The Woman in the Window

by A. J. Finn

  “Cheers,” I say, and sip.

  “The thing is,” he says, rolling the glass in his hand, “I did some time.”

  I nod, then feel my eyes widen. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use that expression. No one outside movies, anyway.

  “Jail?” I hear myself say, stupidly.

  He smiles. “Jail.”

  I nod again. “What did you—were you in jail for?”

  He looks at me evenly. “Assault.” Then: “Against a man.”

  I stare at him.

  “That makes you nervous,” he says.

  “No.”

  The lie hangs in the air.

  “I’m just surprised,” I tell him.

  “I should have said something.” He scratches his jaw. “Before moving in, I mean. I understand if you want me to clear out.”

  I don’t know if he means it. Do I want him to clear out? “What . . . happened?” I ask.

  He sighs, faintly. “Fight in a bar. Nothing fancy.” A shrug. “Except I had a prior. Same thing. Two strikes.”

  “I thought it was three.”

  “Depends who you are.”

  “Mm,” I say, as though this is wisdom not to be questioned.

  “And my PD was a drunk.”

  “Mm,” I repeat, working it out. Public defender.

  “So I did fourteen months.”

  “Where was this?”

  “The fight or the prison?”

  “Both.”

  “Both in Massachusetts.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you want to know, like, details?”

  I do. “Oh, no.”

  “It was just stupid stuff. Drunk stuff.”

  “I see.”

  “But that’s where I learned to—you know. Watch out for my . . . space.”

  “I see.”

  We stand there, eyes downcast, like two teenagers at a dance.

  I shift my weight. “When were you—when did you do time?” Where appropriate, use the patient’s vocabulary.

  “Got out in April. Stayed in Boston over the summer, then came down here.”

  “I see.”

  “You keep saying that,” he says, but it’s friendly.

  I smile. “Well.” Clearing my throat. “I invaded your space, and I shouldn’t have. Of course you can stay.” Do I mean that? I think I do.

  He sips his wine. “I just wanted you to know. Also,” he adds, nodding his glass toward me, “this stuff is pretty good.”

  “I haven’t forgotten about the ceiling, you know.”

  We’re on the sofa, three glasses deep—well, three for him, four for me, so seven glasses deep, if we’re counting, which we’re not—and it takes me a second to catch up.

  “Which ceiling?”

  He points. “The roof.”

  “Right.” I look up, as though I can gaze through the bones of the house to the roof. “Oh, right. What made you think of that?”

  “You just said that once you can go outside you’re going to get up there. Check it out.”

  Did I? “That’s not happening for a while,” I tell him crisply. Crispishly. “I can’t even walk across the garden.”

  A slight grin, a tilt of the head. “Someday, then.” He places his glass on the coffee table, stands. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  I twist in my seat. “Over there.”

  “Thanks.” He pads away to the red room.

  I keel back into the sofa. The cushion whispers in my ears as I rock my head side to side. I saw my neighbor get stabbed. That woman you never met. That woman nobody has ever met. Please believe me.

  I can hear urine drilling into the bowl. Ed used to do that, pee so forcibly that it was audible even with the door closed, like he was boring a hole through the porcelain.

  The flush of the toilet. The hiss of the tap.

  There’s someone in her house. Someone pretending to be her.

  The bathroom door opens, closes.

  The son and the husband are lying. They’re all lying. I sink deeper into the cushion.

  I stare at the ceiling, at the lights like dimples. Shut my eyes.

  Help me find her.

  A creak. A hinge, someplace. David might have gone back downstairs. I tip to one side.

  Help me find her.

  But when I open my eyes a moment later, he’s returned, flopping onto the sofa. I straighten up, smile. He smiles back, looks past me. “Cute kid.”

  I swivel. It’s Olivia, beaming within a silver frame. “You’ve got her picture downstairs,” I remember. “On the wall.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know. Didn’t have anything to replace it with.” He drains his glass. “Where is she, anyway?”

  “With her dad.” Swallowing wine.

