Foxhole

“I’m moving to Ireland,” your mother announces.

You look at her from across the kitchen table. That is, you look at the back side of her iPad. “What?”

She lifts one French-manicured finger to the screen and scrolls down. “They have soft weather. It doesn’t really rain, just sort of mists.”

Outside the kitchen window, the late-summer sun glows through the canopy of the hundred-year oak.

You put down your coffee. Maybe if your hands are free, you’ll understand. “You want to move to Ireland, because it doesn’t really rain there.”

“It’s good for the skin.” She taps her screen, and a hellish sound erupts: a feral grumble punctuated by piercing screams. Your mother giggles. “Foxes are so funny. It’s Juniper’s birthday, so she got a cupcake, and Flossy and the others are jealous.” With a sigh, she scrolls down.

You change your mind about your hands and wrap your fingers around the mug. “What about the house?”

“Ack, ack, ack!” go the foxes on Instagram.

“I think it’s worth at least five hundred.” She taps the screen and types, gel-tips dancing on the glass. “This house on Sherwood Lane is going for 350”—she turns the screen toward you—“and it only has two bedrooms.” She turns the screen back around and scrolls down. “And look at this monstrosity. They want six hundred for it, and it’s right on the Hampton Pike! Who would ever want to live there?”

Your mother doesn’t show you the monstrosity, but you imagine it’s like the one you live in, just not subdivided into four drafty apartments.

“You’re selling the house? Do you even know anyone in Ireland?”

Your mother frowns at you over the wall of her screen. “You can always come visit. They have hotels there, you know.”

The doorbell rings. Outside the kitchen window, a woman in Jackie O sunglasses surveys the house from the front walk.

“Right on time.” Your mother stands, smoothing the frizz from her hair, then looks down at your mug. “Put that in the dishwasher. We don’t want the realtor to think you’re dirty.”

You dump the rest of your coffee in the sink and pull out the top rack of the dishwasher. From the mudroom, you hear the woman ask, “And it’s three bedrooms?”

“Plus my late husband’s den,” your mother says, walking the woman into the kitchen. “So four, technically.”

The realtor takes in the oak cabinets with black heart hinges, the pantry, the marble-top island. “Great built-ins,” she says. Her eyebrows are drawn too high on her forehead. You can’t tell if she’s surprised. “All original except the island?” She lifts her phone and presses record.

“There’s a dumbwaiter, too.”

The realtor slowly turns a circle, till the eye of her camera finds you. The phone lowers. “What about her? Is she built-in or free-standing?”

Your mother purses her lips. “Built-in. Usually she’s in the living room.”

“I have my own apartment,” you say. “I’m married.”

Eying your belly, the realtor walks over to you. She taps the edge of her phone against her chin as she looks you up and down. With her free hand, she squeezes your left breast. “But no children?” She clicks her tongue. To your mother, she asks, “Fertility issues?”

Your mother snorts. “Just selfish.”

“Built-in,” the realtor confirms, making a note in her phone.

“There are bookcases in the living room,” your mother says, leading the realtor out of the kitchen. “An entire wall.”

As your mother draws the realtor’s attention to exposed beams, you cradle your left breast and climb the stairs to the second floor. The walls are lined with family photos and school portraits, and you watch the years fall away from the faces as you ascend. From the living room, you hear your mother apologize for the state of the hearth.

You go to your childhood bedroom, long since transformed into your mother’s craft room, and open the closet door.

“Ack!” says the fox, blinking in the light.

“Ack!” you bark back.

The fox turns, and with a whip of its fluffy tail, disappears down a hole. You sit on your heels for a better look. The mouth of the hole is jagged where the fox broke through the floor boards. Dirt rings the edge and rises in mounds from the closet’s corners.

You push aside the winter coats and their scent of stale wool. On your hands and knees, you crawl into the burrow, taking care to avoid splinters.