The Woman Next Door

by T. M. Wright

  "Why'd you do that?"

  "Because I didn't want you to read it."

  Tim smiled a nervous smile. Why was she being so cryptic? "If you didn't want me to read it, Christine, you wouldn't have written it."

  "Uh-huh. I guess." She nodded out the window at the dark bulk of the Courtney house. "It's very big, isn't it?"

  "Christine, the letter. . . ."

  "A person could easily lose himself in a house that big." She turned her head to look at him. "Do you know, it has fourteen rooms. And a semi-finished attic? That's what Marilyn told me." She turned back, focused on the house again. "Marilyn's not all bad, Tim."

  "I never said she was. Besides, I thought we were talking about this letter you wrote, the one you put in the disposal. Don't dangle the bait and then snatch it away."

  "That's very colorful, Tim."

  He gave her a puzzled look; her remark had been biting, sarcastic. "I'm sorry," he said, for lack of anything else to say.

  "No, Tim, I'm sorry. I'm just tired. That's what the note was about—about being tired. Emotionally tired."

  Tim touched her cheek gently, as if she were very fragile. "Do you want to see your doctor?"

  "No," she answered after a moment. "I'm okay. It's something that comes and goes. I'm okay."

  "I don't understand."

  "I don't either, Tim. I wish I did."

  "And what if . . . I were to order you to see your doctor?" God, he thought, that sounds foolish.

  Christine said nothing. Her grin mirrored his thoughts.

  "Well," he continued, "I don't mean it that way. I mean . . . what if I were to ask you, for your own good—"

  Her gaze settled again on the Courtney house. "When I think it's time," she said, and Tim noticed something distant and cold in her voice.

  "And my opinion doesn't matter?"

  She turned her head, touched his face affectionately. "Of course it does." She turned back, studied the house silently a long moment. Then: "It certainly is big, isn't it, Tim? Why would three people want to live in a house that big?"

  Tim said, "I don't know, Christine."

  Christine said nothing.

  Brett seated Greg in a yellow club chair near the bed. "What's the matter, son?" And seated himself on the bed, hunched forward, hands clasped loosely in front of his knees. He was trying to look casual, trying to put Greg at ease. He talked with Greg so rarely—he couldn't remember the last time.

  "What are you doing up at this hour, Greg? Isn't tomorrow a school day?"

  Greg looked pained by the question, and Brett knew why immediately. He was talking to him the way Marilyn talked to him—in accusations: Why are you doing this? Why aren't you doing that? Aren't you supposed to be doing something else?

  "Yes," Greg began, "but—"

  "I'm sorry, Greg, forgive me. So what if tomorrow's a school day. I can't tell you how many school days I missed when I was your age, and I made it through." He put his hand reassuringly on top of Greg's. "So tell me, what's troubling you, son?"

  Greg looked at his father's hand as if it were something foreign and he wasn't sure what to do with it. Brett withdrew it uneasily. "Tell me what's wrong," he repeated.

  Greg glanced tremblingly around the room. Brett could see that he was on the verge of tears. "Is this where you're going to sleep now? You're not sleeping with Mommy anymore?"

  Brett paused, considered. Then: "Your mother and I will be living in separate houses from now on, Greg."

  "You don't. . . ." The tears started. "You don't love each other anymore?"

  Brett again put his hand on Greg's. Greg seemed not to notice. "No, we don't, son."

  Greg yanked his hand away. He jumped to his feet. "Then, I don't love you, either!" he screeched.

  And he ran from the room.

  It was seconds before Brett recovered from the shock of that outburst. He ran to the door, looked down the hallway. Greg was nowhere in sight. "Greg?" He listened. After a moment, he heard, faintly, a door slam shut. "Oh, hell," he whispered.

  He went back to the bed, lay down, put his hands behind his head. I'm sorry, Greg. I really am sorry. And his testicles exploded with pain.

  He screamed, doubled up, rolled to the left, away from what had hit him.

  "Fucking miserable bastard!" he heard. "Fucking miserable bastard!"

  He was hit again, just above his right knee, but because of that other, monstrous pain he barely felt it. "Fucking miserable bastard!"