  A pause. “You miss her?”

  “Yes.”

  “You miss him?”

  “I do, in fact.”

  “Talk to them a lot?”

  “All the time. Just yesterday, actually.”

  “When do you see them next?”

  “Probably not for a while. But soon, I hope.”

  I don’t want to talk about this, about them. I want to talk about the woman across the park. “Should we check out that ceiling?”

  The steps coil up into blackness. I lead; David follows.

  As we pass the study, something ripples beside my leg. Punch, stealing downstairs. “Was that the cat?” David asks.

  “That was the cat,” I answer.

  We ascend past the bedrooms, both dark, and onto the uppermost landing. I slap my hand to the wall, find the switch. In the sudden light, I see David’s eyes on mine.

  “It doesn’t look any worse,” I say, pointing to the stain overhead, spread across the trapdoor like a bruise.

  “No,” he agrees. “But it’ll get there. I’ll take care of it this week.”

  Silence.

  “Are you very busy? Finding a lot of work?”

  Nothing.

  I wonder if I might tell him about Jane. I wonder what he’d say.

  But before I can decide, he’s kissed me.

  55

  We’re on the floor of the landing, the carpet rough against my skin; then he hoists me up, carries me to the nearest bed.

  His mouth is on my mouth; stubble sandpapers my cheeks and chin. One hand rakes my hair hard, while the other tugs at my sash. I suck in my gut as the robe spreads wide, but he only kisses me harder, my throat, my shoulders.

  Out flew the web, and floated wide;

  The mirror crack’d from side to side;

  “I am half-sick of shadows,” cried

  The Lady of Shalott.

  Why Tennyson? Why now?

  I haven’t felt this in so long. I haven’t felt in so long.

  I want to feel this. I want to feel. I am so sick of shadows.

  Later, in the dark, my fingers brush his chest, his stomach, the line of hair trailing down from his navel like a fuse.

  He breathes quietly. And then I drift away. And I half dream of sunsets, and of Jane; and at some point I hear a soft tread on the landing, and to my surprise, I hope he comes back to bed.

  Sunday, November 7

  56

  When I awake, my head swollen, David is gone. His pillow feels cool. I press my face to it; it smells of sweat.

  I roll to my side, away from the window, from the light.

  What the hell happened?

  We were drinking—of course we were drinking; I pinch my eyes shut—and then we made our way to the top story. Stood beneath the trapdoor. And so to bed. Or, no: First we hit the landing floor. Then bed.

  Olivia’s bed.

  My eyes bolt open.

  I’m in my daughter’s bed, her blankets wrapped around my naked body, her pillow dry with the sweat of a man I barely know. God, Livvy, I’m sorry.

  I squint at the doorway, into the dim of the hall; then I sit up, the sheets clasped to my breasts—Olivia’s sheets, printed
with little ponies. Her favorite. She refused to sleep on anything else.

  I turn toward the window. Gray outside, November drizzle, rain leaking from the leaves, from the eaves.

  I cast a glance across the park. From here I can gaze directly into Ethan’s bedroom. He isn’t there.

  I shiver.

  My robe is smeared across the floor like a skid mark. I step from the bed, gather it in my hands—why are they shaking?—and swaddle myself. One slipper lies abandoned beneath the bed; I find the other on the landing.

  At the top of the stairs, I take a breath. The air is stale. David’s right: I should ventilate. I won’t, but I should.

  I walk down the stairs. At the next landing, I look one way, then the other, as though I’m about to cross a street; the bedrooms are quiet, my sheets still disarranged from my night with Bina. My Night with Bina. Sounds filthy.

  I’m hungover.

  One flight down and I peer into the library, into the study. The Russell place peers back at me. I feel as though it’s tracking me as I move through my house.

  I hear him before I see him.

  And when I see him, he’s in the kitchen, sucking water from a tumbler. The room is shadows and glass, as dim as the world beyond the window.

