Home Improvement: Undead Edition

“That’s good, then.” Joe arranged a cool damp washcloth on Eve’s forehead and kissed her cheek softly. “I don’t want to wake you if you’re sleeping, so call me when you can, okay, babe? If you need me, I’ll come home.”

She nodded, her eyes shut to block out the soft filtered light that, with her migraine, felt like an assault. Joe was so tender, so solicitous. She could tell he wasn’t faking. She felt guilty having harbored hateful thoughts because of a nightmare that seemed ludicrous when she was awake.

“Don’t worry about cooking for Shabbos,” Joe said. “Your mom is taking care of everything.” He kissed her again before he left.

She lay in bed until the migraine’s accompanying zigzagging aura stopped and the ferocious pain receded to a dull ache. She made her way gingerly to the kitchen and saw that Joe had filled the hot-water urn and set out tea bags and dry crackers. And a note:

If you’re up, that means you’re feeling a little better. Call me. I love you, babe.

The tea and crackers settled her stomach. She showered in the guest bathroom and washed her hair, careful to avoid sudden movements that made her feel as though loose parts were rattling around in her skull.

She craved fresh air. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and sunglasses to protect her still-sensitive eyes, Eve walked out the front door. A thirtysomething woman with curly red hair was in front of Eve’s walkway, pushing a stroller back and forth while she kept her eyes on a redheaded boy furiously pedaling a tricycle up the street.

The woman smiled at Eve. “You’re the new neighbor. I’m Sandy Komin.”

“Eve Stollman.”

“Nice to meet you, Eve. I planned to introduce myself before, but with three kids under eight, my intentions rarely pan out. If I can take a shower, I consider it a good day.” Sandy smiled again.

Eve smiled back. “How old is your baby?”

“Lily is eight months.” Sandy beamed at the infant asleep in the stroller. She pointed to the toddler on the bike. “Michael’s two and a half. Our oldest, Geneva, is seven. She’s in school, thank God. Do you have kids?”

Eve shook her head. “We want to start a family. That’s one of the reasons we bought the house.”

“Well, if you want to practice, you can borrow mine whenever you want.” Sandy laughed. “Seriously, let me know if I can help with anything. Dry cleaners, markets, carpet cleaners, plumbers, gardener—I have tons of numbers.”

Eve thought, What about ghost busters? “Thanks, I’ll take you up on that. I hope the noise from the remodeling isn’t bothering you too much.”

“Not at all. We’re up early. And I’d rather hear hammering and drilling than Barney. Barney the purple dinosaur?” she said when Eve looked puzzled.

“I’ve never watched it.”

“Lucky you.” Sandy adjusted Lily’s blanket. “The couple who owned the house before you, Nancy and Brian Goodrich? They did some minor remodeling. They were planning to put in a new kitchen, but then . . .” Sandy’s voice trailed off, and her expression had turned somber. “You know what happened, right?”

Eve nodded. “The broker told us.”

“God, what a tragedy.” Sandy sighed. “We were all shocked. Nancy and Brian seemed happy, and I never heard them arguing.” Her eyes narrowed. “Michael, turn around and come back!” she called. “You’re too far!”

Eve waited until the boy obeyed. “What happened, exactly?”

“The police think Nancy woke up when she heard someone entering the bedroom and thought Brian was an intruder. She must have been disoriented, maybe because she was on antianxiety medication.” The baby whimpered. Sandy resumed the back-and-forth motion of the stroller. “Nancy shot him. When she realized she’d killed Brian, she killed herself.” Tears welled in Sandy’s eyes. She wiped them with her hand. “It’s heartbreaking. It’s . . .” She shook her head.

“Why was Nancy on medication?”

“I heard she had a nervous breakdown. She seemed stressed the month or so before she died. I didn’t see her in the final weeks.” For a moment Sandy was quiet, lost in thought. Then she looked at Eve and her face brightened. “Hey, I hope you don’t let the house’s history bother you. What happened to Nancy and Brian has nothing to do with you and your husband. What’s his name?”

“Joe.”

“I saw him. He’s a hottie, Eve, a keeper.” Sandy winked. “How’d you meet?”

Eve told her.

“That is so romantic. Tom and I dated in high school. We always knew we’d get married. Boring, huh?” She smiled. “I’m glad we finally met, Eve. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m sure you’re going to be very happy here. Michael, what did I tell you? Not so far!”

* * *

JOE AND EVE ate Shabbat dinner in the dining room, uncluttered now that he had moved the boxes into the living room, and she hadn’t even asked. The light switch for the chandelier had stopped working. Eve didn’t mind. The fixture was ugly, and some of the globes were cracked. She much preferred the honeyed glow from the candles in the two silver candelabras, an engagement gift from Joe’s parents. The lighting, lovely and soft, hid the spiderweb of cracks on the walls and ceiling.

Over Ruth’s potato leek soup, Eve told Joe about Nancy and Brian Goodrich.

“Two lives gone because of a tragic mistake, just like that.” Joe snapped his fingers. “I don’t know about you, Eve, but this makes what happened less creepy. You and I—we’re nothing like the Goodriches. I feel better about the house.”

“Me, too.” She really did. “Speaking of the house, I saw cracks on the bedroom wall, above the headboards.”

Joe nodded. “The house is settling. It happens.”

“But we painted less than a week ago, Joe.”

“I guess the house has its own schedule.” He smiled. “We have touch-up paint, babe, so there’s no problem.”

Joe insisted on clearing the table and doing the dishes. Eve, still suffering from the hangover-like aftereffects of the migraine, took two Advil tablets and had read a chapter of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo when Joe joined her.

Joe fell asleep first. Eve took an Ambien and twisted the outer shell of the Shabbat lamp on her nightstand until the room was dark. Drifting off to sleep, she realized she’d forgotten about the Advil she’d taken earlier and wondered if mixing the two pills was dangerous. She could check the package warnings, but unless she was prepared to make herself gag and cough up the Ambien, which she wasn’t, what was the point? She wasn’t really worried.

This time she dreamed she was at her parents’ house. Her mother and father were seated on low folding chairs in their living room. Sitting shiva for Eve. The third low chair, Joe’s, was unoccupied. Eve found Joe leaning against a wall. She saw the slim, brown-haired woman sidle next to him, saw them link their hands, just for a second, when no one was watching.

No one except Eve.

Saturday morning Eve stayed in bed while Joe attended Shabbat services at the synagogue on Chandler, a five-minute walk from their house—another selling point.

“Sure you don’t want to come with me, babe?” Joe said before he left. “You might feel better if you get out, and you’ll meet people in the community.”

Eve was sure.

She wasn’t sure, for the first time since they had started chatting on J-Date, about Joe. She accepted that the nightmare was a product of her unsettled imagination, compounded by the tragedy that had befallen the house’s previous owners. But dreams had a purpose, didn’t they? Wasn’t she supposed to learn something from them?

And what did she really know about the man she’d met on an Internet site less than two years ago? She had never caught Joe in a lie, but then, she’d never questioned anything he’d told her. She’d checked him out before they met—that was only prudent, and she would have done so even without her parents’ urging. She had spoken