  He rolled again, thudded to the floor, opened his eyes very briefly. "Marilyn, please. . . ." He saw the club head—a 9-iron. "Oh, Jesus!" It stopped, deflected by the mattress, inches from his nose.

  He continued to roll, aware all the while of his screams, aware, also, that he was trying to form Marilyn's name and couldn't, aware that she was rounding the bed, was standing over him, was bringing that 9-iron high over her head . . .

  "You want to know why Daddy's leaving us, Greg? You want to know why?"

  "Mommy, I heard someone screaming. Who was it?"

  "Daddy's leaving us, darling, because he doesn't like us anymore. He won't tell me why he doesn't like us; he just says he likes somebody else a lot better. Do you understand?"

  "It sounded like somebody was hurt real bad, Mommy. Didn't you hear?"

  "Greg, listen to your mother. Don't interrupt. Daddy's going to be living somewhere else. You and I are going to live here alone. Do you think you'll like that?"

  "But—"

  "I asked you a question, Gregory. Answer it. Don't you think you'll like living here alone with me? Won't that be fun?"

  "Yes."

  "Yes what, Greg?"

  "Yes it'll be fun."

  "That's better. Okay, darling, get out of bed."

  "But it's not time to—"

  "Don't argue with me; just do as I tell you. Get out of the bed."

  "Yes, Mommy."

  "Good. We're going to play a game."

  "Mommy, I'm real tired—"

  "I didn't ask if you were tired, did I? I told you we were going to play a game."

  "Yes, Mommy."

  "That's a good boy. Now, put your slippers on."

  With Brett's return to consciousness came one damnable memory. He'd read it somewhere: Massive injury to the testicles causes pain that never entirely dissipates.

  He opened his eyes slowly. And discovered that he had to make his breathing shallow; otherwise the pain was unbearable. "Oh, good Christ—" He clamped his mouth shut. If Marilyn heard him . . . .

  Could he stand? It amazed him that he was still in a fetal position, hands cupped tightly around his testicles. He made an effort to keep his mind off his hands, for fear they would tell him of some enormous, grotesque swelling. Instead, he concentrated on the pain. He had never before felt anything like it, and it awed him, terrified him. It was, very simply, a pain to which unconsciousness, even death, might be preferable.

  But there was Greg to consider. That fact, his awareness of it, let him sublimate the pain momentarily. "Greg," he whispered.

  A minute later he was on his feet.

  He wanted desperately to silence his rhythmic, low groans, but they were involuntary, as if the pain were sending its own, uncontrollable impulses to his vocal chords.

  His hands were still between his legs. He was relieved and astonished to find that he could stand. He wondered if he could make it all the way to the door; it seemed literally miles off, in another world altogether. He took a step. His knees buckled slightly. He halted. Waited. Bent over a little more to ease the pain. He took another step. And another. He thought what a fool he was, how clownish and idiotic he must look. . . .

  "What do you think, Greg? Do you think you'll like it in here? It's much bigger, and I'll get you your own TV."

  "It's nice, Mommy, but it's cold."

  "That's only because the radiator isn't working right. Tomorrow I'll call the radiator repairman and he'll come down and get it working again."

  "Do I have to stay in h
ere, Mommy?"

  "Only as a favor to me, Greg. Only because I want you to. Just think of it as camping out. You like to camp out, don't you? Remember when we used to go to the cottage?"

  "What cottage?"

  "The one at the lake. You remember it."

  "I . . . think so."

  "Sure you do, darling. Just make believe that's where you are now. At the cottage. And there's a big storm wailing away outside, but you're all good and snug inside. Isn't that a nice thought?"

  "I guess so."

  "Sure it is. Okay, get into bed. I'll tuck you in."

  Brett pushed the door open. "Greg?"

  Silence.

  He hobbled into the room, flicked the light on. "Greg?" And saw that the bed, though mussed, was empty. "Greg?" He glanced around the room. "Where are you, Greg?"

  And realized the truth: Marilyn had hidden him. "Shit!"

  Pain shot through him. He fell to his knees, grasped his testicles.

  "Shit—oh, shit!"

