The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  After an eloquent dance of balancing glasses, dusting them off, and opening the wine – it takes a while to find my wine opener – a half-full glass of the devil’s liquid sits in front of me. I hold it to my nose, wafting in the grapey smell with a hint of potent vinegar, closing my eyes.

  Sometimes just a smell can take you back, and even though it takes me back to those times in my life when I, too, needed numbness, I can almost feel the warmth soothing my weary veins.

  ‘Day drinking. So underrated, huh?’ she asks, clinking my glass in cheers. Cheers to what? What is there to celebrate?

  ‘Everything okay today?’ I ask, knowing the answer already. I set the wine glass down, fiddling with the stem in between my fingers. I’ll just look at it for a while, savour the feel of the glass between my fingers. My fingertips dance up the slim, fragile spine of the glass, tracing the curvature at the base of the bulb.

  ‘Is it ever?’ she asks, rolling her eyes. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how much more I can take.’

  The veil of alcohol lifts slightly, just enough for me to see her true face. The glimmer of the front-yard woman is lurking just beneath the surface. I’m much better at detecting the monster that hides there now that I’ve seen it rear its head in truth.

  ‘Well, can I help?’ I ask, staring at my glass of wine, watching as the liquid cascades in the glass as I carefully roll the stem back and forth in my fingers. She plays with her glass too, quiet for a moment, as if in thought. I lift the glass to my lips, savouring a final whiff before committing to the first sip, the liquid hitting my lips with a familiarity that soothes. I’ve missed it so much, I realise as I swallow the first sip, feeling it trickle down my throat. I close my eyes, relishing it before taking another swig.

  Finally, she breaks the silence.

  ‘Yeah, you can knock some sense into that husband of mine. He’s not going to get away with it.’

  I glance across the table now and see the quality in her eyes I recognise but also fear. I hear my heart pounding in my chest, the thudding mixed with the swirling wine – a concoction for disaster.

  ‘Think you’ve already achieved that, haven’t you?’ I ask, testing the waters with my voice.

  She stares back at me. ‘Excuse me?’

  The words are a stark contrast to the gentle quietude of the house. Every syllable exits her lips like a whispered prayer, but the bite of the first word gives away the edge in her voice, stabbing into the contented atmosphere between us.

  ‘I’ve seen you with him. Don’t you think maybe you should tone it down?’ The words are hard to say but necessary. I know the risk of saying them. Things got so ugly last time. Still, I can’t just pretend anymore. I can’t let her get away with it. She needs to hear them, and I need to say them, no matter how this all turns out. I take a deep breath, wondering how the words will sit today and fearful of the worst. The wine must have dulled her senses, though, because the reaction this time is less vehement than last time.

  ‘Try living with him and you’d understand. The pretentious prick acts like everything is about him. And I know what he’s up to. He’s not getting away with it. Did you know he was ten minutes late yesterday? Swore it was because of a traffic accident. Didn’t hear the fire whistles. Didn’t hear the cop cars, did you? He thinks I’m a moron. And his stupid mother coming over the other day to meddle. I can’t believe I married a goddamn mama’s boy. Pathetic.’

  She raises the glass to her lips, chugging on the liquid, her eyes actually closing as she does.

  ‘I think you’re losing control,’ I say, a bit more fear rising within that I don’t want to acknowledge. Still, someone has to stand up for him when she won’t. Someone has to point out the truth she’s too blind to see – or too far gone to want to see.

  ‘What, you’re actually taking his side? I didn’t peg you as so pitiful.’ She snickers and shakes the wine in her glass in a cavalier move. She doesn’t get it. She really doesn’t get it.

  ‘I’m taking both sides,’ I retort, my voice edgier now. ‘I’m trying to save both of you. Can’t you see? You’re on a dangerous path, and I don’t think you’re going to like where it ends up.’ I’m standing now, towering over her. Even at my short stature and with my frail frame, I feel powerful standing above her. I like how it makes me feel. I haven’t felt this power in a long time.

  I walk around the table, her evil glare on me. I sink down beside her, eye level with the woman who isn’t a stranger but isn’t quite a friend either. Maybe I’m emboldened by the few sips of wine, or maybe by the morality of what I’m about to say. Maybe I feel, deep down, that this is my chance to make amends for my own mistakes.

