Mrs. March went to her bedside table to remove her watch, pondering whether any animals had bitten and clawed at Sylvia’s dead flesh, like a coyote or black crows. As a child, she had witnessed her cat snatch a sparrow from an open window. It caught the bird in one smooth swoop of its paw like it was nothing, with that quintessential feline indifference, as if the eleventh-floor apartment were a grassy savannah. It toyed with the sparrow for a while, batting it with its paws, then—right before the young Mrs. March’s eyes—started to eat it, tearing through feathers and pulling at its skin with pointed teeth. Mrs. March saw Sylvia’s still, soft face pierced and slit into strips by the jaws of a predator, its hot breath blowing at her eyelashes.
She pressed her nails into the meat of her palms. She contemplated smoking a cigarette to relax, but unwrapping the stolen silver case from her shawl and airing out the room afterwards was too much of a bother, and besides, she didn’t know what she needed relaxing for. So instead she washed her face—the wine webbing her lips like spider veins—brushed her teeth, slathered on some face cream, and climbed into bed with her book. Soothed by the feeling of cleanliness, of fresh sheets against scrubbed toes, the scent of her face cream something jasmine- or lavender-like, she read for a while, until she was interrupted by the clacking steps of the upstairs neighbor, who was wearing high heels again. She didn’t know who owned the apartment right above theirs, but every time she saw a woman in heels in the lobby she would consider approaching her, maybe befriending her so that one day she could mention, in a casual, offhand manner, the surprising benefits of house slippers. In response to this thought, the heels clacked harder through the ceiling.
Mrs. March put down her book—the print was too small, which, with the wine, had given her a headache—and got up to get some aspirin from the bathroom.
When she padded back to bed, something caught her eye in the building opposite. A red light in one of the windows. She tensed, her first thought that it was a fire, but as she looked longer, she realized that it was a lamp draped in a cherry-colored organza, which cast a warm glow. The various other windows in the building were mostly dark, some strobing with the soft pulse of a television screen.
She moved closer to her own window, her nose almost pressing against the glass. It had begun to snow. The snowflakes floated down, the ones passing by the window illuminated red for a split second, lighting up like embers before continuing their descent, the black night flickering saffron, hellish.
Her eyes went back to the glowing room. It was a bedroom, dark except for the reddish glow. After some seconds she managed to make out a woman, bent over, her back to the window. She was wearing a pink silk slip, her milky thighs on full display. Mrs. March cleared her throat, then looked over her own shoulder, as if someone had caught her spying. She trained her eyes back on the woman. What was she bending over? Mrs. March could see the corner of a mattress or a couch cushion. Leaning further, she bumped her forehead with a thud against the windowpane, and, as if she had heard her, the woman in the pink slip turned around.
From Mrs. March’s throat issued an unwilling sound, some tortured garble between a gasp and a scream. There was blood—so much blood—soaking the front of the woman’s slip and matting her hair and staining her hands—hands now pressed against the window to form bloody prints. Mrs. March pushed herself away from the window in one jerky movement, falling backward onto the bed, her book crunching underneath her spine. She flailed her arms toward George’s bedside table, shaking her hands free of the numbness creeping up to her fingers. She pulled the telephone to her and crept to the window. The cord went taut, halting her movement.
She stood there, the receiver pressed to her ear—the dial tone now a harsh beeping—as she looked out across the courtyard. The red glow was gone. The woman was gone, too.
Mrs. March held the phone to her ear, her eyes fixed on the window, acrid perspiration dripping down her neck, her stomach tangled nettle. She remained like this for some time until her sweat dried and her breath steadied.
The snow had turned into rain and the courtyard was noisy with it, the patter shocking her as it struck something close, something metal, with a loud clang.
She placed the handset back in its cradle, her gaze still locked firmly, unwavering, on the window opposite. The window remained dark, although she could still almost see the red light, throbbing in her line of vision like an apparition, like seeing the sun through closed eyelids after looking straight at it.
