The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  I can’t do anything.

  He grabs her wrists and tries to contain her, but how do you contain someone so lost?

  It’s hard to watch, really. My stomach turns and churns, and I think I might be sick. I feel tears welling. What’s going on with her? Why is she doing this?

  She keeps screaming, and he no longer looks tense. He looks beaten. He looks broken. When he finally lets go of her wrists, she wildly thrashes a candlestick from the table at him before stomping off, the candlestick tossed to the ground.

  And then it’s quiet, just him, alone, standing for a long moment where he was. Eventually, his hands ruffling his hair, he moves dejectedly towards the window and stares out. His eyes peer off into the distance, at what, I don’t know. He looks changed somehow, aged. My soul breaks for him. I hurt for him, almost as if I can feel his hurt through the window. Maybe I can, in some ways.

  My heart’s racing. What have I just witnessed? What’s going on with them? Why is she so mad?

  Questions, questions, questions, but never any answers. The window frustrates me today. It’s not a place of solace or excitement or love. Today, it’s a place of evil. It suffocates me, makes me think about how exasperating life is. The smiles have faded, and the sweet moments at 312 Bristol Lane have vanished without a trace.

  They can get them back, I think to myself, breathing through the fear. I convince myself it’s one fight. It’s one bad, bad fight. She’ll come to her senses. They’ll work it out. There will be some profuse apologies tomorrow, a warm embrace, and they’ll put this behind them. We all have things we need to put behind us.

  Soon, they’ll be back at that table, dancing to soft music and eating pot roast, laughing. She’ll put on that sunshine-yellow dress and mosey over, thank me for the pie, laughing because she didn’t realise it was from me. She’ll tell me some ludicrous story about how they thought the pie was poison. She’ll talk about losing her temper with him over a misunderstanding. An apology will ensue. She’ll find her smile again. All will be well at 312 Bristol Lane, and I’ll sip my tea, rocking and watching their love story continue.

  This is just a rough patch. It is. I’m sure of it.

  I watch for another moment, his miserable face threatening to waver my resolve, my confidence in their ability to fix things.

  But I decide he deserves his privacy. He doesn’t want someone watching this intimate moment; it can’t be easy. I decide to give him that right, to let it go, to let him lick his wounds. He needs some space from her, from everyone. I can give him that. I might not be able to do much, but I can at least do that.

  ‘Come on, Amos. Want some food?’ I ask the cat. I know it’s late and not really time to eat, but sometimes you just have to break the rules, you know? I open a second can of tuna delight for Amos, glopping it into the dish.

  I usually don’t have tea this late – it makes me have to pee in the middle of the night, plus the caffeine sometimes stirs me awake, tossing and turning in bed. It doesn’t do for an old woman to be awake in the middle of the lonely night. It’s hard on the mind, on the heart, thinking about the loneliness. There’s no window-watching then. There’s just me and the darkness. I prefer to sleep right through.

  Something tells me, though, I’ll be awake tonight anyway, lost in my thoughts and worries about those kids across the street – after all, they’re still kids to me.

  They need to work it out. She needs to find herself. I thought the pie would help, but it didn’t.

  I look at the stove and think to heck with it. I put on some water for tea, and then saunter over to the kitchen chair and stare at the blackness outside as I think about what this could all mean for 312 Bristol Lane – and for me as my daily watching has taken quite a turn for the worse.

  After the screeching kettle alerts me that the water is hot enough, I make my tea, careful to only fill it halfway, before trudging back to the rocking chair, deciding I need to take inventory before bed.

  He’s gone now, no longer staring into the blackness of the night, no longer visibly lost in thoughts and fears. I take a deep breath, feeling better.

  The lights are out in the dining room and there’s nothing to see. It’s sort of a blessing to not have to stare at the dining room table devoid of a candlestick, or to peer at the wall where she had him pinned not very long ago. The darkness suits the dining room, covering up the hostile crimes committed there. It’s blacking them out, allowing me to hang on to the tiny thread of hope I have that all can be fixed.

