a kind of defiant guilt. He was an old man, after all. He was entitled to his private fantasies.
“Full cupboard,” observed Edith, appearing at his elbow. “Have you been hoarding, too?” The question came out surprisingly judgment-free in tone. She seemed markedly more subdued than he remembered her from last semester.
“I suppose you could call it that,” said Keelan. He made a note to do another local shopping run before driving into the city. He would show Julia how well he had prepared for all of them. “Hasn’t everyone?”
Edith shrugged. “Everyone who can afford to, I guess? I saw some Oreos that were two-for-one and I got four packages.” Her eyes were wry below her cap.
All of Keelan’s provisions had been acquired with belated, if effective, haste. He was pleased that he’d never sold the Winnebago, and he’d been loading it with the bulk of his purchases. Rob Richards, an assistant professor with a love for camping, had made some suggestions at the end of a departmental meeting regarding camp stoves, fuel canisters, and hand-crank radios. Most of those present had laughed at the direness of the situation Rob evoked. Keelan himself had smiled as if humouring him, all the while