Her Every Fear

by Peter Swanson

  There was a light on in the apartment on the other side of the courtyard. Alan looked, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. The woman who lived there—Alan couldn’t remember her name, if he’d ever known it—had left her own curtains half parted. She was seated on her couch, her back against one of the arms, a book open in her lap. There was a single tall lamp above her that produced a cone of warm yellow light. On the coffee table in front of the couch was a glass of red wine, an open bottle next to it. It was such an idealized image, almost cliché, that Alan laughed out loud to himself. He took a step to the left so that she was framed more perfectly in the space between the parted curtains.

  The woman startled a little and looked up from her book, and Alan took an instinctive step back, sure that he’d somehow been spotted. She stood, though, without looking toward the window at all. She disappeared out of sight, then returned to the couch, that white cat called Sanders walking with her. The cat leapt onto the coffee table. The woman returned to the sofa and the book, idly scratching Sanders under its chin. He belonged to a woman on the other side of the building, but was allowed to roam the place at free will. Alan had seen him frequently in the lobby, sometimes sleeping on top of the reception desk.

  Alan snapped the nearest lamp off, so that his own living room was plunged into near darkness, and continued to watch the woman. She looked so at peace, so content within the small sphere of her existence, that Alan felt an almost physical pain in his chest, a sharp desire to be with her. He imagined himself stretched out on the other side of the couch, their bare feet touching. In this fantasy, he only knew that they were completely at ease with one another.

  The track on the record was “My Buddy,” and Alan realized just how long he had been staring out the window. He pushed the curtains closed and sat back down on the couch. His phone vibrated: a text from Quinn that she was at the bar. He wrote back, telling her to say Hi to everyone. She wrote back a half second later: Mike said to say you are a losah!

  The record ended, and Alan sat in the quiet apartment. He thought of playing something else, or looking for a movie to watch, but all he could think about was continuing to watch the woman. He got up, returned to the window, and peered through again. She was still reading on the couch, but Sanders the cat was gone, and she’d pulled her legs up so that her book was propped against her knees. Alan remembered that he had binoculars, a small pair that he’d bought that year he’d split a Celtics season ticket in the nosebleeds with some of his college friends. He couldn’t remember exactly where they were, but guessed they were still in the canvas messenger bag he’d been using back then. He went and checked, and he’d guessed right. With the binoculars in his hand, he hesitated, knowing somehow that there was a genuine difference between simply watching your neighbor through a window and watching her with a pair of binoculars. It will be just for a moment, he told himself. A way to get a really good look at her, maybe even see what book she’s reading.

  He returned to the window, and peered through the binoculars. It made her look as though she was about eight feet away. He could see her features clearly, the texture of her clothes, the way she was absentmindedly touching one of her earlobes with a finger. The book was called Wolf Hall, large black-and-white font on a red cover. She licked the tip of a finger with her tongue before turning a page.

  Alan felt his breathing slow down and get heavier. Looking at her up close he felt dirtier, aware that what he was doing was wrong, but unable to stop himself. She wore old jeans, the denim splitting at the knees, and a tight crewneck sweater with black and brown stripes. She yawned, arching her back, and he could see a sliver of her pink stomach. Alan felt himself stiffen in his pants, and that reaction caused him to lower the binoculars, pull the curtains shut, and step away. Feverish shame swept over him, as though he had suddenly become ill.

  He put the binoculars in his underwear drawer, then undressed, pulled on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, brushed his teeth, and got into bed. He read for a while. John Le Carré’s Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. He’d read it before, but not since middle school. His eyes scanned the words while he thought of the girl in the window. He wondered what her life was like, if she had a boyfriend. Maybe he was out for the night the way Quinn was. He didn’t think so, though. There was something about the way she looked in her apartment that made Alan think she lived there alone.

  He tried to read some more, then shut the book, turned out the light, and lay awake, listening to the baseboard heating click on and off. There was no way he was going to be able to fall asleep, he told himself, and then he did.

  Quinn slid next to him under the covers. She smelled like red wine and Marlboro Lights. “You smoked?” Alan asked. They’d quit together recently.

  “Shhh,” she said. She was naked, and she slid one of his hands between her legs, then climbed on top of him. Quinn was gray and featureless in the darkness of the room, and Alan, half awake, imagined it was his neighbor, the girl whose name he didn’t even know, moving back and forth on top of him.

  It didn’t take him long to learn her name. The following Monday, after Quinn had left for work, Alan walked through the building’s lobby and to the other wing. It was easy to figure out which was her door; she was in apartment 3C. Back down in the lobby, Alan asked the doorman if he could look through the bundle of mail that had just arrived. And there she was on a credit card solicitation: Audrey Marshall, Apartment 3C.

  Over the course of that winter he got to know her schedule, when she got out of bed in the morning and when she got home at night. She rarely had anyone over. Once or twice a woman, skinny and with a homely face, came by and they would drink champagne, the other woman talking nonstop while Audrey listened, interjecting occasionally. But she was usually alone, and that was the way Alan liked to watch her.

  “What’s so interesting out there?” Quinn asked one night, when he thought she was watching the television.