  Whatever it is, I feel brave when I inch closer, my breath slapping her in the face.

  Coolly, rationally, I spew out the words I’ve been wanting to say. ‘You need to back off. You’re losing it.’

  She doesn’t move back even though I’m invading her personal space. She locks eyes with me, maintaining the uncomfortable, tense position. I can feel each exhalation from her nose on my face. ‘You need to back off. I think you’re losing it. I don’t know what you think you know, but I know what’s best for me. I’m not going to let him ruin my life. You have no idea what it’s like. So don’t you sit here judging me.’

  I glower at the woman who has enchanted me and also horrified me. I gape at the woman who will be the ruination of herself, of her husband, maybe of me. I stare at all the dreams I had of watching a beautiful love story unfold vanish into thin air.

  I stand back up, huffing with anger, stomping to the counter to catch my breath. I lean on the side, a pie I baked the other day sitting nearby. I stare at it, the top a little too dark, the crust now too stale to be good.

  I hear her rise from the creaky oak chair, and the hairs on my neck salute her, the loose skin on my arms chilling.

  She struts across the kitchen, closing the gap between us calmly, slowly. I hear every footstep echoing, every slow, methodical footstep.

  I’ve gone too far. Who do I think I am calling her on this? How stupid can I be to think I can rein in her danger? And now I’ve gone and prodded the beast and made myself vulnerable. My back to her, nobody here but me and her. I’ve made a terrible mistake, one I can’t recover from now. It’s too late to turn back. The monster is free to strike, and I’m at her mercy.

  I’ve lived my life, and over the years, my fear of death has dulled. Perhaps it’s the benefit of getting older, knowing death is knocking. You don’t try so desperately to avoid it like you once did.

  I’m not afraid to die, but I’m no martyr either. I carefully, slyly slide my hand towards the pie, the sharp knife I’d used to cut it resting casually in the pan. My fingers glide over the handle, and I grip it. The metallic handle feels familiar in my hand, and an energy seems to surge through me.

  My heart rate calms and my mind clears.

  ‘I’d back off if I were you,’ she whispers in my ear, the warmth of her breath chilling my neck.

  I don’t move, the knife comfortably in my hand, the feel of it bolstering me. Suddenly, I’m not an elderly, frail lady waiting to die. Instead, with the feel of the knife, I’m transported back. I’m a young woman full of energy and vibrancy, ready to tackle the world. I’m the woman of my past, the don’t-mess-with-me woman who commanded respect.

  I’m fearless.

  Her footsteps are again methodical as she crosses the kitchen, this time away from me. I don’t turn around, staring at my hand on the knife handle as I hear her move down the entranceway. The door clicks shut – not a slam as one would expect. She’s too confident, too cocky, to slam the door. She knows a gentle click is all she needs, that the soft gesture will make an impact.

  I turn to the table, an empty wine glass sitting nakedly on the tabletop. I let go of the knife and cross the floor, rage boiling inside.

  A rage I can’t identify. A rage with roots stemming from a place I don’t know.

  I touch the cold glass, my fing
ers tracing an intricate pattern on it. And then, like a switch has been flipped in me, my hand grabs the bulb of the glass and slams it on the floor. The thousands of shards are a comfort to me as they fall in abstract patterns all around my feet.

  Amos meowing at the window is the only thing that snaps me out of my trance, makes me remember what I’ve been wanting to forget.

  It all makes so much sense now.

  Chapter 28

  The church bells tolled, the dinging chimes reverberating through the town that had been silenced by the freshly fallen snow. It was late afternoon on one of my favourite days – Christmas Eve.

  Mom and Dad had allowed us to help pick out a tree last week, taking us deep in the woods to help cut it down. I’d picked a short tree, wide and plump. Of course, her choice had overridden mine, her ten-year-old cherubic grin and pointing finger irresistible to Mom and Dad. I tried not to think about it, tried to shove down the jealousy rising as we’d trudged through the snow, Dad lugging the evergreen behind him. I’d tried not to scowl as he wrapped an arm around her waist to boost her up so she could put the angel on the top.

