Page 103 of Cackle

“Is that your measure of joy?” she asks, deadpan. “Kissing a man?”

“I guess not,” I say. “When you put it like that . . .”

“You have to let it go, Annie,” she says. “Promise me. At the stroke of midnight. No more of this self-pitying talk about being single or alone or missing Sam. He gave you a gift. Look at where you are now. This is only the beginning.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I’ll try. I can promise you I’ll try.”

“Good,” she says. “I’m very serious about promises.”

“I know.”

“Very, very serious.”

“I know, Sophie. I promise you, I will try.”

She smiles and moves herself closer to me on the couch, resting her head on my shoulder. Ralph has fallen asleep on my knee, his legs spread out flat, his top hat askew.

When the clock strikes midnight, the lights flicker, and I have a strange, evanescent vision. I see a version of myself I don’t quite recognize parting the dark, standing before me and wearing an alien grin.

I rub my eyes and blame the wine.

“Happy New Year, pet,” Sophie says, raising a glass to me. “May it be your best one yet.”

“Happy New Year, Sophie.”

When I leave a few days later to go back to my apartment and my routine, Sophie sends Ralph with me.

“Why doesn’t he live with you for a little while?” she says. “Keep him.”

I don’t do much of anything the first week of January, but I do teach Ralph how to play fetch.

RESOLUTIONS

“I never make New Year’s resolutions,” Madison says, licking the remaining yogurt from her spoon. Beth is still in the Poconos skiing with her family, meaning Madison will be eating lunch in my classroom for the next two days so she doesn’t have to brave the cafeteria alone. “If I want to do something, I do it.”

“That’s good,” I say. I haven’t made any progress on my resolutions, and I’ve already come dangerously close to breaking my promise to Sophie. Last night I pulled up Sam’s Facebook page for a split second, then x-ed out of it before I could see anything.

“I think a lot of people make resolutions so they can tell themselves they’re trying to be better, instead of actually just being better,” Madison says. “You know what I mean?”

I don’t much appreciate being dragged by a fifteen-year-old.

On my way home from school, I stop at the grocery store and buy ingredients. I buy fresh herbs and a clove of garlic and a garlic press. I buy tinfoil. I buy lemons and green beans and red potatoes and a small whole chicken. I buy butter and a nice bottle of olive oil. The oil is twenty-five dollars, which makes me feel very adult but also breaks my heart a little. A single tear may or may not fall as I insert my debit card at the cash register.

When I get home, I follow a recipe I found online. I almost quit as soon as I’m tasked with “removing the giblets from inside the cavity.” But I press on.

“I’m doing it!” I yell, reaching inside the dead bird. “I’m doing it.”

Ralph waves his front legs in a show of support.

I do it. I roast a chicken. I also make green beans and buttery mashed potatoes.

I cook a beautiful meal by myself, for myself.

Well, I share some with Ralph. He gets a shallow ramekin of chicken juice. He nods off immediately afterward, wearing a satisfied grin, chin resting on the rim of the dish.

It feels good to deliver on my resolutions. To do something just for me.

After I finish, I sit at the dining room table with my hands clasped in my lap and my plate still in front of me. The only things left on it are a few skinny chicken bones.