The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  I sit in silence, giving her space to breathe, to muster courage to say what she needs to say.

  ‘Things are just … different. I’m different.’ In her voice is a tone I haven’t sensed before. Maybe it’s dejection, or maybe it’s a moroseness on a whole other level than before. Whatever you label it as, it’s clear that something’s plaguing her, and that she’s not the same. She is indeed different.

  I consider saying I know. I want to tell her I saw her last night, saw her with him. I don’t. That would be spectacularly creepy. I don’t want to scare her off. Instead, I sit quietly, waiting for her to continue. She stares at her cup of tea, her fingers delicately touching the spoon she’s placed on the table. She mindlessly traces the outline of it on the wooden tabletop, seemingly lost in her own world. I wonder what kind of world that truly is these days.

  ‘I just … I feel angry. Frustrated. Sad. It’s hard to explain,’ she continues.

  I reach across and pat her hand. ‘Life is hard, you know?’

  ‘I know. But it’s just … I’m so frustrated.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I know that’s a terrible answer, but I really don’t know the root of it. But mostly, it’s him. He makes me so mad. He’s so pathetic sometimes, you know? So weak and so … just so weak. He’s constantly working, constantly leaving me there in that house while he’s out. And there’s this secretary, Sheila. I know she’s pretty. I just know it. And I think he might be cheating with her.’ She stares at me now, her words no longer hesitant or morose. Instead, there’s a fire fuelled by rage in her eyes and in the tone of her voice. Her words practically grate her throat as she spews them out, and once she’s finished, I notice she’s clenching her jaw.

  I blink, the random slew of words causing me to pause. ‘Honey, when would he be cheating? Doesn’t he work a lot?’ I stop myself from revealing the fact I’ve seen him come home every single day at the same time. He’s practically never late, punctual as always. He never leaves at random hours, never disappears for long chunks of time. I don’t mention this though; that is for me to know, to savour on my own. Still, she’s not a fool. If I know he never disappears, she does too. Her accusations just don’t make sense.

  She lets out a little laugh. ‘Men have their ways. It wouldn’t surprise me. He never can say no to anything. Why would he say no to her? I’m sick of worrying about it. He’s not getting away with it, you know? He can’t even get me pregnant. He’s sure as hell not going to go screwing around with other women, making a fool of me. I won’t be second. I just won’t be second.’

  Her fists are clenched. I study her face. I see a bubbling fury up close, the kind I’ve only witnessed from the window before now. A rage the sunshine-yellow dress woman who moved in didn’t seem to know, or at least was very good at masking.

  The monster rears its ugly head.

  But an anger like that, it’s chilling, and it’s not something that comes out of nowhere. It’s not something you can just turn on. It must have been dormant all this time. It’s the kind of inner demon you possess for a long while, covering faintly just so it can slip beneath the surface, toiling away until it’s time to emerge. She must be good at smiling to cover herself.

  I get it. I don’t fault her. Life is brutal. We all wear the mask we have to wear to make it through.

  ‘Is that what’s really going on? Is it the baby situation? I know how rough that can be. I know what it’s like to be disappointed every single month, to feel like you’re lacking. It can play on a woman.’

  Her fists are still clenching. She hisses her words through gritted teeth. ‘It’s probably because he’s so worthless. It’s because he’s such a useless man. He refuses to go to the doctor. I bet he knows it’s him. It’s his fault.’

  I take a deep breath, trying to figure out how to proceed. ‘You know that’s not fair. You know it. I think maybe, just maybe, you’re hurting from all this and from something else from the past. I don’t know. I can’t be sure. But it seems to me like behind that anger is pain. But don’t let yourself drown in it. It seems like you have a good man. Don’t push him away. Don’t hurt him because you’re hurting. Let him love you. Let your love get you through.’

  I hear my advice, the words of an old woman who has been alone a long time. In some ways, I don’t have the right to tell her what to do. I know she’ll do what she will anyway. Still, the words ring true, feel good to say aloud.

