The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  Staring at them as snowflakes fall, though, I feel a twinge of hope. I hang on to it tightly as I stroke Amos, rocking in my chair and feeling, at least for the moment, all is well.

  Chapter 18

  Blanket wrapped around my shoulders, my blonde hair falling down my back, I rocked in the chair as I studied the falling snow. My shallow breaths felt like they were stabbing my lungs, tears welling in my eyes as darkness drifted over the lane.

  Where the hell was he? Where was his car?

  I rocked back and forth, squeezing the blanket tighter, biting my lip as I stared at the street like the fool that I felt like. What an idiot I was, sitting there like the abandoned damsel, at his mercy.

  I hated myself for it. I hated the weakness in him that was rubbing off on me. Most of all, I hated him.

  The rage had been building lately, and nothing he could say would make it go away. He could defend himself all he wanted, swear up and down that it was madness to accuse him, but I wouldn’t be made a fool. I knew what he was doing, or more accurately, who.

  And I hated being made to look like an idiot. I hated, more than that, how I’d let myself be in a position to need him. Hadn’t I learned my lesson growing up? It was foolish to need anyone. You needed to rely only on yourself. I’d broken that golden rule, thinking love would change everything.

  But it hadn’t. It hadn’t changed a thing. There I was, a damn housewife at his beck and call, childless, and not living the life I’d hoped for.

  And there he was, some desk job worker without a prayer for promotion, without a spine, and without the ability to give me what I really wanted: a child.

  We’d been through the protocol, the encouragements, and the doctors’ visits. We’d been told to make peace.

  But making peace had never really been how I did things. I arguably had different coping methods.

  Sometimes, in the midst of our fights, a twang of guilt would creep in, a subtle pinging of my moral compass that what I was doing was wrong. But I couldn’t stop it. The only thing stronger than my will to maintain power was my desire to make him hurt.

  Plain and simple. He needed to be hurt. He deserved it.

  A few minutes later, the anger now pure fury bubbling inside, his car glided down the street. I sat at the window a moment longer, waiting for the familiar sound of the car door slamming. I rocked, back and forth, back and forth, the momentum inciting my resolve.

  The idiot I was married to was going to pay. The bastard would pay.

  I heard his footsteps creep along the floor, his briefcase plop onto the table. I kept rocking.

  ‘Honey?’ he asked, the fool, using the term I’d come to hate.

  ‘Where were you?’ I spewed out, studying his reflection in the window. I smirked at the frailness in his stance, at how broken and weak he truly looked.

  ‘We’ve been through this,’ he practically whispered. ‘The boss gave me another set of reports I have to do on Wednesdays. I’m only a few minutes later than usual.’

  ‘You’re right. We have been through this. Do you really think I believe that? Do you really think I’m a goddamn fool? I know what you’re doing. Don’t think you’re going to get away with this – making a mockery of me. What, you think you can leave me? Do you?’

  ‘You know I love you. I wouldn’t do that to you,’ he reassured me, still standing in the same position, his face pleading with me through his reflection in the window.

  I tossed the blanket back, standing from the chair, turning to face him.

  ‘No, you won’t do that. You won’t,’ I commanded, calm and collected. He looked disturbed. He looked afraid.

  I liked that I could still stir that fear in him. The feeling sent a chill through my body.

  ‘You know this has to stop. You need to stop this,’ he begged.

  ‘Do I now?’ I asked, leaning back on the windowsill. I took a deep breath.

  ‘This isn’t you. You know that, right? It isn’t you.’

  Those were the words that he shouldn’t have said. Those were the words that were too much.

  I stepped away from the chair, walking towards him.

  ‘I really wish you hadn’t said that,’ I whispered when I was right in front of him.

  And the genuine fear in his eyes only stirred me more.

  Chapter 19

  She doesn’t knock. She comes right through the door.

  Not that I mind. Despite all that’s happened, we’re still on an ‘enter instead of knock basis’, and I’m okay with that.

