Later That Night

When Andy and Bridget got home, their babysitter was on all fours in front of a bowl of macaroni. Some of it was on the rug; it appeared to be sauceless. They watched as she bulldozed the noodles with her flat hand, scooped them up, flung them back down at the bowl, and said “damn it” when most of them didn’t make it in. Andy thought she was having an aneurysm. He thought of doctor friends.

“Leanne?” Bridget said. The babysitter raised her head slowly and swung it in their direction, the way a cow might in response to a slammed door. Her hair drooped across her mouth, and when she exhaled, it sprang upwards toward her nose. The skin around her eyes was pink. Andy saw the bottle of Maker’s Mark—his bottle—nearly empty, pressed up against the side of the couch, and things became clearer.

She planted one hand on a couch cushion and tried to hoist herself up. It didn’t work. She tilted toward her employers and then grabbed the couch arm to steady herself. Her eyes widened. She fell back onto the cushion. She sat there, looking straight ahead at the lifeless television, not bothering to move the strand of hair that ran down the center of her face like a crack in the earth.

“Oh God,” Bridget said. She raced up the stairs. Andy listened to her hurl herself down the hallway toward their daughters’ bedrooms. The hinges needed oil. He looked at the frowns and smiles scattered across his rug like one of his daughter’s art projects.

“I, um . . .” the babysitter said.

“They’re okay! They’re both okay—they’re sleeping!” Bridget bellowed down the stairs. No they’re not, Andy thought.

He got a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. Then he dumped it out and got a mug and filled that up. He brought the mug—Vermont Symphony Orchestra, Play On!—over to the babysitter, who reached for it and missed by a few inches. Andy guided her fingers to its handle. She took a sip. Makeup had gathered in the crevice by her right nostril. She tucked her stray hair behind her ear; when she’d come over at six on the dot, she’d talked so animatedly she’d constantly had to re-tuck her hair. She’s in college, Andy’d thought, she means what she says.

Bridget came clomping down the stairs like a hungry ogre from one of Courtney’s books. She hovered over the couch. Leanne nibbled her lower lip. Bridget put her hands on her hips in one swift motion that seemed a little theatrical and said, “You have no idea what could’ve happened.” Then she waited, as though a response were required. Andy thought it was an odd thing to say, as though there were a single right answer. Fire. Death. Leanne looked down at her lap and murmured something that sounded like “sorry.” Bridget snatched the mug from her hand and slammed it down on the counter, causing a droplet to spring up and plop back in. “Get out,” she said. She stomped back upstairs in a hollow, even rhythm that conjured up war drums.

Andy took the mug off the counter and handed it back to the babysitter, who drank the rest.

“I’ll drive you,” he said.

“But my car’s—” she pointed to the back patio. It was obvious to both of them she couldn’t drive like this. She brought the mug to her lips again and shook it, tilting it higher as though there were a stubborn milkshake clump at the bottom. Upstairs, a door closed. Andy hoped his wife wouldn’t come back down. She could say things in the heat of it—he’d had to put out fires. He’d long since accepted that role: I now pronounce you fire extinguisher and wife. He should go up and tell her he’d drive Leanne home. But he didn’t want to. He’d leave a note. But then he’d come home to Why didn’t...