Knock Knock

by S. P. Miskowski

  Lydia had spent far too many hours online the past week, writing email and endless, banal status updates promising to return to Seattle in time for Bumbershoot. She had reached a point where no one replied with comments, and she didn't know if her friends were too busy or simply sick of her.

  Every one of them worked full-time. Not just jobs but careers at ad agencies and software and game design companies. All they could manage were a few innocuous or enigmatic one-liners during the week. On the weekend they went backpacking and hiking. They didn't have time to respond to Lydia's barrage of news about every inch of her house in Skillute. She caught herself taking the walk down the driveway and across the road to the row of metal mailboxes, checking for snail mail two or three times a day, like a retiree anxiously awaiting a social security payment.

  She had company several times during the week, but not the kind she wanted. Misty Court dropped off a batch of coupons and sold her a box of candy for Kristy's high school. The Avon Lady stopped by with a seasonal sale catalog.

  So the week had gone by, wasted. They had spent two weeks in this awful place, with nothing to show for it.

  While Greg read his manuals and plotted how to unload a tiny house with no special features in the middle of nowhere, she sat on the back step sneaking another cigarette. When she heard the doorbell ring, she caved. It was just too much. She bolted. She did the only thing she could do in this place: She went walking in the woods.

  Five more minutes of making nice with one of the locals and she would have started screaming. She would kill them all. She knew it. She would drive "downtown," to the only intersection, with its fifteen shops and a rusty train station. She would walk into Buck's Rifles Guns 'n' Ammo and say to Buck:

  "I need a big gun, Buck. I want to kill my neighbors."

  Would the lanky man with weathered skin standing behind the counter in jeans and a camouflage t-shirt, smoking a Marlboro, understand? She thought he would, and she thought he would sell her a gun 'n' ammo, because that's why he existed. This was who Buck was: the man who sold people the means to kill what they wanted dead.

  Greg wasn't remotely qualified to sell the house. He didn't know how. He didn't have time to figure it out. He was emailing three different versions of his resume several times a week and calling his colleagues to follow up on job tips. He stayed busy every minute of the day, not only as a display of his loyalty and responsibility, but as though his sanity depended on it. He was still insisting that they could handle the house without a real estate agent, but this was beginning to sound crazy.

  Since the day of the yard sale Greg had been more distracted: running errands, leaping to his feet to fetch Lydia anything she wanted at any hour. He said it was the least he could do, after the sacrifices she had made. Although she would never say this to him, she felt that he wanted to get away from her, and any excuse would do.

  She found herself letting him take care of things. Pick up the groceries. Drop off cards and letters at the post office, three miles away, instead of leaving them in the mailbox across the road. He seemed happier when he was in motion, so she gave him reasons to move.

  Meanwhile Lydia was wandering, drifting, losing ground. She had never decided to have a baby. She had forgotten to avoid it. Then she got drunk and broke the news prematurely to a couple of friends. The cards and emails had started pouring in: comfort, congratulations, surprise, elation, all before she had made up her mind about the baby. She was cornered. She couldn't believe the things people started saying to her. Out of nowhere, all of her friends wanted more than anything for her to have a beautiful baby. They wrote such tender notes. She cried over a few of them because no one she knew had ever said such heartfelt things to her. Were these messages for her or for the baby? She didn't want to know.

  When she told her mother the news by telephone the answer was bright, forceful, and immediate:

  "Where are you registered?"

  Once Lydia had given her the information she needed and a license to shop, the conversation was pretty much over. A few flourishes, orders to keep in touch, eat more often, her mother's signature "mwa" kissing sound, and they were done with each other for at least a month.

  When Lydia had received the news about Beverly Dempsey's house, she had said nothing to her mother. She couldn't bear to provide the material for a round of high drama. It wouldn't end well. So Lydia told her mother that Greg inherited some property from an uncle. The rest of the story she told was true, leaving out Beverly altogether. Lying to her mother was a habit she had perfected by first grade.