  But then I see it.

  The teacup in my two hands, the hot steam warming my face, I do a double take, almost not believing my eyes.

  A figure in the darkness coming towards the dining room window at 312 Bristol Lane. Closer, closer, the frame comes into view. My heart thuds, my fingers chilled despite the steaming mug between them.

  Jane stands, emotionless, staring out the window.

  No, that’s not quite right. She’s not just staring out the window. She’s glaring, her eyes burning wild with a rage only present in monsters of the darkest kind. And she’s not just glaring at anything. She’s not just aimlessly looking out the window, seething with whatever anger is inside her. It’s scarier than that. Because, as I look out the window, I realise I’m not crazy. I’m not imagining things. She’s glaring out the window and staring right at me.

  She’s mouthing something to me, but I can’t make out the words.

  Panic grips at my heart, and I think about calling the police. But what will they say? Who will they believe? I’ll be locked away for sure, Jane convincing them I’m a mad old lady. Checkout lane three will certainly back that statement up. And then where will we all be? Where will he be, with no witness in this dusky house to keep an eye out?

  I slowly stand, my pulse beating crazily as I turn my back on the window, my breathing rapid. I rush towards the counter to place my mug near the sink, spilling some tea on the way but not caring. There are bigger problems now. I breathe in and out, calming myself, telling myself there’s nothing to fear.

  But that’s the thing about fear. Even when you try to tell yourself it’s not there, it is, lurking in the corners of your being, playing on every worry and doubt you’ve ever had.

  The tea keeps me up all night, but it’s so much more than that.

  Because, over and over, I replay the scene I witnessed. I replay the fear I felt. Most of all, I think about the sight of her glaring out that window, like she wanted to kill me. And over and over, all night, I try to decipher the words she mouthed to me, no answer coming to light.

  Sleep doesn’t come, only fits of questioning, periods of doubt, and endless nightmares, both fantasy and real.

  In many ways, I suppose life has been a waking nightmare for me, and with this turn of events at 312 Bristol Lane, I shudder with the realisation that maybe the nightmare’s just beginning.

  Chapter 13

  The new year. God, we need a new year, I thought to myself as I sat, staring out my bedroom window into the murky blackness.

  I’d thought things would be different now that some time had passed. It felt like this year would be better. I would be better. I’d make Mom and Dad proud.

  But everything had changed, and when families across the country were ringing in a new year, I sat in my room, alone, wondering if anything would be okay again.

  I’d tried so hard to be good today. I’d made dinner for Mom and Dad. Mom refused to come out of her room, even when I’d gently knocked.

  ‘Get the hell out,’ she’d bellowed through snotty tears. Dad had stormed down the hallway like a bulldog, shooing me from the room.

  ‘You little bitch, get moving. Get away. Are you a moron? Leave her alone. You’ve done enough.’

  I’d rushed to my room, the meatloaf I’d carefully made rotting away on the kitchen table, just like everything else.

  I deserve this, I thought. It is my fault. It’s all my fault. My arms wrapped around myself, I stared out the bedroom window, looking
at the starry sky, wondering how everything got so messed up, trying to sort it all out.

  My chest hurt. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was fear.

  I didn’t know at the time. It was too complicated.

  She shouldn’t have treated me like that, I thought, the words dancing in my mind. I tried to shove them away, but they kept pounding against my brain. She should have been nicer. She always pushed things.

  I really hadn’t meant for it to happen, the shove going a little too far. It hadn’t been on purpose, just like I’d said.

  But still, I’d done it. There was no denying it. I’d changed our lives forever.

  Sitting, staring out the window, though, one thought developed. One ugly, sinister thought: it’s just me now. There’s no one else to compete with.

  Chapter 14

  This is why I have rules about tea.

  I was up at least four times last night – twice to use the bathroom and twice because I jolted awake, the caffeine in my blood too much. I was restless, I was bored, I was lonely. I was dancing around in all sorts of memories I didn’t want to think about.