  She stares at me, those lost eyes. So much pain. So much anger.

  So much frightening vehemence.

  I’m worried … and not just for her.

  For him.

  The kettle screeches, and she jumps up, a grin on her face as she pours and changes the subject, chattering about the new character on the soap operas, about this new kind of tea she bought that I should try and about a pie recipe she found.

  ‘Speaking of pie,’ I begin when the opportunity arises, but I’m not sure how to proceed.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she says as she sips on her tea.

  I stare at her, hoping that I’ve lead her into a discussion of the pie, and more than that, I’ve given her an opening to discuss last night. I need to figure out what happened. It’s all so confusing.

  But I don’t see any recognition in her face. She doesn’t jump in with an explanation for the returned pie or what happened. She doesn’t say anything about last night. She just stares at me over her cup, an eyebrow raised. Her eyes practically laser into me, and I suddenly squirm under her gaze.

  ‘Never mind,’ I offer, waving a hand. I hate myself for letting it go, but what else can I do? I don’t know what I expected. I guess a part of me hoped somehow there would be an explanation, a mitigation of what I witnessed. A part of me desired a wiping away of the sins of last night so that I could move on without trepidation. I could go back to my easy window-watching, the gorgeous moments between them brightening my days.

  Instead, I’m left with the ugly truth that something is off, and I don’t quite understand it. Perhaps it’s the lack of understanding that irks me the most.

  She stays for a while, and her pleasantness almost convinces me that I was crazy to think such dark things about her, even with last night still reverberating in my memory.

  The woman before me who talks about the latest magazine article she read about yoga and the new oven she’s picked out is a far cry from the rageful demon I saw last night. What’s happening? What is going on? It’s all just too much for me, it really is.

  When she leaves, I see the bubbles of the old Jane shining through.

  I tell myself she’s just under a lot of pressure, that she’s not all bad. It’s a hard time they’re going through. I’ve been through the infertility situation. I get it. It wears on you, especially as a woman. Thus, when I watch her cross the front yard and amble in through her front door, I hope things will change. I hope last night was a one-time occurrence. I hope she won’t shatter my image of who she is or who they are together. I hope they can be different than what I fear they’ll become. I hope she comes to her senses before he does and leaves.

  Because, despite it all, despite those scary cracks I’m seeing in her, I think she’s good deep down. I think, behind her bruised, battered, and tarnished heart, there’s still good there.

  There has to be good, because the alternative is too much to bear.

  Chapter 15

  The red-checked blanket beneath us, I stretched my long, pale legs out in the mild November sun. The rays warmed my body in a way that felt heavenly, not too hot and not too cold. His hand was on mine, and I was content, really content. I hadn’t felt that way in a long, long time. Too long.

  He had taken me away, an hour outside of town. It felt good to be away from Mother, always nagging me about my moods and my behaviour. You’d think a twenty-year-old would have some freedom, some space, but not from that woman. That woman would nag Jesus if she had a chance, I swear.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said, leaning agains
t me, his cologne wrapping itself around me. I took a deep breath, never wanting to forget the scent, to forget the feeling of sitting there in the middle of the park, alone in a sea of laughing families and screaming children.

  With him, I felt alone – but in a good way. He soothed me.

  A part of me wondered if I only liked him because he was so agreeable. He let me be my bossy self. He let me choose where we went and what we did. He never asked too many questions. He couldn’t say no to me … but a girl deserves to be spoiled, doesn’t she?

  And he didn’t seem to mind. I was the take-charge decision-maker. He was the go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Opposites and all that.

  We were good together.

  From the time I saw him walk into that restaurant, his stiff-collared shirt contrasting starkly with his dark eyes, I knew there was something about him. I was drawn to him like an animal to prey. I had to devour him. I was starving for him before I even knew who he was.

  But he was a gentle man, a man who took it easy. He languidly followed the path at his own pace.

  Enough was enough.

  ‘You know,’ I said, looking into those dark eyes, ‘I’m about tired of this.’

  ‘What?’ he asked, grinning.