  “I thought I heard someone shouting in the courtyard, but it’s probably just out on the street.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” she said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I see you looking out the window all the time. And I can’t remember the last time you actually looked at me for more than a second.”

  “We ate lunch together today, remember? We were looking at each other the whole time. I helped you get that sesame seed out from between your teeth.” Alan laughed.

  Quinn shrugged from behind her cell phone. This was March, and Alan was pretty sure that Quinn had met someone new, some guy named Brandon who worked at her firm and who was always included in the group of coworkers who were inevitably getting together after work for a drink. It was something about the way she said his name, rushing through the two syllables in sentences such as: “Oh, and of course, Brandon was also there.” Alan wasn’t upset. He wasn’t even jealous, really. He had Audrey.

  As winter turned to spring, and spring turned to summer, she cracked her windows, and so did Alan. On quiet summer evenings, when the breeze blew in the right direction, he occasionally could hear music coming from across the courtyard. Audrey listened to classical when she was reading, and she read a lot, usually in the same position on her living room couch as the first time he’d spied on her. Sometimes she read in the bedroom, especially when the weather was hot, since her bedroom, like Alan’s, had a ceiling fan in it. He never saw her fully naked, but he’d seen her in various stages of undress many times, usually as she got ready in the morning for work, or just after she came home, always around six in the evening. One hot night, Audrey left her curtains cracked, and Alan, chair pulled up to his own window in his unlit bedroom, watched through his binoculars as she read a paperback called The Little Stranger. She was naked except for a pair of black briefs. Alan imagined, for a moment, that if he opened his window all the way he could float across the courtyard and into her bedroom.

  By late summer, Quinn had moved out—citing Alan’s distance, although Alan had heard throu
gh the grapevine that she was now dating Brandon from work—leaving him with less than half the furniture and a monthly rent he couldn’t afford. She’d also left him with more time to focus on Audrey. He’d formed a plan, a way to meet her that would seem natural and that would throw them together for a lengthy period of time. Alan had begun to occasionally follow Audrey when she left the apartment. He now knew where she worked—a small publishing house just over the river in Cambridge—and he knew that on weekends she liked to go and read at a low-ceilinged coffee shop in Harvard Square called Café Pamplona. His plan was to get there before her on one of those days, tell her she looked familiar, start a conversation. Eventually they’d figure out that they lived in the same apartment building in Boston, and wasn’t it funny that they had actually met in Cambridge, and maybe they could get together sometime soon on their side of the river.

  But he never got to enact this plan. Everything changed in February. A man had started appearing in Audrey’s apartment. A tall jock in a suit, who always showed up with a bottle of wine. Alan knew who he was. His name was Corbin Dell, and he also lived at 101 Bury Street, right down the hall from Audrey.

  Chapter 7

  Alan had met Corbin Dell shortly after he’d moved to Bury Street. This was before he’d begun watching Audrey Marshall, back when Quinn and he were an amorous young couple sharing their first apartment.

  They’d met—Alan and Corbin—in the lobby of the building. Corbin was talking with the doorman named Bob and Alan was checking his mail on his way to play racquetball. The tape-wrapped handle of his racket poked out of his gym bag.

  “Squash or racquetball?” Corbin asked Alan, noticing the racket.

  “I’ve played both,” Alan said, “but lately I’ve been playing racquetball. Do you play?”

  “I do. Where do you play?” Corbin asked. He was almost impossibly square jawed. In fact, everything about him was square—his wide shoulders, his thick hands, his head, its sharp corners accented by a blond crew cut. Alan knew, just by looking at him, that he would be a far superior player.

  “The Y,” Alan said.

  “Where? On the river?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I didn’t know they had racquetball courts. We should play some time. You could come to my club.”

  “I’m not very good,” Alan said.

  “I don’t care about that,” Corbin said. “The guy I play with now is so competitive it’s stopped being fun.”

  They introduced themselves. Alan had a business card from the software company he worked at that had his e-mail on it, and he gave it to Corbin.

  “You in marketing?” Corbin asked.

  “I am. What about you?”

  “Financial advisor. At Briar-Crane.” Alan recognized the name. Of course he was in finance. Guys who looked like Corbin loved nothing more than currency speculation and talking about rates of exchange. They said goodbye, Corbin telling Alan that he’d be in touch about racquetball. Alan exited through the courtyard on his way to the Y, knowing that Corbin would probably never e-mail, but feeling a strange surge of pleasure that he suddenly lived in a building where men made racquetball dates in the lobby. This was his new life, now that he was with Quinn, who’d always had family money and always would have family money. She’d insisted on moving into 101 Bury Street, even though the rent was four times what Alan had been paying for a two-bedroom in South Boston.

  Alan forgot about Corbin Dell, and was surprised when, a week later, he got an e-mail from him that read:

  Let’s play that game of racquetball. I can do Saturday morning if you can. I got a court for 10 am. Corbin

  They’d played, and Alan had been right: Corbin was a far superior player, not just in skill level, but in fitness. After the game, Corbin looked like he didn’t need a shower, while Alan, dripping with sweat, worked hard to form complete sentences. Still, after showering and walking back from Corbin’s swank club to the apartment building, Corbin said they should play again.