  She wasn't close to her siblings, never had been. She let them think she and Greg were still in Seattle until they finally noticed one of her pitiful status updates and called her.

  "Well, that was lucky, Greg getting a house from a relative he didn't even know."

  "Yeah," said Lydia. "How about that?"

  No one needed to know, certainly not anyone in her family, with their phantom aches and pains, their happy hours, spa memberships, group vacations, and over-the-limit credit cards. They had enough to deal with, just waking up in the morning. By lunchtime they were exhausted from putting up with the foibles and stupidity of all the people around them. One more thing to think about might kill them.

  Lydia had come to a clearing in the woods. She stood before a cottage, painted robin's egg blue with white shutters. She didn't know how far she had walked, or in which direction.

  "Flora!"

  Lydia flinched at the name, shouted by someone inside the house. From the far corner of the yard, where it bordered the line of fir trees, a girl came walking toward the house, her arms full of weeds. The door to the house opened. A tall woman, with hair as red as a fox, stepped outside onto the flagstone walk. She wore crimson lipstick, a gold silk dress with high heels. The girl went slouching toward the door.

  "What is the matter with you?" The woman yelled. She caught the girl by her hair and slapped her. The ring on her left hand grazed the girl's neck and she cried out.

  "Stop!" Lydia shouted. Neither the girl nor the woman noticed.

  The woman shook the girl and marched her toward the cottage, all the while gripping her hair so that the girl was drawn back in a contortion of pain. As the two passed, Lydia saw the girl more clearly. She could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old, with long blond hair that was matted and dirty. Even from where she stood, Lydia could see that the girl was pregnant, probably expecting around the same time she was. Other than her protruding belly, the girl might have been starving. Her skinny arms and legs reminded Lydia of a spider.

  "Lydia!"

  She turned just as Greg caught up to her.

  "Where have you been?" He asked.

  "She's crazy," she said. "She crazy, Greg."

  He put his arm around her. They started walking together. He seemed to be protectively guiding her away from the woods, back toward home.

  "Who's that, honey?" He asked. "What are you talking about?"

  She only had to glance over her shoulder to know that there was no house where she had been, only the deep, wide shadow of the woods.

  Greg

  "I'm not going," Lydia announced at the front door.

  Greg had his keys in his hand, and they were on their way out. It was the first time he noticed that she was still wearing the stretched-out t-shirt and knit skirt she had worn all day. She hadn't showered or brushed her hair, and he had never thought about it until now.

  "You never intended to go, did you?" He asked.

  "Yes I did," she said, getting defensive right away, as she usually did when he confronted her.

  "No, you never planned to go," he said. "You ran out the back when the guy came to visit yesterday. Then you said sure, let's go have dinner with the old crazy and her family, and today you didn't do one thing to get ready. You never intended to go with me, did you?"

  "So what? I'm tired. I'm fucking pregnant, Greg, I get tired at the end of the day. It's bedtime for me. Why didn't you
say we could only come for lunch? The guy said dinner."

  "Supper. They call it supper."

  "Who cares? And you said, 'Sure! You bet, Pastor Cockhead!'"

  "Okay."

  "You didn't ask me. You told me you accepted the invitation: Two different situations. Did you tell him we want to be baptized, too? Maybe we should stay here until the baby comes, so he can throw some holy water on it. Or did you say he could have the baby, because we want to be neighborly?"

  "It was kind of embarrassing, you know? 'Oh, sorry, I have no idea where my pregnant wife is. Maybe she's having our baby alone in the woods. Let me go check.'"

  "That's your defense? You were embarrassed? Well, Greg, I'm so sorry you had an awkward moment. It isn't like I've been carrying an extra burden, or anything, for five fucking months!"

  Greg watched her stomp through the house straightening things up. She picked up cushions and slapped them into place on the sofa. She moved each framed photo a quarter of an inch to the left or the right. She went to collect sheets from the dryer.

