The Horror of Nothing Happening

My name is Clara Morrison.

By the third week after I moved into the neighborhood, someone started leaving notes on the community bulletin board. Not addressed to me. Addressed to each other. "Has anyone else noticed the hours the Morrison house keeps its lights on?" "Her dog never barks — is that normal?"

I don't have a dog. I have an aging tabby named Bartok. Every afternoon, he lies on the windowsill, pressed against the radiator, his tail hanging down like a worn-out scarf.

I went to the supermarket. Pushing my cart past the cereal aisle, I saw Mrs. Estes from two streets over drop an extra box of oatmeal into her cart — a small, quiet motion, the kind you make when you don't want someone to notice you noticing them. At the checkout, the man ahead of me placed his gum and razor blades on the conveyor belt, then glanced back at me and pulled his hand into his coat pocket, as if I had touched him.

I hadn't. I was standing where you stand, holding a carton of eggs and a pack of spaghetti.

That night, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and opened my mouth. Bartok jumped onto the counter and rubbed his head against my arm. I ran my fingers over my teeth, one by one. The canines had a slight point to them, but the normal kind — I'd worn braces as a kid, and no dentist had ever said anything unusual. I ran my fingertip back and forth across the enamel, smooth and cool from the toothpaste I'd just used. On the counter sat a half-used tube of Neutrogena hand cream.

Nothing happened.

The first real incident was at the annual neighborhood barbecue. I hadn't wanted to go, but my landlord Phil said it was best for newcomers to show their face. I brought a vegetable platter from Whole Foods. The price sticker was still on the lid. I hadn't peeled it off cleanly.

A kid fell near the bouncy castle and scraped his knee. His mother, Leslie, crouched down and put a Band-Aid on him. The kid cried twice, then stopped and ran off to play again.

I was standing by the drinks table, pouring lemonade into a cup. The sun was bright. The ice cubes in the cup caught the light and threw off small, sharp flecks. I took a sip.

Two days later, I found a letter in my mailbox. No stamp, hand-delivered. Typed, addressed to "Clara Morrison." The letter said someone had observed me at the barbecue directing "inappropriate eye contact" toward Leslie's son, and that I had "failed to display any normal concern" when the child fell. It recommended I "seek professional help."

I folded the letter and tucked it into the stack of phone bills. Then I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, drank it, and placed the glass in the sink. The frying pan from breakfast was still soaking in there, scrambled egg crusted at the edge. I scraped at it with my fingernail. It didn't come off.

That afternoon, I sat on the couch. Bartok lay on my lap, his belly rising and falling. I thought about the lemonade at the barbecue. The ice. The sun. I hadn't done anything. I hadn't seen anything.

But if I hadn't seen anything, then what exactly had they seen?

Over the following weeks, more letters arrived. The language shifted from suggestion to for the safety of the community. Someone posted anonymously on the neighborhood forum, claiming my trash bins contained "large quantities of raw meat packaging" — it was cat food cans. They said my curtains were never open — I worked the night shift. They said the soil in my yard had been turned over in several places — I was planting tulip bulbs. The labels were still stuck in the ground.

Phil called. He sounded uncomfortable. He said, Clara, is there really nothing you need to tell me? I said no. He said, alright then, alright. And hung up.

I put down my phone, went to the fridge, and took out a container of Greek yogurt. I peeled off the foil seal and scraped the inside clean with my spoon. Blueberry flavor. After I finished, the tip of my tongue was faintly blue. I looked in the mirror, saw my blue tongue, and almost laughed. Then didn't.

I woke in the middle of the night. Not because of any sound. I just woke. A thin line of streetlight came through the gap in the curtains and cut across the ceiling, a strip of orange. I lay there with one hand resting on my stomach, feeling the artery pulse gently beneath the skin. The beat was steady, quiet, like something curled up inside, tail draped over itself, not yet ready to get up.

I turned onto my side, facing the wall. Bartok made a small sound at the foot of the bed, the kind cats make when they're chasing something in a dream. Then everything was quiet again.