  I study his Adam’s apple as it bobs in his throat. His hair is scruffy at the nape; a slim hip peeks from beneath the fold of his shirt. For an instant I close my eyes and recall that hip in my hand, that throat against my mouth.

  When I open them again, he’s looking at me, eyes dark and full in the gray light. “Quite an apology, huh?” he says.

  I feel myself blush.

  “Hope I didn’t wake you up.” He raises his glass. “Just needed a refill. Got to head out in a minute.” He gulps the rest of it, sets the glass in the sink. Drags a hand across his lips.

  I don’t know what to say.

  He seems to sense this. “I’m gonna get out of your hair,” he says, and comes toward me. I tense, but he’s making for the basement door; I move aside to let him pass. When we’re shoulder to shoulder, he turns his head, speaks low.

  “Not sure if I should be saying thanks or sorry.”

  I look him in the eye, summon the words. “It was nothing.” My voice is throaty in my ears. “Don’t worry about it.”

  He considers, nods. “Sounds like I should be saying sorry.”

  I drop my gaze. He steps past me and opens the door. “I’m heading out tonight. Job in Connecticut. Should be back tomorrow.”

  I say nothing.

  When I hear the door shut behind me, I exhale. At the sink I fill his glass with water and bring it to my lips. I think I can taste him all over again.

  57

  So: That happened.

  I never liked that expression. Too flip. But here I am and there it is:

  That happened.

  Glass in hand, I drift to the sofa, where I find Punch curled on the cushion, his tail switching back and forth. I sit beside him, stow the glass between my thighs, and tilt my head back.

  Ethics aside—though it isn’t really an ethical issue, is it? Sex with a tenant, I mean?—I can’t believe we did what we did in my daughter’s bed. What would Ed say? I cringe. He’s not going to find out, of course, but still. But still. I want to torch the sheets. Ponies and all.

  The house breathes around me, the steady tick of the grandfather clock a faint pulse. The whole room is in shadow, a blur of shades. I see myself, my phantom self, reflected in the television screen.

  What would I do if I were on that screen, a character in one of my films? I would leave the house to investigate, like Teresa Wright in Shadow of a Doubt. I would summon a friend, like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. I wouldn’t sit here, in a puddle of robe, wondering where next to turn.

  Locked-in syndrome. Causes include stroke, brain stem injury, MS, even poison. It’s a neurological condition, in other words, not a psychological one. Yet here I am, utterly, literally locked in—doors closed, windows shut, while I shy and shrink from the light, and a woman is stabbed across the park, and no one notices, no one knows. Except me—me, swollen with booze, parted from her family, fucking her tenant. A freak to the neighbors. A joke to the cops. A special case to her doctor. A pity case to her physical therapist. A shut-in. No hero. No sleuth.

  I am locked in. I am locked out.

  At some point I rise, move to the stairs, put one foot in front of the other. I’m on the landing, about to step into my study, when I notice it. The closet door is ajar. Just slightly, but ajar.

  My heart stops for an instant.

  But why should it? It’s just an open door. I opened it myself the other day. For David.

  . . . Except I closed it again. I would have noticed if it had been left open—because I did just notice it had been left open.

  I stand there, wavering like a flame. Do I trust myself?

  Despite everything, I do.

  I walk toward the closet. I place my hand on the knob, gingerly, as though it might twist away from me. I pull it.

  Dark inside, deeply dark. I wave my hand overhead, find the frayed string, tug. The room flares with light, blind white, like the inside of a bulb.

  I look around. Nothing new, nothing gone. The paint tins, the beach chairs.

  And there on the shelf sits Ed’s toolbox.

  And I know, somehow, what’s inside.

  I approach, reach for it. Unbuckle one latch, then the other. Lift the lid, slowly.

  It’s the first thing I see. The box cutter, back in place, its blade gleaming in the glare.

  58

  Wedged in the library wingback, thoughts tumble-drying in my brain. Had settled myself in the study a moment earlier, but then that woman appeared in Jane’s kitchen; my body jolted, and I fled the room. There are now forbidden zones in my own house.