  Since the Christmas tree, they’ve had a few quiet moments, a few interactions that have made me think maybe things will be okay. I’ve seen them on more than one occasion studying the tree or kissing goodbye on the porch. I’ve told myself the Christmas magic was working.

  But then again, there have also been moments that tell me it isn’t as picturesque as I’d like to believe. There have been shouting matches at his car when he comes home. There have been screaming fights so violently loud, I can hear muffled yells even from my rocking chair. There was something thrown at the window just last night.

  Things are still unravelling, and even though she’s visited a few times since the tree went up, her smile doesn’t quite fool me. Things still aren’t right. Then again, maybe they never were.

  Amos meows, plodding over to her as she comes into the kitchen. I stand from the table to greet her, my sad piece of toast sitting on a lonely plate the centrepiece. The chill of the winter wind seems to follow her even though the door is shut.

  She unwraps her scarf, brushes off the snow from her shoulders and drapes her coat on the chair. ‘Hi, how are you?’ she asks, her voice bubbly.

  I smile. It’s good to hear her voice, the one I recognise from before. I study her, the dark purple dress she’s wearing contrasting beautifully with her hair. Even though her hair is short now, so short, it’s still striking. The choppy look only accentuates her features even more. I see up close that she’s beautiful, stunningly beautiful, long curls or not.

  ‘I’m good. How are you?’ I sit at the table, and she goes to put tea on, as is our custom.

  ‘Great. I’m great. The holidays are coming up, and everything is perfect, you know?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I bite my lip, watching her frantic movements, listening to her hum to herself as she dances around the kitchen grabbing teacups. She’s too … happy. Too calm.

  But I know now it’s an act. And that’s what frightens me.

  She continues on, her disillusioned cheer carrying her through the conversation as she sets a kettle on the stove. ‘Doesn’t the tree look lovelier and lovelier? We keep going shopping and buying more decorations. I just can’t seem to stop myself from sprucing it up. But anyway, have you seen the stories lately? That Jessica, I’m telling you, she’s headed for trouble with Clint. Can you believe—’

  I put up a hand, walking towards her. ‘Stop. Just stop for a second.’ My words surprise me, and after I’ve said them, I take a breath. I really hadn’t planned on saying anything. I really did just want to enjoy some tea, but it was unstoppable, I suppose. Sometimes you have to say something.

  She shakes her head, as if she isn’t sure she’s heard me correctly. ‘What?’ she asks.

  I take a breath. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Oh dear, are you busy? Because if you’re busy, I can go.’

  ‘Shh,’ I say. ‘Come have a seat.’

  I usher her towards the table, feeling in control of the situation. Feeling like I need to take the lead here.

  ‘Honey, listen. I’m worried.’ I say the words slowly, as if I’m savouring each one as it exits my lips.

  She stares, blinking for a long moment.

  ‘About what? Is everything okay?’ she asks. She smiles that sweet smile, the one that would usually make me smile right back. But things have changed, no matter how badly I don’t want to see it. She’s different. They’re different.

  And, as a consequence, this is different.
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br />   I feel an anger surging within me, beneath the surface. How can she sit here talking about soap operas and tea? How can she pretend everything is okay? How can she act like the Christmas tree is going to make it all better, make all the horrid actions disappear? How can they just sweep it all under the rug?

  ‘I’ve been watching and I’m worried about you.’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ she says, spitting the words towards me. She’s claimed her defensive position, her body tightening, her lips in a pursed line.

  ‘I’ve seen that things aren’t okay. You’re different, and I’m worried. I also see glimmers of who you were, of that loving girl. It’s not too late, but you need to take a step back. All the yelling and fighting, it’s not good for anyone. All the shoving and physicality. It’s not right and you know it.’ My words gain volume and seriousness as I continue, courage building. Someone needs to say it, and I guess it’s got to be me.

