Creatures of Habit by Jill McCorkle Page A

left and moved in across town and started a whole new family. Anne herself had been the new younger wife and the newest was even younger.
    S HE TURNED THEIR old bedroom into a rumpus room and let it evolve along with the boys: puppet theater and LEGO blocks, pool table and stereo speakers. She painted it azure; they painted it black. And during each incarnation she remained aware of its original status; her mind neverreleased the position of the bed, the way the light bathed the room in the late afternoon, a time they had often—whenever life permitted—allowed themselves the luxury of a nap. It was during those times she felt—if only for a second—the satisfied reassurance that she had made no mistake when she agreed to marry him.
    People from far away who loved her began calling as soon as word reached them that Abbott had left. They called to say
come home come home,
and she was tempted. The home of her childhood was waiting just a few hours down the interstate. Sometimes at night she got herself to sleep picturing the town—flatland and tobacco barns, billboards calling her to the coast. She thought of those summer nights when she was a kid and had nothing to do but ride her bike through the streets of her hometown.
    But by then home needed to be where her children were at home. Home had become the Japanese maple she planted when they bought the house and the roses she had trained up a trellis by the garage. So she had changed what she could afford to change. The sheets. The paint. She adopted a kind old yellow Lab to replace the cat in their marriage, Possum, on whom she had completely doted until Abbott was ready to have a child. The cat’s death, twelve years after their wedding, coincided with Abbott’s straying, and the two eventswere forever linked in her mind. The old Lab lived long enough to help her through the transition.
    â€œProbably coyote or raccoon chow,” he had said and shaken his head as she and the children wept over Possum’s disappearance. “After twelve years, old Possum is nothing but a cheap lunch.”
    That comment and the scent on his face and neck when he came home from God knows where—he said golf, he said baseball, he said auto show, places she never went with him—told her that he was not who she had thought he was. He had become a stranger. This was what she was thinking as she picked her way through the wooded strip of land that separated their yard from the yards of yet another new neighborhood. In these woods the wild creatures had their own lairs, their own food supply. She could feel them watching her from their dark holes and caves as they waited for night to fall. That there had been no sign of Possum had made her feel hopeful even though deep down she knew better.
    A ND NOW A BBOTT is back, twisting and turning the knob with his own persistent optimism. She dries her hands and opens the door to his tired bewildered face. His wife always comes to lead him away like a confused child. Her appearance, however fraught with anger and frustration, seemsto call him back into his present life, but until she shows up, he is back in their marriage. He asks where the boys are. He leans in and kisses her lips, pulls her close before she can catch her breath and step aside. He picks up on a conversation they had over a dozen years ago. How he’s thinking about opening his own business. How he’s thinking he should buy all the little drive-through buildings left behind by a defunct bank. How he will stock them with late-night necessities: milk and aspirin, diapers and toilet paper, beer and tampons. Twenty-four-hour service. Drive right through. People don’t have to get dressed; they don’t have to lift the baby out of the car. WHATEVER GETS YOU THROUGH THE NIGHT . The slogan was hers. The dream was his, one of fast fortune. There were many nights when she was all alone and believed more than ever that they had devised a