1.

“I received the strangest dinner invitation yesterday,” Ruth ventured to say as she trained her discerning, narrow eyes upon herself in the mirror. She slipped out one pink plastic roller after another from her hair.

“From who?” Arthur asked, running his little hand-carved wooden comb through his wiry beard. The couple formed an elegant pair once they were all made up, with their thick, shining hair and clothes of cashmere and silk tailored to precision.

“Well, that’s what’s strange about it,” Ruth said. She dabbed a rosy red cream onto her thin lips. “It doesn’t say.”

“Surely it’s from Joseph or Maja, those two are always throwing some kind of party.”

“No, it has an address but it’s not one I recognize, it’s certainly not Joseph and Maja’s.”

“It must have been delivered to the wrong person. That does happen sometimes - I can take it into work today and have it forwarded.”

“It has our names on it,” Ruth said.

Arthur, running up against the limits of his investigative faculties, shrugged his shoulders and grunted, as if to say, well, that’s the end of it, anyhow. He kissed Ruth on her rouged cheek, rinsed out the dregs of black coffee from his mug, and embarked for his commute to the post office, where he would sit at his paper-plastered desk doing Lord knows what.

So he really didn’t see it, Ruth thought. She picked at the handles of her brown leather purse, where she’d stuffed the invitation in a furtive rush upon receiving it last night. Her heart gave a wild leap at the chance of it all — he hadn’t seen it, he didn’t know, she didn’t have to explain anything.

2.

he path to the dinner party evades Ruth at first, running from her like a shy child from a stranger. Ruth coaxes, bargains, and begs the path to meet with her, but it remains petulant and hidden until she threatens it — “if you’re going to be like that, I’ll just go home without you!” At this, the street she’s looking for approaches with its head bowed in an approximation of sheepish guilt.

The street in question fails to demarcate itself in any way, void of any characterizing landmarks or qualities, more like a model constructed of paper and glue than a real street. Thoroughly unremarkable white and brown wooden facades line either side, each with its own frost-beaten lawn and sensible family car crouched in the driveway. The road stretches from east to west, and each direction appears, to Ruth, identical. Like two mirrors pointed at one another, they reflect each other endlessly until the eye can no longer stand it, though the mind knows it keeps going, probably forever. But the road must end — all roads have ends, or they at least change names, after bending around a hill or feeding into a highway, or even just because it feels like discarding one identity for another.

Such thoughts are not of much help to Ruth, though. She squints her eyes (oh, I really need to go see Dr. Worfen, my eyesight is getting worse by the day) to see the house numbers — she seeks number 2153, but on her left is 8932, on her right… 5742? Ruth quickly surmises that the house numbers here do not run consecutively, nor do they follow any rule like gathering even numbers on one side and odd on the other. These anarchist house numbers run amok, sitting wherever they please, with no regard to efficiency or reason. Ruth stares down the street, dumb as a newborn. Where is she meant to go?

“Well, if I simply choose a direction and walk, I probably have a halfway chance of finding the number I need. If I don’t, I can come back again tomorrow and go down the other way,” Ruth says to herself. She blushes even though the lawns hold not even a child playing in the dirt to witness her acting a fool.

With no cars driving in either direction, Ruth walks down the center of the road, granting herself the best vantage from which to see house numbers on either side. Her clacking heels echo against the house fronts, and she tightens her knitted ocean-blue scarf against the chill. She walks and walks against the wind, in a world silent except for her own noise. If she stops, she can trick herself into believing everyone has gone into hiding without her, perhaps stowing themselves away from some impending tragedy that she doesn’t know about — a tornado, the plague, an atom bomb; oh, how I wish I had a radio to hear the news, is everything alright…?

After a while, it’s hard to know how long she’s been walking. The road and the houses look the same as they did one, two, five miles ago. Ruth tugs on the cuff of her cream-colored coat to look at her watch, and her heart catches. It’s been an hour already! How did I not notice? She looks up at a sky working toward sunset, the phantom pinks and purples bleeding from the western horizon behind Ruth. How can a road be so long without changing?