  The second time I awoke, around four in the morning, I decided enough was enough. What was the sense in pretending anymore? I got out of bed and wandered down the hall, thinking of heading to the kitchen to start the day, even if it meant staring out into the darkness.

  I passed a few hours in the old recliner in the living room, rocking back and forth, telling myself I just wanted to sit somewhere comfortable.

  In reality, I don’t think I was ready to sit at the window with the darkness still present. If I was being honest with myself, I was afraid of what I might find lurking in the darkness, what I might witness. There are some things that make you anxious for daylight.

  I think I dozed off, though, because when Amos’s meows startle me awake, I’m still in the chair but it’s now light. The night has passed, the long, horrifying night.

  After slowly peeling myself from the recliner’s comfortable grasp, I stretch, feeling quite rough but knowing I need to face my fears. Plus, I’ll admit, I’m curious. How will they be today? Was last night all just a bad, nightmarish encounter that is smoothed over now? Are they back to normal? I need to figure it all out, no matter what.

  I traipse to the kitchen, Amos still meowing, and I find a can of tuna to feed him. I plop the food into the bowl, noticing that although he rushes to his bowl, he somehow looks as frazzled as I’m feeling – or maybe it’s my imagination. I really should brush that guy. His fur is looking a little bizarre.

  I trudge to the front door, deciding to get my mail. Did I get the mail yesterday? I don’t know. Is it too early for the mail now? I’m all confused, my messed-up sleep schedule throwing everything off. I feel really out of whack this morning.

  I open the door, glancing over at 312 Bristol Lane, thinking about the scene from last night and shuddering. What happened? I wonder if everything is okay. I can’t help but worry.

  I reach into the mailbox, my hand feeling around and finding nothing. I must’ve gotten the mail or none came. Hard to tell. When did I last get the mail?

  My inability to think coherent thoughts scares me. I need to get it together. It wouldn’t do to go mad, it really wouldn’t.

  I’m ready to close the door and head back inside, to make some more tea and get myself awake, when I glance down.

  There, sitting underneath the mailbox, is a foil-wrapped pie. It’s familiar. Then I realise it’s the pie from yesterday. She must’ve returned it.

  What does that mean? Why would she do that?

  I sigh in frustration, wondering why I even tried at all. Quickly, though, my frustration turns to something else.

  Anger.

  I crouch down to reclaim the pie, shaking my head in frustration. All that work, and for what? What good did it do? And how selfish can she be? I traipse back to the house, slamming the door shut behind me, a photograph in the entranceway shaking a little from the intensity.

  I stomp across the entranceway and into the kitchen, finding the waste bin.

  ‘Fine then. Be that way,’ I bellow to the empty kitchen, slamming the pie into the bin, the foil cold to the touch. I wipe my hands, and Amos pauses from eating to look at me, probably wondering if he should dash under the sofa.

  I lean on the counter, my breath ragged from exertion and from irritation. Some people just don’t get it. Some people just can’t appreciate anything. Maybe some people really aren’t worth the effort, the time.

  I know it’s stupid. It was just a pie, for Pete’s sake. It’s not like it really was a grand gesture. But in many ways, it was. It was me trying to make amends – for what? Why am I involving myself so much in their lives? True, with them being the only other house on the lane, it’s easy to get enveloped by them. Still, my attachment is probably unhealthy. I really should let it go, let them go about their business.

  As I find my way over to my rocking chair, though, I know I just can’t let it go. I can’t just close my eyes and pretend it’s not happening. It’s just not in my nature.

  * * *

  I’m in a weird mood now. It’s ten in the morning. He’s gone to work – I saw him leave. Maybe it was my imagination, but his shoulders looked a little lower today. His head hung just a bit more towards the ground. His pants were a little wrinkled. He wasn’t his crisp, bright-eyed self.

  I get it, though, because neither am I.