Still she held the phone, clutching it to her breast, as she considered making the call to the police. But she wasn’t sure now—all that blood, the woman staring at her through the window, her slip drenched in it. Had she really seen it? And then there was the other problem, of course, the real reason she couldn’t call the police. She had thought the woman—of course it couldn’t be—she had thought the woman had her face. She had thought the woman was her.
Mrs. March was jolted from a series of gloomy, melancholy dreams by the neighbors’ alarm clock, a thick drilling buzz, followed by the neighbors’ dull, heavy footsteps pulsing through the ceiling like a migraine.
She sat up in bed slowly and looked toward the window, lit with somber morning light. Through the gap in the curtains she could see the other building. All still. No movement.
She leaned back into the pillows, her heart beating uncomfortably fast. The thought of last night made her sweat—indeed, she must have been sweating all through the night, because, she now noticed, the mattress was drenched. Peering under the blanket and top sheet, she gasped and bounced out of bed. The stain was flaxen, round, burning into the middle of the fitted sheet, darkening the chaste ivory linen. Urine.
“Oh no,” she cried, hugging herself, rocking back and forth. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she had wet the bed. It might have been that first night Kiki showed up in her bedroom, with her unsettling smile and unearthly, browless eyes, drawing breath throughout the night.
Mrs. March swept to the bedside table to check the time—Martha wouldn’t be here for another half hour. No way would she ask Martha to change the bedsheets. She supposed she could tell her she’d spilled wine on them, but then she would have to pour wine on the bed, and the mere thought of her in her nightgown sprinkling Cabernet onto her sheets made her simultaneously giggle and cry.
She ripped the sheets off the bed and, with them bunched in her arms, opened the door to the hallway. Funny how the space had seemed so narrow and uninviting just the night before. Now, a gentle light fell onto it from the open rooms, dust motes floating in the rays crisscrossing the floorboards.
She ran to the linen closet at the end of the hallway, where their washing machine sat under the shelves. She had often commented to George how fortunate they were to have a washing machine in their apartment, so as not to have to resort to the building’s basement laundry room, or the indignities of a public laundromat. She had not operated it since they hired Martha.
Panting, she wadded the sheets into a ball and stuffed them into the machine, then, remembering her stained nightgown, pulled it off and shoved it in as well. She turned the dial every which way and pressed several buttons at once, until the machine whirred into life. Mrs. March returned to her bedroom naked, sweating and shivering, and had barely pulled on her bathrobe when she heard the front door open and Martha call out her usual lifeless greeting.
Her heartbeat a deep and painful poke against her ribs, Mrs. March stepped into the hallway in her robe. “Oh,” she said, as if she had forgotten Martha worked here almost every day. “Good morning, Martha.”
Martha stopped in her tracks, her little olive purse swinging from her wrist. “Did I forget to wash something?” she asked, looking past Mrs. March at the churning machine in the linen closet; Mrs. March had forgotten to close the door.
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. March, wringing her hands, “I wanted to wash my sheets. I’ll need you to put some new ones on. Because—well, it’s not
important why, really, I had—well, they were stained, you see, and my nightgown, well—”
Martha’s face melted into an expression of complete understanding. “Of course, Mrs. March,” she said. “I hope you chose the cold-water cycle—otherwise we can use white vinegar. That’s best for bloodstains.”
Flashes of the woman—the woman with her face—in the window returned to her. The bloody palms, bloody nightgown. How did Martha know?
“We were six women in my house growing up,” added Martha, “so this happened all the time. It’s no problem. I’ll get those stains out.” She nodded curtly—an attempt at motherly kindness, maybe—before retreating to the kitchen.
Mrs. March was left standing in the hallway, her bathrobe sagging open as it dawned on her that Martha had assumed she was menstruating. She flushed. Her period—“the curse,” as her mother put it—had been irregular for some months, arriving further and further apart, and lately she was plagued by hot flashes and tender breasts. When she did have her period, it was milky and light, like a watercolor. She struggled to remember what it had been like before, this affliction that had once dominated her life. She had planned holidays and gatherings and even her own wedding around it, gobbling painkillers and pressing hot water bottles against her back all day. Not much was left now. So much of one evaporates through the years, she mused.
