Reagan’s grandmother had been a short, wide woman who dyed her hair red and always wore pink lipstick. She was active in her church, active in the community. The type of person who went to all of her grandkids’ recitals and school plays, even after she had twenty of them.
She framed every school photo the grandkids ever gave her, always leaving the old ones inside so that the pictures stacked up and made the backs hard to close. Reagan’s senior picture was sitting on a coffee table in the living room, and if you opened it up, her whole childhood would spring out.
“I can’t even imagine your grandmother wearing a mask,” Grandpa said.
“Maybe she’d get into it,” Reagan said. “It would have given her something to do with her old quilting scraps.”
“Those homemade masks aren’t good for anything . . .”
“Better than nothing,” she said.
“I’ve got some N95s for when I work with insulation. Remind me to give you a couple when you leave.”
“All right.” The potatoes were sticky, but the gravy was good. Reagan’s whole plate was brown and white. The only green thing was her dish of Jell-O—she should have brought a vegetable. “My mom hates wearing a mask because she says they smear her lipstick. So then I say, ‘Don’t wear lipstick,’ and she acts like I said, ‘Don’t wear pants.’”
Her grandpa laughed. But it turned sharp at the end. “I wish she’d be more careful.”
“Me, too,” Reagan said.
“To be honest, sometimes I’m glad your grandma didn’t have to live through this. I think about it sometimes, that she never heard about it. She never worried about it. She never lost anyone to it. She left before she ever had to take on this burden. And I’m glad for that.”
Reagan nodded.
She couldn’t really think of anything to say after that. And her grandpa didn’t seem to want to talk more, either. And there was no one to make them be sociable.
Reagan had quit smoking a long time ago. After college. Smoking used to make her feel like such a badass. But then she got out of school and started working—and smoking just made her feel hard. Even the way she held the cigarette in her hand and in her mouth . . . It was like she was always smirking. Always making a face like, “Well, isn’t that fucking perfect.”
Reagan already felt hard enough. She didn’t need any accessories. She didn’t need to telegraph it out to the world.
Also she kept getting bronchitis. It was a fucking drag, so she quit.
But she still missed cigarettes. She missed having the excuse of them. The “Be right back”s. She missed the way decent people would leave you alone as soon as you pulled out the pack.
She still took cigarette breaks sometimes.
After dinner, she and her grandpa moved into the living room to watch television. Reagan didn’t want to watch Fox News, so they settled on the Weather Channel. He sat in his easy chair, and Reagan sat on the couch, fiddling with a crochet hook she’d found tucked between the cushions.
After a half hour, she said, “I’m going to get some air.”
Her grandpa nodded.
She put on her coat and headed out onto the back deck. It was too cold for the snow to melt, but it wasn’t freezing—or it was just barely freezing.
“Hey,” someone said.
Reagan jumped.
It was Mason again, standing on his parents’ deck. “I swear to God,” he said. “I’m not trying to startle you.”
“Jesus Christ, Mason.”
“Sorry.”
Reagan frowned at him. “What are you even doing out here?”
“Getting some air. Do you want me to put on a mask?”
She looked between them. They were at least twenty feet apart. And they were outdoors. “Yeah,” she said. “If you’re gonna keep talking to me.”
Mason fished a mask out of his pocket.
Reagan did the same thing. She wasn’t sure why she was bothering; she should just go back inside. “What are you out here avoiding?” she asked, sliding the elastic behind her ears.
“Who says I’m avoiding something?”
“Well, you’re standing outside in the middle of winter. And you’re not smoking a cigarette or waiting for a bus.”
Mason laughed. “I’m just taking a moment for myself.”
Reagan hummed. “Me, too.”
“Hey, I’m, um . . . I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t expecting him to say that. “Thanks. I guess that’s what I’m out here avoiding.”
“Your loss?”
“Pretty much. I thought I was doing my grandpa good by making sure he could still have a Christmas, but I think I’m just reminding him that it’s Christmas and that she isn’t here.”
Mason didn’t reply to that. Why should he? He was a complete stranger.
“Sorry,” Reagan said. “I think I’ve forgotten how to talk to people.”
He laughed again. “Don’t worry about it. This is the first in-person conversation I’ve had with anyone other than my parents—and your grandpa and the UPS guy—in months.”
“Yeah? You pretty locked down?”
“Oh yeah.”
“I thought this was no-mask country,” she said.
“Maybe it is, I wouldn’t know. I don’t leave the house.”
Reagan smiled. He couldn’t see it. “You live there with your parents?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I mean—I guess I don’t know how to answer that question.”
“O-kay . . .”
“Technically, I live in DC. I have an apartment there. But I was going a little crazy after two months of isolation, and I was worried about my mom and dad . . .”
“So you came back to Arnold?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“You’d rather quarantine in Arnold, Nebraska, than in Washington, DC?”
“I mean . . . yeah.” He was smiling. She could sort of hear it. She could imagine his chin disappearing. “Honestly,” he said. “It’s been nice. I took my brother’s old room—it’s huge. It’s half the size of my apartment in DC. And I can be outside here without wearing a mask. You know, usually. And my parents are much less irritating than I remembered from high school. I watch M*A*S*H every night with my mom. It’s kinda great.”
“So why are you out here getting some air?”
Mason was quiet for a second. Then he said, “I don’t remember you being this chatty back in school.”
“Well, I don’t remember you at all.”
He laughed.
“Seriously,” she said, “were we in school together?” She wasn’t trying to be mean. (She didn’t have to try. It came naturally.) She just recognized him as her grandparents’ neighbor.
“There’s only one high school, Reagan.”
“Yeah, but you’re a lot younger than me, right?”
“I’m two years younger than you.”
“Really? I thought you won the state wrestling thing when I was in college.”
“That was my brother, Brook.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. We were in band together—you and me.”
“I think I blocked that out. I hated band.”
“I could tell,” he said. “You were terrible.”
“I didn’t even play half the time. I just moved the clarinet around.” She reached in her pocket for cigarettes. She didn’t have any. She hadn’t had any for years. “Sorry I don’t really remember you.”
“That’s all right. We were all trying to stay in your blind spot anyhow.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you were mean as shit.”
“I was not.”
“Yes, you were—you called my friend ‘Mr. Toad.’”
Reagan cackled. “You were friends with Mr. Toad?”
“I was.”
“How’s he doing?”