  "I'll call it off," he said. "Who cares? It's just dinner, we can do it another time."

  "No!" She shouted and stomped back into the living room. "It isn't dinner, it's supper! You're going. I'm staying. You said yes, I didn't. Can't you take a hint? I need an evening alone, okay?"

  She said this with such ferocity he decided she was right.

  "Cell working?" He asked.

  "Yes."

  "Charged?"

  "Yes!"

  "Call me?" He asked, and kissed her cheek.

  "If I pee more than once, or if a leaf blows into the yard, I'll call to let you know."

  At times like this her sarcasm lost its limited charm and made him wonder how they would ever get through the next few weeks together, let alone the rest of their lives.

  Fortunately they were not dining in the room where the animal heads were mounted on the walls. That would have been more than Greg could handle with a straight face. The dining room was closed off from the rest of the house by double doors at both ends. Painted saffron, with white and maroon trim and overhead fans, this room was by far the most comfortable one in Henry and Alicia's house. The four of them were gathered at one end of a table that could seat fourteen.

  "He said he'd been praying," Henry said as he scooped a spoonful of broccoli onto his plate. He passed the serving dish to Alicia.

  "In the woods?" Alicia said. "By himself?"

  "I guess that's where he lives now."

  Greg felt Marietta watching him while he served himself. Yet every time he looked across the table he found that her eyes were fixed on her own plate and she was eating instead of staring at him.

  "I'm sorry," Greg said. "Who is this, again?"

  "Burt Sanders," Henry explained.

  "Poor man," Alicia chimed in. "We could let him sleep in the chapel, Henry. He isn't dangerous to anyone except himself."

  "He has a house of his own, right across the road. He just doesn't want to stay there. Says he can't stand to be indoors."

  "Poor man," Alicia said again. "He's lost his family. First his little girl died."

  Marietta poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher.

  "That was terrible. Terrible for everyone, for Burt and for Mr. Jasper, and the poor child."

  "Was it an accident?" Greg asked.

  The silence told him this was a bad question, despite Alicia being the one who brought up the subject. Greg shook his head.

  "Sorry," he said. "No. Please go on."

  "It was an accident, but nobody knows how it happened. The child was in a coma, and then she passed away. Burt was in a bad state. Then his wife left him," Alicia said. "Right after the memorial. Ethel walked away from the grave, and drove off! There we all were, saying a prayer, and off she went. Since then, nobody we know has heard a word. Well, you knew her, you used to be very close, isn't that right, Marietta? If she contacted anyone in Skillute it would be you, wouldn't it?"

  Marietta looked at Greg now, but her eyes told him nothing.

  "Burt just wanders around," Alicia continued. "At first, I think he was looking for his wife, but now I just don't know."

  "He's a pitiful soul," Henry said. "I've tried ministering to Burt, but he lives in the past, in his head. He's got some delusion that his daughter is still alive, and he spends his nights outdoors, sleeps there, drinks."

  "When did you see him last?" Alicia asked.

  "A few days ago," said Henry. "I was in the car, actually. Making my rounds, and I saw Burt out by the freeway, you know where they closed the on-ramp?"

  "Is this recent?" Greg asked. "I'm still finding my way around."

  "Greg," Alicia explained. "There used to be an entrance to the freeway not far from here, a lot more convenient than driving to the one in Kelso. The department of transportation closed it, though."

  "Five accidents in two years," Henry chimed in. "Anyway, that's where I saw Burt, stumbling along with his shotgun in his hand, obviously didn't know what he was doing. I pulled over, stopped on the shoulder, and got out. I asked what he was up to. I offered him a ride. I told him he didn't want the sheriff or the highway patrol to see him like that, half drunk with a firearm, wandering around. So he got in the car, and I drove him to the next exit. Before he got out, while I was driving along, you know what he said?"

  They all looked at Henry. Alicia said:

  "What did he say to you, dear?"