  I watch the clock on the mantel. Nearly twelve. I haven’t had a drink today. I suppose that’s A Good Thing.

  I might not be mobile—I’m not mobile—but I can think my way through this. It’s a chessboard. I’m good at chess. Concentrate; think. Move.

  My shadow stretches along the carpet, as though trying to detach itself from me.

  David said he hadn’t met Jane. And Jane never mentioned having met David—but then maybe she didn’t, not until later, not until after our four-bottle throttle. When did David borrow the box cutter? Was it the same day I heard Jane scream? Wasn’t it? Did he threaten her with it? Did he end up doing more than that?

  I chew on a thumbnail. My head was once a filing cabinet. Now it’s a flurry of papers, floating on a draft.

  No. Stop. You’ve spun this out of control.

  Still, though.

  What do I know about David? He “did time” for assault. Serial offender. Acquired a box cutter.

  And I saw what I saw. No matter what the police say. Or Bina. Or Ed, even.

  I hear a door close downstairs. I dislodge myself, pad to the landing, then into the study. No one visible at the Russells’.

  I approach the window, cast my eyes down: There he is, on the sidewalk, that indolent walk, the jeans tugged below his waistline, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He heads east. I watch him vanish.

  I retreat from the sill and stand there, washed in dim noonday light. Again I look across the park. Nothing. Empty rooms. But I’m tense, waiting for her to appear, waiting for her to look back at me.

  My robe has come loose. Come undone. She’s come undone. That was a book, I believe. I never read it.

  God, my mind is swirling. I grasp my skull with both hands, squeeze. Think.

  Then, like a jack-in-the-box, it springs at me, with such a pop that I step back: the earring.

  That’s what had gnawed at my mind yesterday—the earring, glowing on David’s bedside table, luminous against the dark wood.

  Three tiny pearls. I’m sure of it.

  I’m almost sure of it.

  Did it belong to Jane?

  That night, that quicksand night. Gift from an
old boyfriend. Touching fingertips to earlobe. I doubt Alistair knows. Red wine ebbing down my throat. Those three tiny pearls.

  Didn’t it belong to Jane?

  Or is this the stuff of a hothouse brain? It could be another earring. It could be someone else’s. But already I’m shaking my head, my hair scratching at my cheeks: It must be Jane’s.

  In which case.

  I dip my hand into my robe pocket, feel the rub of paper against my skin. I pull out the card: detective conrad little, nypd.

  No. Tuck it away.

  I turn, leave the room. Fumble downstairs in the dark, two stories, unsteady on my feet even though I’m sober. In the kitchen I approach the basement door. The bolt whines as I slide it home.

  I step back, inspect the door. Then I return to the stairwell. One floor up I open the closet, pull the string beside the lightbulb. I find it leaning against the far wall: a stepladder.

  Back in the kitchen, I prop the ladder against the basement door, jam it firmly beneath the knob. Kick its legs with one slippered foot until it won’t budge. Kick it some more. I stub my toe. I kick again.

  Once more I step back. The door is barricaded. That’s one less way in.

  Of course, it’s also one less way out.

  59

  My veins are flammably dry. I need a drink.

  I pivot from the door and stumble over Punch’s bowl; it skids across the floor, slopping water over the brim. I swear, then catch myself. I need to focus. I need to think. A slug of merlot will help.

  It’s velvet in my throat, plush and pure, and I feel it cool my blood as I set the tumbler down. I survey the room, my vision clear, my brain oiled. I’m a machine. A thinking machine. That was the nickname, wasn’t it, of a character in some century-old detective novel by Jacques someone-or-other—a ruthlessly logical PhD who could solve any mystery by application of reason. The author, as I recall, died on the Titanic after ushering his wife into a lifeboat. Witnesses saw him sharing a cigarette with Jack Astor as the ship sank, breathing smoke against the waning moon. I suppose that’s one scenario you can’t think your way out of.

  I too am a PhD. I too can be ruthlessly logical.