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own. But it wasn’t that easy. Nothing ever was. She had times, like now, when she couldn’t even force herself past her threshold. The cat had run out and she couldn’t make herself go up the stairs after it. She knew it was ridiculous. The whole thing irritated her. What she really needed was a kick in the butt.
    Another knock at the door. This person wasn’t going to go away. “Yes,” she said, her voice quavering.
    “Hello!” a female voice called out. “I’m here to return your cat.”
    Laverne fumbled with the deadbolt and unhooked the chain. “Just a minute,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. It was the young woman who’d arrived earlier. She was even prettier up close, with friendly blue eyes and a ready smile. Laverne meant to just take the cat and slam the door shut, but when the girl waved Oscar’s paw and said, “Hi, Mom, I got lost, but this nice lady helped me,” in the silliest voice, something inside of her melted a little. Laverne smiled, something she hadn’t done in a while, and she let the door swing open a little wider.
    They stared at each other for a minute, until the girl said, “Hi, I’m Jazzy. I was visiting Marnie upstairs and your cat wandered up.” She held the cat out and Laverne took Oscar into her arms.
    “Thank you,” she said, the words a struggle. “It’s very kind of you.”
    “Your cat is sweet,” Jazzy said. “She purrs like an engine.”
    “It’s a boy cat,” Laverne said. “Oscar.”
    “Oh, cute,” Jazzy said. She leaned against the doorframe and ran a hand through her hair. It was the kind of hair, Laverne thought, that would fall into place no matter what. Let the wind come—this girl’s hair would always look good.
    Jazzy waved, fingers fluttering. “Well, it was nice meeting you—Oscar’s mom. Have a good evening.”
    Laverne watched her go and, after closing the door, set Oscar down. The cat yawned and slinked away. She locked and chained the door, then went to the window to see Jazzy getting into the car.
    Funny how even this short conversation felt unusual. She’d been avoiding strangers for at least three years. Since her husband died, she found everyday interactions to be an effort. Even normal pleasantries exhausted her. If she accidentally made eye contact with someone at the grocery store, she’d be pulled into a conversation about the possibility of rain later. The UPS man couldn’t hand her a package without cheerful commentary. Going to the bank was the worst. The tellers felt compelled to ask after her health and offer her candy or free pens. Couldn’t anyone perform a basic task without the extra chitchat? Was that too much to ask? Her son thought she suffered from depression and begged her to go for therapy. But she knew she wasn’t depressed, just tired, tired of everyone and everything. She wasn’t suicidal exactly, but she didn’t leap out of bed every morning waiting to greet the day. Well, maybe she was a little depressed. Everything took so much effort.
    Her son interpreted her reticence as fear, which wasn’t really the case, but she didn’t correct the notion. He was going to believe whatever he wanted, no matter what she said. The truth was that she wasn’t afraid to be alone. Her neighborhood was safe enough. Even when Laverne went on early morning walks (the best time to avoid people), she was never fearful. It helped that she carried a handgun that had belonged to her husband and had been used by both of them for target practice. When he’d first bought it, he’d claimed it was the same gun James Bond used, but somehow she doubted it. It looked too small. When she’d found the handgun in his sock drawer a few weeks after the funeral, she put the safety on and tucked it into the secret compartment in her purse. She didn’t think she’d ever use it, but she believed in being prepared. Life was uncertain.

Chapter Nine
     
    When Jazzy arrived early for the grief group she found the door locked and