  She always got to put the angel on the top.

  Church didn’t start for a couple of hours, but we’d gotten dressed, knowing Mom would want us looking church-ready. I smoothed the front of my wrinkled gingham dress, the material scratchy, the popsicle stain on the bodice detracting from the velvet ribbon.

  As I examined my hair in the mirror, fixing the unruly curls, she twirled in the corner of the room, her arms extended like a ballerina in the music box Great-grandma had given to me before she died. Around and around, she twirled, standing on her tiptoes in her perfectly shiny Mary Janes. Her dress was a gorgeous crushed red velvet, the lace bib on the front crisp and white, like the ground outside. The bow on the back was perfectly tied, and her braids hung gently around the collar. She looked like she could be the angel on top of the tree, her skin glowing with the luminescence of youthful joy.

  My eyes burned at the sight of her, the perfection radiating off her. I glanced back at myself in the mirror, my two-year-old dress no comparison to the brand-new dress Mom had bought for her. It was who we were. She was the sparkling, pristine daughter, and I was the one left in the corner, tattered and ratty, forgotten and ill-fitting. She was twinkling, dazzling, and bright. I was dull and faded, stained by time and neglect.

  I twisted my hands together, taking a deep breath to calm myself. It wouldn’t do to get angry. It was my favourite day of the year, after all. Today, we’d sit as a family in the pew, listening to my favourite hymns, the church aglow with dozens of candles and the pungent smell of incense. I’d breathe deeply, the spicy scent filling my lungs, invigorating me.

  There was something magical about Christmas Eve, something that made me feel … hope. I felt like nothing bad could happen on Christmas Eve, like there was some kind of inexplicable ambiance in the air. And, despite everything, I felt like I was part of something bigger, sitting in that pew in the church celebrating something larger and more intricate than myself.

  My sister and I wandered out to the kitchen where Mom was baking some last-minute cookies. I leaned on the frame of the window, staring out at the flying snowflakes.

  It was breathtaking. Untouched beauty in its purest form.

  ‘Mom, can we go outside and play in the snow?’ my sister asked.

  I turned. There was no way Mom would agree to that. She couldn’t possibly say yes, not with us in our church clothes.

  ‘Honey, it’s almost time for church. You don’t want to ruin your dress, do you? Plus, it’s kind of cold out.’

  ‘Please, Mom? It’s so pretty out. Come on. We’ll be careful.’

  Mom turned to examine us, sighing. ‘Just don’t go far.’

  My jaw almost popped open. She was letting us go? I couldn’t believe it.

  Still, I wasn’t one to waste good fortune.

  ‘Watch your sister,’ Mom barked at me, pointing a finger as we both grabbed our snow boots and coats from the entranceway.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I replied, suiting up for a snowy adventure.

  * * *

  ‘Mom said we shouldn’t go far,’ she whined as I led us deeper into the woods behind our house. I skipped through the snow, a light coating not enough to impede our travels. My dusty dress popped out from underneath my coat, the snowflakes catching on the scratchy material. I thought it was an improvement.

  I ducked under some deadened tree branches, wandering into the forest behind our home. It was a place of imagination, of escape. When Mom let me out of the house, I loved to come back here, to explore, to pretend I was in a magical forest filled with fairies, wishes and things distant from the life I knew.

  ‘Shut up, you baby. What, are you afraid?’ I teased, out of earshot of the family. It felt good to mock her, to be harsh. Out here, with no one around, I could show my true feelings towards her.

  ‘I’m telling when we get home,’ she announced, her face shrivelled into the condescending expression I’d come to hate.

  I seethed.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I replied, dashing further into the forest, hoping to leave her in the dust.

  I shook off the annoyance that was my sister, trying not to let her get to me. She wouldn’t ruin today. She wouldn’t take away the magic.

  We walked for a while until we reached the edge of the forest, my favourite place. The railway tracks ran through the woods, a juxtaposition of civilisation and nature that proved eerily pretty. Sometimes, especially in the summer months when school wasn’t in session, I’d come here and stand, staring at the train when it flew by like clockwork, imagining what it would be like to jump on board, to ride off to a distant land. I wondered what it would be like to disappear, to vanish. I wondered if they’d even care, if they’d come looking for me.

