The Evening Spider by Emily Arsenault

dream.”
    â€œYou seem tired.”
    Lucy gurgled at me, and I fluttered my fingernails against her high chair table in response.
    â€œWell, I am tired. I couldn’t go back to sleep.”
    Returning my hands to the keys, I Googled Selena Hoey and Serena Hoey. I found no Selena Hoey, but a couple of Serena Hoeys. One in Ireland. One in Rhode Island. Wendy had been from Massachusetts, but of course her parents might have moved in the past decade and a half.
    â€œWas I in it?” Chad asked.
    â€œIn what?”
    Chad sat across from Lucy and began to feed her. “Your dream, Abby.”
    â€œNo,” I said, staring at the computer screen. So I knew where Serena Hoey lived now. What exactly did I think I was going to do with this information?
    â€œDo I snore?” I asked.
    â€œMaaaaah!” Lucy squealed in wild anticipation.
    Chad fed her a large spoonful of oatmeal. A blob of it stuck to her cheek. “Not generally. Why? Are you trying to tell me that I snore?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou getting enough sleep, you think?”
    â€œActually . . . yeah. Since Lucy doesn’t wake up at night as much as she used to.”
    This was another reason I’d felt uncomfortable at that mothers’ group at the library. I was the only one who didn’t nurse at night anymore. Sure, Lucy still had her occasional two A . M . wakeups. But usually she only required a replaced pacifier and a bit of rocking. She was a healthy weight and was learning the basic human skill of surviving a night without a meal. Why mess with that? Of course, I’d never say that to the other mothers.
    She doesn’t eat at night anymore? That mom Sara had asked me that. The red-eyed but perfectly coiffed one. The one with the very bald baby—so bald that her head practically sparkled. Are you worried about losing your supply?
    No, I’d said, vaguely unsettled by the word “supply.” Should I be?
    â€œI’m not sure I should admit this,” Chad said. “But I dreamt about pennies.”
    I smiled. “Filthy, Chad.”
    â€œI had this armor . . . like chain mail. It was all pennies.”
    I laughed, looking up. “You didn’t dream that. You made that up.”
    Chad shrugged and fed Lucy another oversized scoop of oatmeal. “Maybe I did, yeah. But at least I made you laugh. Hey—I forgot I was going to ask you about something.”
    He flipped through the mail on the counter and handed me a folded piece of plain white computer paper.
    â€œThis was in with the mail,” he said as I opened it. It said Gerard Barnett in blue ink. Following that was a phone number.
    â€œOh!” I said. “Patty must’ve left this. Patty our neighbor. She and I were talking about the Barnetts, who used to own this house, and . . . anyway, she thought I might want to call him. He’s got some old genealogical stuff about the family, or something like that.”
    Chad bobbled his head back and forth, considering this. “Huh. You know, you might enjoy a history project right now. That might be good for you.”
    I clicked on a White Pages site. The Hoeys lived on a street named Willow Road. Well, wasn’t that memorable? Since Wendy and Willow were alliterative? And since Willow was so very close to weeping ?
    â€œWhat do you mean, good for me?” I said.
    â€œI just meant, since you’re not teaching this year. Something that’s not baby related.”
    â€œA history project,” I said, closing my laptop. “Sure.”
    Wendy. Willow. Weeping.
    Unfortunately, I’m unemployed at the moment, Gerard Barnett had told me over the phone. I can meet pretty much whenever you want.
    Gerard suggested we meet at an Arby’s near his house. I told him that was perfect. I didn’t imagine that very many people dined in at Arby’s at two in the afternoon, and anyone who did wouldn’t likely be offended at the presence of a