  ‘How dare you make assumptions. Who do you think you are – telling me what to do? You’re just an old, lonely woman. You don’t understand what it’s like.’ Vengeance seethes in her eyes, her posture tightening now. She sits taller, as if she needs to make her presence known. I notice her hands shake as one finds its way to her neck, grasping it and rubbing it as if she’s easing the tension.

  I continue, staring right into the face of the wolf across from me. ‘But I’m telling you I do. I might be old now, but I wasn’t always. And I know that this path you’re heading down, it’s ugly. It’s going to leave you cold and alone. You need to get it together and bring it down a few notches.’

  ‘Stay out of my marriage.’ Her words are sharp, pointed and full of an energy that unsettles me.

  ‘Stop abusing him,’ I shout back, a strength in my voice I haven’t sensed for a while making itself known.

  She’s taken aback, I can tell. I venture that I may have scared her a little.

  She stands, stomping towards me, her face inches from mine, circling the table like a rogue shark. She leans in closer and closer until I wonder when she’ll stop. An icy terror clutches my heart, but I fight to overcome it. I need to stand strong in this.

  ‘Stay out of it. You don’t know shit about me, and I won’t have you trying to meddle with things. What, you think you’re going to save the world from your rocking chair? You don’t know anything. You can’t do anything. So it’d be best if you just lived your life and forgot about ours. It’s our business. Mind your own.’

  She grabs her coat from the chair and stomps out, the door slamming. I shudder in the wake of the storm.

  The kettle screams, and I jump, my nerves grated.

  You know what’s worse than witnessing someone falling apart? Knowing you really, truly are powerless. Knowing you really, truly can’t do anything to stop it.

  The kettle screams on for a long while before I remove it from the stove to quiet it. It’s the next day, though, that screams of a human variety will change everything.

  Chapter 20

  The slow-progressing spiral downward begins with a confused, arguably idiotic, robin. Amos had been watching him for a few hours – and me, too, incidentally – out the window as we rocked on the chair. The cheerful bird flits and hops about, probably looking for bits of nourishment in the icy world outside. I feel a little sorry for him, thinking about how hungry he must be. Still, it’s not my fault he got a bad lot in life – being a bird and all.

  We sit staring. The candle is in the windowsill now – I’d dug it out yesterday, only able to find one. I was sad about that for a long while. Still, there’s the tree across the yard in their dining room. It sort of feels like it could be mine, the sight of it cheering me. There’s enough holiday spirit in the window of 312 Bristol Lane that from the outside, it looks like the perfect Christmas scene. No one would guess what’s happened in the last few days judging from the beautiful display.

  No one except me.

  It’s a bit sad when I think about it that despite all of the terrible things happening over there, they can still manage to outdo me when it comes to holiday décor. My lacklustre display is an exceedingly depressing reminder that Christmas no longer means much around here. I suppose it doesn’t do to dwell on such topics, though. Besides, Christmas was never truly my favourite day.

  In fact, for a long time, it was my least favourite day of the year.

  But I digress.

  Amos lets out sad little excuses for meows, which make me smile as we stare at the bird, harmlessly hopping about. And then, next thing I know, there is a smack against the window. The dumb bird has flown right into the sparkling glass. We observe his descent as his body slides down the window.

  A horror expresses itself as a shriek, but inside, I am … I don’t know exactly. Surprised? Anxious? A little bit entranced?

  Regardless, I just know nothing this exciting has happened in a while. Nothing that made my heart jolt in a way that I knew I was alive.

  Amos jumps up from my lap in an excited frenzy, trying to leap at the window in a desperate act to get in on the excitement.

  I find myself magnetised to the bird, walking towards the front door. I grab my coat from the hook, wrapping it around my shoulders as I carefully step outside into the freezing weather. The wind whips harshly, the porch offering a bit of protection. I tiptoe down the steps, not really sure why. I’m drawn towards the bird that lies in the snow now. I make my way around the house, to the window that’s become my refuge, and I stand between my window and 312 Bristol Lane’s dining room, glancing over at the house.