  He tried to steady his breathing. The pain ebbed slightly. He reached out, put his hand on a bedpost, let his eyes open.

  He saw the gleam of the 9-iron first, then Marilyn's hand resting on the grip. She lifted the club slightly, in the direction of his testicles. She grinned. "I guess you won't be using those again real soon, will you, Brett darling."

  He took an aching step toward the doorway.

  She raised the club higher. "Stop right there, Brett, or I really will hit you."

  Brett stopped. "Where is my son?"

  "Your son, is it? Your son? I did have something to do with him, Brett. Don't you remember? Or were you off with some whore!"

  "Marilyn, this is pointless—"

  She jabbed at his stomach with the club. "I want you out of here tonight, Brett. Tonight! Is that clear?"

  "Tell me where Greg is, Marilyn. He's coming with me."

  Marilyn threw her head back and laughed. Brett watched incredulously. How could he have lived with this woman all these years and never seen this side of her? Or had he seen it and denied it? Part of his cowardice.

  "You're leaving this house alone, Brett. Alone! And don't try any legal maneuvers. It's your word against mine, and the courts still favor the mother. And another thing"—she jabbed at him again; he grabbed for the club, but she withdrew it quickly—"when it does come to a court battle, remember it was you who did the cheating, not me. You! I've got proof." She stepped to one side. "I've packed a bag for you. You've got everything you'll need."

  He hobbled past her and into the hallway, turned toward the bedroom. "You can't possibly win, Marilyn."

  He felt the club head being pushed hard into his spine. "I already have, Brett darling. Hearing your screams, watching you double up, seeing you experience the agony I experienced is victory enough."

  "Then, you'll let me have Greg?"

  She jabbed harder. He started walking. "Greg is mine, Brett. This house is mine. You are shit!"

  "Christine, I want you to hear me." Tim waited nervously. This wasn't the first time Christine had broken down and cried without apparent reason, but it had been happening with disturbing frequency ever since their move to the house. "Christine, please. . . ."

  "I'm . . . confused, Tim . . . I. . . ." She looked up at him. He saw the confusion; it was clear around her eyes and in the line of her mouth, even in the way her head cocked slightly to the right. She winced. "The pain. . . ."

  Tim leaned over, put his hand under her chin. "Where?"

  She smiled pathetically. "Not that kind of pain. It's something else, Tim. I can't explain it." She lowered her head and shook it slowly.

  "Do you want to see Dr. Ticheli, Christine?"

  She shook her head more sharply. "It's not necessary, Tim. I've had these . . . spells before. It's okay. I think it's just the change of scene."

  "And what if I want you to see the doctor?"

  She looked up again. The confusion was leaving her, and the pain. "We've been through all that before, Tim. Please don't press it."

  He straightened, put his hands on his hips, tried to bring the heavy sound of authority to his voice: "In some things, Christine—"

  She laughed at him, not maliciously, but as if he would naturally share the joke with her—the joke his strained machismo had created. "Tim. . . ," was all she could manage through her laughter.

  Tim smiled, easily convincing himself that laughter was a far, far better thing than tears, even if his foolishness was the reason for it, and easily forgetting that her tears had ended, much too abruptly, only moments before—and that there was something very odd in that.

  June 5, 1961

  It was the kind of persistent screech—"Mith King, Mith King!"—that quickly got the babysitter on edge. I want! it said; I want, I want, I want! And it had very nearly the same effect as chalk scraped on a blackboard: The short hairs on the back of the babysitter's neck stood on end, and she cringed. "Stop it!" she screamed. The pitch and volume of her voice shocked her. She felt a sharp, stinging pain at the back of her throat. She cringed again, from the pain. "Goddamnit!"

  She became aware of the silence. She smiled a tentative, cautiously optimistic smile. It was possible that within minutes the child would start again; she had done it before.

  The babysitter waited, listened. The silence continued. Good. She had trained the child well. Children were like dogs, really: Just a few harsh words kept them nicely in line.

  Now she could make her phone calls.

  She picked up the receiver, dialed, waited three rings.

  "Hello?," she heard.

  She paused a moment, then: "Is this the Vanderburg residence?"

  "Yes. Who's calling, please?"