  ‘I’m tired of dating a man who has yet to kiss me. What, do you hate red lipstick or something?’ I asked.

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ he replied, his hand rubbing mine. ‘I was just waiting for the perfect moment.’

  ‘Well, we’re sitting on a picnic blanket on a beautiful afternoon. I’m wearing my best sundress and I feel like my hair is pretty good today. I can’t think of a better time. It’s been three weeks. Don’t you think it’s about time?’

  ‘Do you ever just let things happen?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘I’m not that kind of woman,’ I replied, turning to him and leaning in, claiming his lips with mine.

  It was a sweet kiss, the warm rays of the sun heightening the experience. The electricity jolted through me, the feel of his lips warming me even more.

  It felt right. It felt so right.

  The kiss intensified, his hand finding my cheek, his rough palms scratching against my face. I liked the feel of his hand on me, turning my jaw just the right way. I liked how he was taking charge. I submitted to him just a little. It felt good to lose control, just for a moment. I felt safe enough with him to give in, to let go.

  ‘I think I love you,’ he whispered into my lips when he pulled back.

  ‘I know I love you,’ I replied, never one to mince words. Because it was love, pure and clear. I loved that man. And for once in my life, I was positive that love was going to be a good thing.

  * * *

  How do the years fly by so quickly? In some ways, I can close my eyes and imagine the feel of the sun, the touch of his palm on my cheek. I can picture us laughing in the park, watching the little kids ride by on bicycles, their parents relaxing at their own picnic in the November sun. In other ways, it seems like a lifetime ago. I don’t recognise those people, the wrinkly skin on my hands as I hold my cup of tea reminding me the day of smooth, soft hands is long gone. Days of sitting in the sun, of talking about kissing and love are gone. I miss those days so bad it hurts.

  I’m eating a sandwich at the table, the silence of the house allowing me to revisit this scene. I’d forgotten about it for a while. Maybe it was intentional. Sometimes I think the human brain really is a wonder – it protects us from things that are too painful. It makes us forget even the beautiful moments so we don’t have to endure the feelings of loss.

  Today, though, the first kiss came swooshing back like the tap was on full tilt. The memory flooded into me, transporting me back as I chewed on the stale bread in my turkey sandwich, throwing Amos a scrap.

  How do you learn to live without those moments? How can life be so cruel? In one moment, you’re kissing on a picnic blanket, life feeling perfect, and then, before you know it, you’re a bag of bones at a table, alone, in the mausoleum of a life gone by.

  Back then, I’d been a dumb girl who thought love could last forever, that life could last forever. We actually used to talk about rocking on the front porch together, hand in hand, our wrinkly skin and memories keeping each other company. I thought we’d grow old together. I never, ever pictured life like this – me in this house, alone, talking to a cat.

  Old age is much worse than anyone could prepare me for. It’s much sadder, emptier, darker. It’s hard to find happiness. More than that, it’s hard to hold on to happiness, my desperate, pawing hands never fast enough to clutch it before it crashes to the ground. Still, I have no choice but to try. I’m still breathing, and while I’m still breathing, I’m still living, like it or not. I’ve got to find something to live for, no matter how small.

  My plate clatters as I drop it in the sink, too tired to deal with running water for one dish. What does it matter? I never liked doing dishes. I hated, day in and day out, washing up like a servant. The laundry. The cleaning. There were so many days it was all too much. Maybe it’s penance or due justice that, now, I have no one to do dishes for, laundry for, but myself.

  I stumble over to my seat, to my cordless television that’s way better than any story on the real television. It’s sunny, the bright light gleaming off the snow and burning my eyes. I’m too lazy to find sunglasses. They look silly on me anyway. I always thought they accentuated the wrinkles. I guess it doesn’t really matter now. Amos doesn’t mind if I have crow’s feet.

  I start rocking, Amos jumping onto my lap. I rock and rock, staring at 312 Bristol Lane. The car is gone, as it should be. It’s Friday, I think. I wonder what she’s up to over there.