  I return my attention to the reason I’m out here: the dying bird. I think I see its wing flutter just a few times, the bird twitching with its oncoming death.

  I stare blankly, feeling – what?

  I thought I’d feel pity, watching an innocent creature breathing its last. I thought I’d feel compassion or empathy, or even frustration at not being able to help it.

  But staring, I realise I’m simply dazed, studying it like some medical experiment, wondering how long until its breathing will stop, wondering if it understands what’s happening to it. I wonder if it is curious about where it is going next and if it’s any better than here. Do birds worry about things like eternal damnation and repentance?

  What a ridiculous thought to have. I’m losing it.

  Studying the bird as its life flickers out, I want to feel anything, something. I don’t want to feel numb. But life has, in many ways, numbed me. Sometimes that is a blessing.

  I stare across the yard at 312 Bristol Lane with a new perspective. Is this what she feels? Numb? Is she so cruel to him because she doesn’t feel anything?

  Or is it more monstrous? Does she, instead of feeling empty, feel pleasure from his sorrow, from the pain she inflicts? Is she moved by sadistic notions of hurt?

  One can’t tell, at least not from here, not from the window. But it is certainly something to consider.

  When the wind becomes unbearable, slapping against my face, I turn to head back inside to my rocking chair. But before I enter the warmth of the house, I pause, glancing back at the now-dead bird.

  There’s no use in wasting a perfectly good bird, and there’s no use in keeping Amos from what he truly wanted. I might as well make some good out of the creature’s demise, make someone content. I know Amos will be happy with his death.

  I stumble back the few feet to the bird, staring at the bloody carcase. I stoop down, my bones aching in the process, and scoop up the dead creature in my bare hand. The blood oozing from it is still warm and it feels sticky on my skin. I stare at the lifeless form in my hand, feeling how fragile it is.

  I amble back up the steps and inside, holding the bird on my hand like my skin is a silver platter. I shut the door behind me. Amos is still sitting at the window, peering at the bloody snow.

  ‘Amos, baby, I have a treat for you,’ I say, walking to the kitchen to where Amos’s bowl is sitting. Without another thought, I tilt my hand, plunking the dead bird into the cat’
s dish. ‘You’re eating real good today,’ I add, wiping my hands together, the blood smearing on them. A few splatters have escaped from Amos’s bowl, marring the floor around it. I ignore it. A little blood spatter isn’t going to hurt anyone.

  Amos dashes over to his bowl, his eyes widening at the sight as if I’ve just given him the key to the lost kingdom. He grabs the bird in his teeth and plods off to a day of tapping into his hunting frenzy that lies dormant due to circumstance.

  I trudge to the sink, washing the blood off my hands, the water running red. I dry them on a paper towel before putting on the kettle for tea.

  I stand for a long moment, thinking about the bird, about the house across the street. I eventually make myself a cup of tea, the ritual itself soothing, before heading over to my chair and claiming my view.

  There’s a mark on the glass where the bird hit, but I ignore it. I observe 312 Bristol Lane. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it is like a dark cloud has perched itself over the house. Sure, it’s a gloomy enough day, the greyness of winter offsetting any brightness from the snow. But somehow, that house looks darker, more foreboding. It seems to scream at me in warning: something’s coming. Something’s happening.

  And I don’t know why, but sitting and staring at that place, a nervous tension builds within, a fear in the pit of my stomach not unlike the sickening anxiety of plummeting down a roller coaster or narrowly escaping being hit by a car.

  It must be the fear, the terror that robin felt when it plunged to the ground for the last time – assuming animals can feel fear, can feel pain.

  I rock slowly, methodically, my hands a bit twitchy as I sit in waiting, wondering what the day will bring, but feeling like it’s going to be something mystically momentous.

  * * *

  I startle at the window, and Amos meows. I must’ve fallen asleep, but I’m awake now. I glance out the frosty pane, having to lean forward to swipe a spot clear. It’s snowing, the flakes pelting down. But even through the dizzying sight, I recognise what’s happening.