Chapter 6: The Package

The box came to the town clerk's counter on Monday morning, in front of a selectman.

It was the size of a bread loaf, in plain brown cardboard.

The return address was in Burlington, and the shop's name did not sound like dental anything.

The mail carrier set it down beside the dog-license forms and said, "Sign here, Miss Brophy."

I signed.

The selectman was at the counter to pay for his wife's car registration.

He was a big man in a flannel coat with a pencil behind his ear, and he looked at the box.

"What's that?"

"Dental supplies," I said.

"You get those mailed?"

"My dentist in Worcester doesn't want to lose me."

"Huh," he said. "We've got a good one on Church Street."

"I'll keep it in mind."

I slid the box under the counter with my knee and counted out his change with a perfectly steady hand.

My face was hot to the roots of my hair.

At noon I locked the office door, took the box into the vault, and shut myself in with the old tax maps.

It was small and windowless, with a metal shelf of town reports back to 1881 and a single bulb on a chain.

I cut the tape with my house key.

Inside were a bottle of water-based lubricant, a box of blue gloves, and a thin paperback with a plain gray cover.

I ate a turkey sandwich on the vault stool and read the paperback from the beginning, all of it, with a pencil.

Go slowly, it said.

Warm the person up for longer than you think you need to.

Ask them to breathe out.

I thought of Etienne on his knees with his hands behind his back.

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