Rebecca Renner on Dune Poppy—” A horn blared. “Fine then!” Muffy threw up her hands. “Be late for work! See if I care.” She marched inside and drew the deadbolt. May as well telecommute today. Midway through answering an email about a client’s funeral arrangements, Muffy’s cellphone vibrated. The words, CHEATING BASTARD calling…, were superimposed over her estranged husband Whit’s picture. His real-estate salesman smile, green polo, and coif of parted brown hair—all of this dredged up a silt cloud of loneliness, like dragging feet on the bottom of the river. Muffy pressed ignore, but his picture popped right up again. Muffy removed her noise-cancelling headphones to an odd silence. Birds bickered in the oak tree over the study. No car horns. She picked up the phone. “You’ve really stepped in it now, Amanda,” said Whit. Muffy sighed. “What did I do this time?” “What did you do? You can’t seriously be—” “This is about the hole.” Muffy glanced at the seashell clock across the patio. About 10:50. Is it too early to eat? “Yes, Amanda, of course it’s about the hole. Do you have any idea what it’s doing to our property value? I do. The Dawsons’ sale just fell through.” “I don’t understand why everyone thinks I did this,” said Muffy. It was the same as in their marriage. Couldn’t be Whit’s fault he cheated: Muffy had gotten fat. Whit groaned. “It’s at the end of our driveway.” “Mr. Rosenbaum thinks it’s because of our divorce.” And part of Muffy wished Whit would give her a second chance; the other part deeply regretted not stabbing him between the eyes with her fish fork the night he’d announced their un-nuptials. “That’s ridiculous,” said Whit. “You didn’t buy an ancient totem at the flea market or something? No, never mind. Don’t tell me. The HOA just called. Linda Thornbush said there’s an emergency meeting at noon to discuss our sudden catastrophic abyss, and of course, we’re the guests of honor.” “That’s great, but my car’s stuck in the garage because of our—what did you call it? Sudden catastrophic—” “Then walk.” A silence followed. Call ended. Muffy donned her best black pants suit, the one she wore to wakes, and with her serious, I’m-a-businesswoman pumps in hand and flip-flops on her feet, she locked the front door and edged around the hole to reach the sidewalk. Barricades with detour signs blocked off the enormous chasm’s jutting sides. The image of its dissolving blackness lingered in Muffy’s head as she hiked. Maybe it was a portal into another dimension. Maybe they’d
Crab Orchard Review
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