Though the buses still ran in the streets and the radio stations were still playing the same songs, everything appeared distorted to me, as if reflected in a carnival mirror. Arriving home Sunday, I stood on the front porch staring at the birch sign engraved “The Davises” as though I’d never seen it before. This is your home, I told myself. You’re Mrs. Davis. I turned to look down the street where Rosie’s car was just turning the corner. I should be going with her, I thought. But for some reason, I had come here instead. I went inside. In front of the living room window was a Christmas tree, an artificial Christmas tree that stood seven feet tall. The box it had come in lay on the floor. Apparently, Jerry had gone ahead with this purchase. The room smelled of a soapy, astringent aroma, the tree manufacturer’s idea of “a fresh pine scent.” The house was quiet. Jerry’s car was gone and, since there was no music playing anywhere, I assumed Amy was also out. Bradley’s Christmas letter, posted from Madrid, was taped to the refrigerator.