THROUGHOUT THE DAY, Mrs. March checked on the building across the courtyard compulsively through her bedroom window. She’d peer from behind the drapes, in the hopes of surprising whoever it was in the act, yearning for any clue that might explain what she had seen. The window in question remained dark, the glass reflecting her own building back at her. There was no sign of the woman in the slip dress, or indeed of any woman—only a man in a suit, who was standing on a fire escape on a lower floor, eating a sandwich wrapped in foil.
The phone rang twice that day. The first time, Mrs. March picked up, only to be met with silence. When the phone rang the second time, Mrs. March went rigid as she saw Martha holding the phone to her ear. “What are they saying, Martha?” she asked, her voice hoarse. “Don’t listen to them!” She rushed to Martha, who handed her the phone in bewilderment. Mrs. March clasped it with trembling hands and pressed the receiver to her temple. She could hear nothing on the other end of the line, not even an exhalation or a titter. “Whoever this is, stop calling!” she said before hanging up. Martha shook her head and said, “Telemarketers.”
THAT AFTERNOON, Mrs. March went upstairs to pick up Jonathan from the Millers’ apartment. Sheila answered the door wearing a loose sweater and men’s white athletic socks. “Oh! Hi! Come on in.” Sheila seemed surprised to see her, even though Mrs. March had called to tell her she was on her way over.
Mrs. March stepped tentatively into the apartment. She had never been inside; usually Jonathan would greet her at the door when she picked him up.
“Can I get you anything?” asked Sheila. “Some coffee? Tea?”
Sheila wasn’t pretty, per se, but she was attractive, with high freckled cheekbones and sleek blond hair that always seemed to shine. She was wearing reading glasses, which made her look interesting, and when she took them off she hung them casually from the neckline of her sweater. Mrs. March had never looked good in any type of glasses. They accentuated all her facial flaws. “Tea would be lovely,” she said.
She followed Sheila into the kitchen, observing her tiny back, tiny waist. The nape of her neck so bare, the subtle blond down hardly perceptible under the lights. Mrs. March often felt as if she had been drawn out of proportion to other women’s forms. Her own body, bloated and ungainly, had nothing in common with Sheila’s svelte, angular frame.
She made good use of the short trip to the kitchen to make a mental note of everything in the apartment. Sheila’s effortless style was apparent in her playful, modern take on Moroccan rugs, in the settee upholstered in gull-patterned mustard velvet. The Millers had fanciful cove lighting built into their ceilings, rather than sconces or overhead bulbs or floor lamps. The cheerful runner under her feet made the hallway appear brighter and shorter. Although the apartment had the same layout as hers, it looked different. More modern. Superior. She wondered whether any of the doormen had been inside, the judgmental day doorman, in particular. Whether he had compared it to her own.
“You moved the kitchen?” she asked Sheila as they entered it. The Marches’ kitchen was near the entrance. The Millers’ was further down the hall and on the opposite side of the apartment, where George’s study was.
“Oh, yes. We wanted the extra space for the living room. We tore the old kitchen wall down and joined the two rooms. We get so much more light this way.”
Mrs. March pursed her lips. She sat down awkwardly—her skirt riding up her thighs—on one of the high stools around the kitchen island as Sheila set about heating the kettle, flexing her thin, red-nailed fingers. Sheila always appeared to have had a recent manicure. It would be just like her (easygoing, informal) to do her nails herself, but they were so perfectly trimmed and polished that Mrs. March could only hope it was because Sheila spent hundreds of dollars at the salon. As she pondered this, Sheila took out two teacups from a cabinet. They were charmingly mismatched but clearly part of a set, which Mrs. March also noted.
“Milk?” Sheila asked.