  I imagined hopping on the train, travelling to a faraway place where people were different. I daydreamed of finding a family who would buy me new dresses, who would applaud me for my imagination and hard work. I imagined going anywhere far away from here, far away from her.

  I stood now, beside the track, my sister wandering up beside me, staring as well.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘The train. It always comes through about now.’

  ‘The train? Why would we want to watch a stupid train? You’re so weird. No wonder Mom and Dad like me better.’

  I turned then, the girl beside me not just a stranger, but a loathed enemy. Tears stung my eyes, not because of her words – but because of their truth.

  We both knew she was right, but I hated hearing the words out loud. The embarrassment was too much.

  I’d been here first. I was the first child in the family. I should be the one who was loved more. Why didn’t they love me more?

  It had all been fine until she came along, I convinced myself. For two years, I had been the pampered child, the loved child, the treasure. Okay, I couldn’t remember a time without my sister, but it had to be true. It had to be her fault. It was all her fault.

  I bit my lip, but I couldn’t control the rage building. A deep, roaring hate roiled in my veins, coursing through my blood.

  I hated her. I hated her smile and her sweet, gentle words. I hated the way she walked, the way she begged Mom and Dad and got her way. I hated her voice, her condescending glares, her elitist behaviour even at her young age.

  I hated that she got the brand-new, red velvet dress while I wore the stained one. I hated that Mom and Dad kissed the ground she walked on while not even noticing I was on the ground at all.

  I hated her, pure and simple. It was a smooth, strong hate that steadily increased with every single day.

  ‘You bitch,’ I bellowed as the train whistle blew, blasting through the forest and reminding us of its mighty strength.

  And then, before I could think about it anymore, before I could weigh the consequences of what was about to happen, everything changed.

  The t
rain ploughed through the forest on its predestined track, blasting by, heading to a faraway land of my dreams, the guard probably distracted by some trivial thing. Maybe he, too, was lost in dreams that could never be. Or maybe he’d simply fallen asleep or turned his head. I’d never know.

  But whatever it was, he didn’t see the horrors unfold on the track. He didn’t see the moment my dreams were tainted by a new vision as I stood, watching the black beast roar past. He didn’t see the girl, the girl who had once been my sister, obliterated by the heavy metal of the train, bits and pieces of her spewed across the quiet, beautiful landscape as I stood witness.

  When it was done, I stood alone, hands in the pockets of my ratty coat, wondering why I didn’t feel a single thing.

  Chapter 29

  London Bridge is falling down. Falling down.

  Over and over, the words from my favourite childhood song play on repeat, the phrase chanting in my brain methodically as my big toe turns the tap on and off, on and off. The hot water is a contrast to the cold ceramic of the tub, my naked back chilling at the feel. I like it, though. I like the freezing-cold tub mixing with the shocking heat. I like the stinging, red skin it creates.

  Falling down. London Bridge.

  I used to sing it so many times as a child that my mother banned it in our house for a while. I don’t know why, but I loved the song, the odd lyrics. The beauty of trapping the last, unsuspecting child in the clutches of the faux bridge, the single sacrificed child selected from so many to pay the price. The capture of the innocent between the squeezing arms.

  My fair lady.

  I think about the picture on the mantel, the roses surrounding us on that magnificent day, the day that would start my life on a new course. I think about the sacrifices made, and the sacrifices we didn’t make.

  Would I do it over again if I could? Or, if I could go back, if I could know what I do now, would I tell that woman standing in white by the rose bushes to run fast and never look back?

  Christmas has come and gone, the tree at Bristol Lane dying a slow, tortured death before being baled into the front yard, a pile of dead needles. The winter has drudged forward, the iciness in the air finally breaking as spring pushes through. Soon, those beautiful rose bushes will be coming back in the front of the house. It’s comforting, the predictability of it. Year after year, they come back. The roses will emerge from their long, long sleep, their thorns warding off any unwanted visitors. Their vibrant red hue will shine in the spring sun. I always love it when they come back. It’s like a renewal, a reminder I’ve survived another season.