  I’m tired from last night’s adventures – if you call the bathroom and an abandoned room an adventure, which I do these days. I’m still stewing from it all. It seems silly that the people living next door can affect my mood so readily. But they do. They can. They’re in many ways my only human interaction, even if it is observational. Their lives, their story, creep around me like a bad weed that needs to be plucked. The weed, though, has blossomed, tricking onlookers into thinking it’s a soft, spindly flower.

  How long until the thorns on the weed prick me? How long until I have the strength to pluck the weed from the ground and throw it into the woodchipper until it disintegrates into unrecognisable flecks? Will I ever have that strength, or has the weed wrapped around me too closely, like a vine entangling me?

  I rock back and forth, back and forth. Amos is fed. I have my cup of tea – half full but still sloshing dangerously close to the edge since I’m rocking. I’m feeling a little dull. I do wish she’d come over. I could use a visitor. Plus, I’m worried about her. Really worried.

  I’m also, in honesty, scared. I want her to come over, yet I don’t. It’s that odd push and pull we feel so often in life. The wanting, and the not wanting. The needing and the fear.

  I rock and rock, my mind a haze, unable to focus on a clear thought until, finally, there is nothing.

  I must have drifted off because suddenly, my eyes are snapping open at the sound of a rapping at the door. I almost spill my tea, which is now lukewarm, as I spring up.

  It has to be her. Jane from 312 Bristol Lane. She’s come to her senses. Maybe she just needed to get some anger out. She’s obviously feeling better.

  I open the door, and there she is. Royal blue dress, the one from that night so long ago. Coat wrapped around her. A black scarf dramatically draped around her neck. I bite my lip, wondering what I should do. Part of me wants to slam the door. But a bigger part of me is curious, and I’ve never been one to say no to curiosity, even if it is of the dark kind.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, a weak smile telling me she’s still in there. Relief cloaks me. Despite the pie situation and last night, I feel her weaselling her way back in. God, maybe I’ve become soft. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. I don’t have time for internal debates, though, because she’s here, and I know I need to find out what’s going on. I push down the creepy-crawly feeling on my skin and pull the door open a little wider.

  ‘Come in,’ I demand, ushering her out of the cold and into the kitchen. ‘Can you stay a while? Can I put on some tea?’ I ask, before i
nwardly chiding myself. Why am I being so friendly? I have a right to be a little peeved, after all.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ she says, ambling towards the kitchen like we haven’t missed a beat, like last night didn’t even happen.

  She heads for the kettle and starts the water boiling as I take a seat. The exhaustion fades. It feels so good – so darn good – to have company. It feels good to see her out of that house, up and about.

  She wordlessly gets cups ready, finds the teabags and gets out the sugar before sitting down with me.

  ‘So what’s new?’ I ask once she’s sitting across from me, wondering how to approach the subject.

  She sighs, running a hand through her hair. ‘I don’t know, really. I’m sorry I haven’t been over for a while. It’s been so long, I know.’

  I consider mentioning the pie, asking about it, but now, in the light of day with her here, it seems … petty. Maybe the pie was just gross, or maybe she just didn’t want it. What’s it matter anyway? Am I really going to cause a drama over a pie?

  Yes, yes, I would. But something tells me not today. Today isn’t the day to start something. I know what she’s capable of, and I’m not up for a fight, not right now. So I let it go.

  ‘Don’t apologise. I know how things can get. I’m glad to see you now.’ And despite everything, it is true in an inexplicable way. I want to hate her, to want nothing to do with her. But somewhere inside of me, there’s a happiness to see her. In spite of everything, in spite of the true side of her I’ve witnessed, and even in spite of the terror building, I’m glad to see her. A huge piece of me does want everything to be okay, for her to be okay. I want things to go back to how they were, our afternoon tea and gossip sessions. I want to see that smile, that steady, calm woman who moved in. I don’t like the woman I saw a glimpse of last night, not one bit. ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, treading cautiously.

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’