“Please.”
There was a slight clinking of glass bottles and jars as Sheila opened her refrigerator. Inside, everything was arranged in neatly stacked rows of labeled containers. Mrs. March marveled at such efficient, aesthetically pleasing storage before the refrigerator door closed. Rather than pour it into a creamer, Sheila unceremoniously plopped the milk carton in front of her, where it sat, perspiring on the glossy surface of the island, for the entirety of their tea session.
When Sheila poured the steaming water from the kettle over a bulb of dry tea leaves at the bottom of each teacup, Mrs. March leaned closer, astounded, as the tea leaves began blooming into flowers. Sheila saw her staring and smiled. “It’s Chinese flowering tea,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful? We got them in Beijing last month.”
“That’s lovely. Such a long journey, though. How did Alec handle it?”
“We didn’t take Alec. It was just Bob and me.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. March, annoyed that living together apparently wasn’t enough for Sheila and Bob. They had to take romantic trips around the world, even though they had been married for at least ten years. “How nice.”
“Yes. We found this tea at the sweetest little shop right next to our hotel. I couldn’t resist.”
“Fancy,” replied Mrs. March with just a touch of tartness. She racked her brain in an attempt to recall what Bob Miller did for a living to afford a trip to China.
They sipped in silence. Mrs. March glanced down at her unfurling tea blossom, looking more and more like a thick, knotted spider unfolding its legs. A drop of refrigerator sweat dribbled down the milk carton and onto the counter. Unexpectedly, Sheila began to take off her sweater. Mrs. March winced at what was coming: Sheila’s smooth collarbone; her ribs poking through her T-shirt as she raised her hands above her head; her thin, muscular arms. Mrs. March fidgeted in her seat, involuntarily lowering her own sleeves further down her wrists. When she couldn’t bear the silence any longer, she said, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
Sheila beamed at her, and Mrs. March spied the most subtle chip in one front tooth. “Oh, thank you. You should have seen the state of it before we moved in. It was horrible. This old lady had been living here forever. Barely went outside in the end.”
“Did she die here?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. But it sure smelled as if she had. I was terrified to open the closets.”
“Was there anything in them? Insects?” Mrs. March asked hopefully as she sipped her tea.
“You know what, I have no idea—we removed the closets without so much as a glance. And good riddance. We have a modern dressing room now. Pine.”
Mrs.
March’s eyes narrowed.
“Haven’t seen any insects, though, no,” continued Sheila, lightly biting a fingernail, the red varnish inexplicably, infuriatingly, unchipped.
“We are lucky not to have cockroaches in the building,” said Mrs. March.
“Oh goodness yes,” said Sheila, “I would absolutely die if I saw one. Revolting little things.”
“You definitely haven’t seen any, right?” said Mrs. March.
“Oh, God no.” Then, frowning: “But I mean, I wouldn’t—I clean.” She laughed, displaying her chipped tooth and nipple-pink gums. Mrs. March forced herself to laugh along, although her laughter carried a hint of hysteria.
“Oh, gosh, where are my manners?” said Sheila. “I haven’t shown you the apartment! Want a tour?”
“Oh, thank you, but I can’t today. I have some errands to run. I’m sorry.” The thought of being confronted by yet one more beautiful thing in Sheila’s apartment was too much to bear.
“No problem,” said Sheila, picking up the teacups and setting them in the sink. Mrs. March edged off the stool and followed Sheila into the hallway. “Boys!” called Sheila. “Jonathan! Your mother’s here.”
As a door opened at the end of the hallway and the boys spilled out, Mrs. March turned to Sheila with a much-rehearsed smile, sinking her nails into the leather strap of her purse. “Well, thank you so much for tea, Sheila. It was lovely.”
She took Jonathan’s hand, who wriggled free from her grip. He didn’t like his hand to be held in front of people (or at all, really). He ran into the shared hallway and she walked after him, feeling Sheila’s eyes on the back of her head all the way to the elevator.
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