  And they did, but just once. It was right before Christmas week, and afterward they got a beer together at the Sevens on Charles Street. The drink at the bar felt to Alan like their racquetball games—Corbin in control and Alan scrambling to catch up. Corbin talked about great restaurants in Boston, mentioned his portfolio, and swiveled his head to watch a beautiful brunette walk across the room. Alan thought Corbin was overcompensating for something, although what that was he didn’t know. Maybe it was that stupid, preppy name—Corbin—that he’d been saddled with, or maybe he was secretly gay and trying desperately to hide it. After the beer they walked together down Charles Street. It was just past five but dark already, the store windows festooned and glittery with Christmas lights. “I hate Christmas,” Corbin said, almost to himself, then quickly laughed.

  “I’m ambivalent. I don’t celebrate it,” Alan said.

  That had been their last time hanging out, except for occasionally running into one another in the building’s lobby or courtyard. Alan registered guilt on Corbin’s face during those brief run-ins, as though the fact that they no longer played racquetball was a breakup perpetrated by Corbin. Alan wanted to tell him that the breakup was mutual.

  Then Audrey entered Alan’s life and Alan forgot all about Corbin, all about other people, really. He’d forgotten Corbin so completely that it actually took him a moment to identify him when he first saw him in Audrey’s apartment. His blond hair was a little longer, but nothing else had changed. Tall and muscular, dressed in a suit or workout gear. He settled into Audrey’s apartment as though he owned it, sprawling on her couch, watching her television. They were always sharing wine. They were rarely physical with one another, although Alan had watched them enter the bedroom together several times and pull the curtains closed. He’d also watched, once, as Corbin lifted Audrey into his arms, her legs around his waist, and kissed her. One of Corbin’s massive hands slid under Audrey’s skirt and Alan had to look away. Alan told himself that his disgust at seeing Corbin and Audrey together was a good thing, that it might cure him of his need to watch Audrey at all hours. If nothing else, Audrey was not the woman he thought she was, not if she was dating someone like Corbin.

  Still, despite these thoughts, Alan found himself watching Audrey as much as he ever had, cherishing those moments when she was alone in her apartment, reading on her couch like she always had. She’d started a new book, Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, and Alan, on his way home from work, stopped at a Barnes & Noble and bought a copy, just so they could read it at the same time. Days would go by with no appearance by Corbin, and Alan would begin to hope that the relationship was over, but then Corbin would show up on a Friday night, always with a bottle of wine. They rarely seemed to go out together. Alan wondered if they’d come to some kind of sex agreement—neighbors with benefits. The thought bothered him. What did she possibly see in him? Even as someone just for sex.

  On one of the nights when Corbin was in Audrey’s apartment, Alan, after several beers, decided to send an e-mail to Corbin. It had been nearly a year since they’d last had contact. Alan composed the e-mail, working hard to make it sound dashed off, apologizing for how long it had been, then asking Corbin if he wanted to get together for a quick game followed by another beer at the Sevens. “Or we could skip the racquetball and just grab a drink, if you want,” Alan added, thinking that having a conversation with Corbin was his only goal. He hit send as soon as he’d written the e-mail, so as not to give himself time to reconsider. Alan sat back and sighed. If Corbin took the bait, then he’d be able to quiz him about Audrey, maybe find out what was happening in the relationship. Maybe Corbin and Alan would become friends, this second time around, and that would allow Alan to formally meet Audrey, get to know her. Alan found his mind galloping forward, toward scenarios where Audrey would leave Corbin to be with him. He stopped himself from going too far with these fantasies, got up from the computer, and returned to the window. Corbin was looking at his phone. Alan wondered if he was reading the e-mail h
e’d just sent. If so, he didn’t respond until the following day:

  Hey man. Nice to hear from you. I actually stopped playing racquetball, and only play squash now. But let’s get that drink anyway. I’m free Wednesday next week.

  Alan replied that he was free as well. As the day neared, he began to wonder if there was any chance that Corbin would bring Audrey along. Because of this slight possibility, Alan dressed in his best pair of jeans and his Rag & Bone blazer. But when he arrived at the Sevens at the appointed time, Corbin wasn’t there. And when Corbin finally showed, twenty minutes late, he was alone.

  They small-talked through half a beer, Corbin checking his cell phone at two-minute intervals. Realizing he had limited time, Alan asked, trying to sound casual: “Who you seeing these days?”

  “Seeing?” Corbin replied. “No one, actually. Well, there’s this girl at work. Married, unfortunately—”

  “I thought I heard from someone that you were seeing someone in the building. That girl who lives across from you—I don’t know her name . . .”

  “Audrey?”

  “Yeah, that might be it.”

  Corbin took a long pull at his Smuttynose beer, a thin line of foam clinging to his upper lip. “I barely know her. Why? Who’d you hear that from?”

  “I must have dreamt it, I guess. Or seen you two together.”

  “Nah, man. I really don’t know her. I’ve seen her, and wouldn’t mind knowing her, but nah. How ’bout you? Your girlfriend moved out, didn’t she?”