  "Is this Mrs. Vanderburg?"

  "Yes, it is. May I please ask who's calling?"

  "Do you have a daughter named Joanne?"

  "Yes, I do. Now, I must insist—"

  "This is Mrs. Seaton at St. Mary's Hospital."

  "Oh, my God!"

  "I'm afraid, Mrs. Vanderburg, that—"

  "My God, my God!"

  "I'm afraid there's been an automobile accident, and your daughter—"

  "Nooooooo!" It was a pleading, senseless wail strung out to several seconds. "Noooooo!"

  "Mrs. Vanderburg, please—"

  "Is she hurt? Is she. . . ? Oh, my God!"

  The babysitter suppressed a giggle. She hadn't realized what a fine actress she was. The woman was really convinced. Well, all these weeks she had probably suspected that something was going to happen. Everyone knew what a maniac Bill Williams was; he had already had two accidents. Only his father's influence had stopped his license from being taken away.

  "I'm afraid, Mrs. Vanderburg, that the outlook for your daughter is not good. Could you come to the hospital right away?"

  There was no reply. Had the woman caught on? Had she—the babysitter—betrayed herself somehow? Had her professional tone slipped just enough?

  "Noooooo!" she heard. Then the receiver being slammed onto its rest. A dial tone.

  The babysitter giggled. There was no mistaking that last wail: The woman was convinced. At that very moment she was probably bustling about, tripping over things, babbling, looking for her coat and boots. Crying, too. Lots of great big tears for poor baby Joanne.

  And when she found out that her precious daughter was okay, that the supposed accident had only been a joke, she would remember the pain she was feeling now. Remember it and realize that, yes, it could happen, because Bill Williams was a maniac, everyone knew it, and Joanne, you little brat, if you ever see him again . . . It was absolutely, positively perfect.

  She looked up a number in the phone book, dialed it. A woman answered.

  "Is this the Williams residence?" the babysitter said.

  "Yes."

  "Is this Mrs. Williams?"

  "This is Ida Williams."

  Ida, for Christ's sake. Ida! "Mrs. Williams, this is Mrs. Seaton at St. Mary's Hospital."

  "Yes?"


  The babysitter stiffened. No anxiety? Just a simple, Yes? Joanne Vanderburg and Bill Williams had gone out together tonight, she was sure; she had overheard them planning it. Besides, they'd been going out every Friday night, now, for a month.

  "Mrs. Seaton?" coaxed Ida Williams.

  "Has something happened, Mrs. Seaton?"

  The babysitter nearly sighed in relief. It wasn't that they hadn't gone out tonight; it was just that Bill's mother was one of those calm, cool, collected types.

  "I'm afraid there's been an accident, Mrs. Williams."

  "An accident?" Still calm, still collected. Not for long, lady.

  "An automobile accident. Your son's been—"

  "Mith Kiiinnngggl"

  The babysitter turned her head sharply toward the child's room.

  Ida Williams insisted, "Who is this?"

  "Mith Kiiinnngggl"

  The babysitter threw the receiver down. "Stop it!" she screamed, and felt the pain again in her throat. She ran to the child's room, to the crib, raised her arm, opened her hand. And heard, very, very faintly, from the living room, "Who is this? Who is this?"

  The child was whimpering in a corner of the crib. "Mith King," she managed, "I'm thorry."

  The babysitter turned, started out of the room.

  "Hello? Miss King, Mrs. Seaton, whoever you are! What kind of prank is this?"

  The bedroom door slammed shut. The babysitter found herself in darkness.

  "What the—?" She felt a clammy sweat starting. "Oh, Jesus!" She knew immediately that the walls were only inches from her hands.

  And the door was open. Instantly. "I'm thorry, Mith King." As if it had not been shut at all.

  The babysitter stared for a moment, uncomprehending.

  She hurried to the phone, picked up the receiver—"This is really stupid, Miss King; it's cruel, unforgivably cruel"—and put it gently on its rest.

  Part Two

  GREG

  Chapter 25

  Greg remembered something about this room, something from years before, and the memory—still amorphous, still only a nebulous, bad feeling—had to do with his father and mother.