Fed up, Ruth walks up the steps to a house with a red-painted door. Lights burn behind the walls, so someone must be home here, in house number 7454. She knocks once, softly, and waits for what she believes to be a polite amount of time, measured by the ticking of the second hand on her watch, and then knocks again, three loud, firm raps. Nobody opens the door, nor scrambles to peek out a window, nor yells at mom/dad/son/daughter/sister/brother/husband/wife to go get the goddamn door. Nobody’s home.

Ruth approaches the door of the next house, number 3602, also glowing with the light of inhabitation. But when Ruth knocks, nobody responds, not even a dog or cat stirs. 9700, 6265, 2888… every house she tries is exactly the same. The emptiness of the place starts to stretch its legs inside of Ruth; she walks around with a dried up well inside of her.

She cannot find the house she needs. Is it some kind of trick, a grand game, all part of some kind of blackmail scheme? With every reason presented to her to give up entirely, Ruth only grows more determined to find the sender of the invitation. She must know why they would send her on such a chase, maybe she’ll give them a piece of her mind. What if 2153 doesn’t even exist? It’s very well possible.

Ruth sits on a curb for a rest. She takes off her heels and massages her feet, scrunching her face at the holes worn through the bottoms of her brand-new stockings and the red blisters forming at the sites of these breaches. What a joke. I should just -

And then, music. Bright, twinkling sounds from a record player, a luminous jazz tune performed on a piano.

And is that… laughter? The clink of a glass? Ruth shoves her feet back into her shoes, smooths down the front of her gray woolen skirt, runs fingers through her wilting curls. She resolves herself against the spreading night — she will walk until she reaches her destination.

3.

Dearest Ruth,

You are invited to a dinner party tomorrow night, Nov. 3, at 5 o’clock in the evening, at 2153 Stone Hill St.

You don’t know us, but do not let that dissuade you from accepting our invitation. We have many important matters to discuss, especially concerning your beloved Arthur. Do try to leave him at home — after all, it’s not polite to talk about people in their presence. I must add, do not show this to him, nor mention it to him. I know you may be tempted to do so, but if you should, we will know, and there are things about you we could share with good old Arthur without much risk to ourselves, that might devastate you and your peaceful marriage. Please bear that in mind as you decide how to proceed with this offer.

After you memorize the time and address, we ask that you promptly burn this letter.

I will reiterate: do not hold onto this correspondence beyond its time for immediate usefulness. My colleagues are asking why I must say it twice, but they don’t know what a fool you can be, especially when you think you are being cunning.

Best regards,

xxxxxx

4.

Darling sister,

I know how startling this must be, but I assure you there’s a good reason for my leaving. It’s not a reason I can tell you about, but knowing your heart, you would do the same as I am. There are some things beyond either of our understandings that must be tended to, and when I’m done, you are the person I shall return to first, and hopefully regale with accounts of my activities.

I apologize for being so vague and still asking you favors, but there are some things that need to be done in my absence and you are the only one I trust to carry through on them without making any trouble. I will put them in a numbered list for the sake of your convenience, (you know how I love my lists, go ahead and make fun of me for it, this isn’t so serious that you can’t still make fun at my expense!)

1. Tell Arthur I’ve gone on an emergency trip to California for the university. Tell him I tried to call him but he never picked up, so I called and told you instead - I don’t think he’ll question much further than that, he’ll just think the phone was broken. If he questions you any further (even though I doubt he will, I still think it’s best to be prepared if he does), it concerns the unfortunate deposition of a professor’s research assistant and the urgent need for a replacement.
2. Take care of Olive, I would have taken the dear cat with me if I could, but I had to leave so suddenly. Olive already likes you, I’m sure she will be fine in your house - I just know Arthur will forget to feed her and I don’t want to think of her starving for even a moment.
3. Don’t look for me, or ask anyone any questions about me. I don’t think anyone else will notice my leaving, so don’t bring it up if they don’t ask about it first. If they do ask, tell them what you told Arthur.
4. Burn this letter upon finishing it.

I know you will do these tasks efficiently and faithfully, for that has always been your way, little Annette. I apologize for taking advantage of your virtue, and I promise to never do so again once I return.

Much love and many thanks,

Ruth

"Forty-One False Starts" by Janet Malcolm, 2014, The New Yorker