“Sure, I know how to make chili,” Mary Ellen said when Ivy asked. “I used to make it all the time when I first moved to Philadelphia.”
“Can you teach me?” Ivy asked. “So I can make it, like, at college?”
“Of course,” Mary Ellen said, bringing their plates over to the table. “It’s good student food. Not as cheap as ramen, but close.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll be eating a lot of day-old bread and peanut butter.” Ivy tried saying this like it was a romantic dream of hers. “It’ll be worth it, though.”
“Definitely.”
“It was for you, right? Paying all that money so you could get a college degree?”
“Well, sure—”
“I mean, that’s how you got to be a painter and all. It seems like it worked out really well for you.”
“It did. Yes.” Mary Ellen chewed her chicken for a moment, then crinkled her forehead and looked out the window. “Did we talk about me being a painter?”
“I just hope I can figure out the whole money thing. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how expensive college is. It’s a little scary.”
“It is, but you’ll figure it out.”
“Did you have any help? Like, did anyone take you under their wing? Make sure you had everything you needed?”
The lady picked at her salad. “No. Not really. I mean, my parents paid for college. But they weren’t very supportive of me being an artist. I could’ve used a mentor or a role model.”
“Huh.” It seemed to Ivy that paying for college was pretty damn supportive, but what did she know. “That’s hard, when your parents don’t want to let you to do your own thing.”
The lady drew herself up and started cutting her chicken into a million tiny pieces, silently nodding her head.
“My parents used to tell me all the time what a waste it was to go to college, how dumb I was for thinking I could ever make it as a writer. I’ll tell you what, though.” Ivy stabbed some mushrooms with her fork. “When I make it—when I’m a successful writer—what I’m gonna do is help some other kid. Give a chance to someone else who was in my shoes. As a mentor or whatever, but with money too. So they don’t have to worry.” She ate the mushrooms, a smile breaking out around her fork.
“Ah.” Mary Ellen put her chin in her hand, smiling back at her. “How generous of you.”
“We artists have to stick together, right?” Ivy licked her fork.
“Mmm.” Mary Ellen began gathering their plates and silverware. “By the way, have you ever seen any hunters out there? In the woods?”
“No. I’ve only seen their stuff. In their, like, hideouts.”
“But you haven’t run into one?”
“They’re not supposed to hunt around here, around the house,” Ivy said. “There are signs.”
“I guess. But that deer today. It made me think,” Mary Ellen said, turning her head toward the expanse of windows. “We’re so exposed here. At night? When the lights are on? It’s like we’re on TV.”
“You think they’re watching us?” Ivy asked.
“I don’t know. How would we ever know? It’s so dark out there.” Mary Ellen pressed her knuckles against her lips, eyes wide.
Ivy looked over to the black windows, then back at Mary Ellen. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You think we’re so interesting? Two white girls cooking chicken?”
“I don’t know. I don’t like them knowing we’re here alone.”
“Oh God.” Ivy laughed. She got up and went to the window, waving her arms. “Hey, rednecks, free shows nightly!”
“Rose—”
Ivy waggled her butt back and forth, doing a little dance, watching herself in the reflection.
“Rose, come away from there.”
Ivy started doing a little striptease, pulling her hoodie down slowly off her shoulders. The expression on the lady’s face, which Ivy could see in the glass, was hilarious. She dropped the hoodie to the floor and began lifting the hem of her T-shirt. Was there really someone out there watching? Ivy felt the skin on her arms prickle at the thought. She cocked one hip to the side as she slowly raised the shirt past her waist. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Rose!”
Ivy dropped her shirt, bent, and swept the hoodie off the floor. “Sorry,” she said, sitting back at the table. “I’m just kidding around. The whole time I’ve been here, I’ve never seen anyone out there. No footprints either.”
“Still.” Mary Ellen’s nostrils were flaring. “I don’t know why you would—”
“Sorry, sorry.” Ivy reminded herself to stay on task. The lady was looking skittish, like there were questions forming in her mind that she hadn’t bothered asking before. “Sometimes I act silly. I don’t know why,” Ivy said. “It’s like I’m making up a character or something. It’s immature, I know.”
“Huh.” Mary Ellen took the dishes into the kitchen and came back to the table with the gin bottle. “Maybe hold off on playing that particular character while we’re in here alone, you know? Don’t borrow trouble.”
“Okay.” Ivy twisted her fingers around themselves. “My ma says that. ‘Don’t borrow trouble.’”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ivy calmed her fingers down, cupping her hands together on the table. “She’s sick,” she said. “She’s got this, like, lung disease.” Ivy wasn’t sure how this bit of truth managed to slip through, but there it was, and there was Ma, poking at her heart.
“Is she on oxygen?”
“She should be, but she says she doesn’t want to drag that tank around, looking like a freak. The doctor says she’s going to end up flat on her back for the rest of her life.”
Mary Ellen reached over and patted Ivy’s hand. “It must be
