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What a . . . well, I know from one of Leigh’s recent rants in our office that I shouldn’t call Paige “psycho” simply because we disagree. Leigh says it’s anti-feminist and minimizes women by stoking the narrative that they’re illogical, overly emotional creatures. I’m not anti-feminist. I’m just anti-Paige.
What a . . . weirdo.
I don’t have my first class until 10:00 on Tuesdays, so I don’t leave the house until 9:00. When I walk out to my car, I spot a torn piece of paper tucked into the windshield wiper.
Great. A note from Paige, I’m sure. And not even a passive-aggressive one. Just an aggressive-aggressive one. Perfect way to start a Tuesday.
But when I pluck the paper out and turn it over, I find childish-looking handwriting stating, “Check your porch.” This has to be from the kid. If the handwriting hadn’t given her away, the pink snowmen she’s doodled in two of the corners would have.
I double back through the house and open the front door to find a crinkly, flat-ish foil blob on the doorstep. When I pick it up, the foil has the sweaty feel of something that was warm and gradually left to cool. Inside, I find a . . .
I squint at it, not quite sure what I’m seeing. Is that dough? I retreat to the kitchen and set the foil on the counter, straightening it a bit. Then it begins to coalesce. Er, somewhat.
I’m staring at a cold snowman pancake. I think? I definitely won’t be tasting it to verify, but it has three round connected parts, large on one end, smaller at the other, and the smaller one looks like someone attempted to give the snowman a hat. I smell it, and it has a distinct trace of fried flour like good pancakes do.
Is this a peace offering or a trap? What am I to make of a mangled snowman deposited in foil at my front door? And furthermore, how am I meant to respond?
Unsure of anything except that I’m not eating a cold, crumpled pancake for breakfast, I refold the foil and drop it in the trash can.
The question preoccupies me all day, as I try to decode the mystery of its appearance. I knowwhoit came from—I just can’t decidewhythe little girl would give it to me. And I wonder if her mother knows she left it?
“You’re quieter than usual today,” Leigh notes in the early afternoon.
I blink at her, trying to switch gears from thinking through what kind of odorless household poisons the neighbor kid would have access to. “Pardon me, what was that?”
Leigh smiles. “You’re quieter than usual, which is saying something because you’re pretty quiet.”
It’s my curse around attractive women. It’s a small subset of humans in general who find anthropology as interesting as I do, and even a smaller subset of them who are women my age who would be interested in dating me. It’s a non-zero number but only barely.
I’ve never been particularly good at talking to them, and in fact, both of my serious romantic relationships began with the woman pursuing me for reasons I fail to understand even now. I was tongue-tied then, and I’m tongue-tied now.
“Am I?” This is my very smooth answer to her “quiet” observation.
“Very,” she says. “Especially today. Everything okay?”
“Yes, fine.” Belatedly, I realize I should probably smile as I say this, so I do. Now it’s Leigh’s turn to offer a surprised blink before she nods and turns back to her laptop.
Magic with the ladies. That’s me.
I suppress a sigh and focus on my own computer, channeling all my attention into finding the right illustrations for my lecture on osteology tomorrow.
The rest of the afternoon passes uneventfully. They always do—or used to until I spotted Paige scoping out the shack next door a month ago. But as I drive home, the mystery of the pancake is still dogging me. I could go ask, I suppose, but I doubt they’re home yet. Their house doesn’t stir to life until around dinner time. Paige doesn’t seem to drive, so the only indicator I have so far is lights in their windows blinking to life around 6:30 at night.
I’ve caught up with my grading, and my lessons for tomorrow are ready, so I decide to spend a couple of hours with Dr. Chu’s latest, a controversial treatise on genome mapping and its interface with healthcare that sounds somewhat interesting.
That’s exactly what I do for close to two hours, when my stomach begins to rumble around the same time that a knock sounds at my front door. I open it a moment later to find nothing but a shoebox, a note taped to the top.
Another delivery from next door, probably from the girl. I suspect the only thing I’m likely to get from her mom anytime soon is a ding-dong-ditch and a flaming sack of dog feces.
I bring the box inside and set it on the kitchen counter. It’s light, and something slides around inside. I nudge the lid off with the end of a wooden spoon to make myself a harder target if anything jumps out.
Nothing happens.
I approach cautiously, but when I look inside, all I find is an ornament, a seahorse with a Santa hat, made in China. The handwritten-in-kid-print note reads, “Sorry you don’t like Christmas. I hope this helps. It’s my favorite ornament because seahorses are cool.”
Well, damn.
I have been recast from an order-craving neighbor to a grinch. There’s no question about it.