  I don’t have to wonder long because pretty soon her front door is flying open. I think maybe she’s coming for another visit. I could use a visit today. I could use something to cover up the feelings of loss from that trip down memory lane. But as she exits the front door, I know something isn’t right. I actually push Amos down, standing, feeling solemn.

  Something tells me I’m about to witness something that there will be no unseeing.

  Chapter 16

  The way she walks, the box in her arms hiding most of her frame, tells me she’s angry. More than angry. Infuriated.

  ‘Oh no,’ I mutter to no one in particular, fear burning in my chest.

  She’s really off. Something’s very wrong. I have no idea how to help her put the brakes on this out-of-control train.

  She’s roaring as she stomps down the front porch stairs. My heart patters. She’s not even wearing a jacket, her bare arms out as she haphazardly flings the box into the front lawn before following it down and kicking it over with an angry foot. She boots the contents around the yard, flailing and kicking like a savage animal. She looks almost rabid, her face in such a contorted scowl, her screams and pounding fists on the box alarming me. She’s kneeling in the snow now, garments flying all across the lawn. Red and blue shirts scatter in the snow. They’re collared shirts. His shirts.

  She’s sobbing and screaming, and there’s no stopping her.

  It’s time to get help.

  I dash to my trusty phone. I’m ready to dial the emergency services. I hate to do it, but this can’t go on. She needs help. Can’t anyone else see it? Of course, who else is there to see this? He’s gone, and it’s just me on this street. I’m her only chance.

  Before I get to the last ‘9’, I see a car flying down the road, screeching into the driveway. How did he know? Did someone call him? Who could have called him? Maybe he had a suspicion when he left this morning that something was terribly wrong. Maybe they had another fight.

  I click the phone, happy he’s here. He’ll help her.

  Alex gets out of the car, initially just staring at his wife going crazy on the front lawn. She’s still kicking his shirts around. He approaches her cautiously, hands out like he’s approaching a deranged criminal.

  She turns, and her scowl intensifies, if it’s possible. She’s shrieking now
. The words are muffled, but I hear her screaming about ‘late’ and ‘worthless’ and other words that sound like invectives.

  His hands are still raised, a surrender she’s not accepting. His voice sounds calm, his muffled words half the volume of hers. He approaches her, talking gently.

  She stands from the ground and punches him in the chest. He grabs her wrists. She keeps trying to punch at him, flailing like a crazed monster. She’s whaling on him now, kicking, punching, even biting.

  He needs to call the police.

  I should call the police.

  But I’m frozen, staring. I don’t want to watch, but I need to.

  The screaming and fighting continue. She breaks free, shouting in his face, pointing to the yard. Finally, her anger apparently bubbled over enough for one day, she stomps back up to the porch, whipping open the door and flying inside. The door slams, and for a moment I think the glass might shatter from the sheer magnitude of the slam. It doesn’t.

  He’s left in the driveway, pinching the bridge of his nose, nothing but cold snow and a mess surrounding him.

  I want to go over, but what good will I do? What can I possibly do?

  I stare, touching the window, my heart aching for him. He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve this. Why is she doing this?

  She’s good. Deep down, she’s good. But she’s not good to him now. She’s ruining everything.

  After a few breaths, he looks around the front lawn. I wonder if he thinks about taking the box, shoving his clothes inside, putting them in the car, and leaving. I wonder why he doesn’t just go. Yet I also understand why he doesn’t. It’s love.

  She may not deserve it right now in many ways. He might be crazy for sticking around. But he loves her. And, who knows, maybe he feels like he needs her. Maybe he feels like he should be able to help her, to handle her. He’s a man. She’s a woman. What damage could she possibly do?

  I feel like I’m there with him as he picks up every sad, abandoned, crumpled article of clothing from the frosty snow. I wonder if he picks them up so no one notices, to cover up for her crime, or if it’s because he likes the numbing quality of the snow. Maybe he needs to feel like he can put something back in order, find some semblance of structure.