  "He said he didn't need God any more, because his little girl was on her way home."

  Alicia shook her head.

  "Poor man. Do you think he meant she was on her way to heaven?"

  Greg thought again of Lydia, at home, probably cursing him, most likely still sulking because he hadn't shown the backbone to say no when Henry invited them over. She was right, although the Colquitts were pleasant enough. Greg didn't belong here, and neither did Lydia. They should try to borrow money against the house, turn it over to a realtor, and head back to Seattle. Trying to find a job long distance wasn't working, anyway. His plan wasn't working out for either of them, and now his wife was home by herself, fretting about things that were his fault.

  "When is she due?"

  Greg was startled by Marietta's question. These were the first words she'd spoken since they sat down to dinner.

  "November, " he told her.

  "It's a shame she couldn't come for supper," she said.

  He decided her lavender eyes and her frown told him what she thought of him for leaving his wife alone at night in her condition. Under her gaze he flinched and turned his attention back to Henry.

  "How long have you had your church here?" He asked, feeling stupid because he was sure Henry had answered the same question when he stopped by Greg's house and invited them to visit. Now Greg wondered if the idea had been Marietta's rather than Henry's. If so, why was she so quiet? If she wanted to get acquainted, she wasn't trying very hard.

  After Henry provided another verbal essay on his made-up religion, his feelings about God and free will, and his ongoing efforts to save Skillute, the conversation turned back to "poor Burt Sanders." Alicia seemed to think she was the only person in town who understood what the man had been through.

  "Absolutely horrible," she said. "I can't imagine losing a child, and in that way. But it wasn't anyone's fault."

  "What happened to her?" Greg interrupted.

  Marietta answered now, in a measured tone that unnerved him.

  "She was teasing the neighbor's pit-bull. The dog got loose."

  Greg, Henry, and Alicia stopped mid-bite. Marietta went on eating.

  "She was an adventurous girl," Alicia said. "A tomboy."

  Marietta spoke without taking her gaze from her food.

  "She wasn't right. They sent her home from school. And two children disappeared."

  Alicia adopted a soothing tone:

  "Those rumors didn't help anyone. Nobody knows what happened to those poor little ones. Connie Sara Sanders wa
sn't going to that school any more."

  "Because she broke a little girl's collar bone and pulled another one's arm out of its socket," Marietta said. "Ethel had to take her out then. She didn't have a choice."

  "For home school?" Greg asked.

  "Ethel never home schooled her daughter. She didn't like to be alone with her, as far as I could tell."

  "Well, then," said Henry. "I'll bet you're about fed up with our tales of Skillute, Greg. We must seem like gossiping hens."

  Marietta glanced at Henry but said nothing. She filled her glass again.

  "Oh, no," Greg said. "Small towns are interesting. Local history. In fact, I wonder about the house my wife and I have been staying in."

  No one took the cue. Greg helped himself to another biscuit and said:

  "Lydia tells me you knew Beverly Dempsey, the woman who owned our house."

  "She was another friend of my mother-in-law, and Ethel. They grew up together, right?"

  Alicia smiled at Marietta, who said:

  "The doctor told us Beverly had a heart attack. She was confused when she died, that's why she left things the way she did."

  "How's that?" Greg asked. He helped himself to wine and discovered it was a Chateau Margaux.

  "Mother found Mrs. Dempsey and called the sheriff's office," said Henry. "Then my wife and I went around to clean up, once the sheriff said it was okay."

  "Clean up?"

  "Oh," Alicia said, fluttering her fingers and then letting them rest on her husband's hand. "It wasn't like that. There was no mess. She must have been disoriented."

  "Confused," said Henry.

  "She had stacked some of her furniture against the fireplace, that's all. We put it all back where it belonged. She would have wanted that, I'm sure. I didn't know her well, but she kept a very tidy house. A woman doesn't want to be judged by her last moment."

  Her look around the table faded on Henry, who blushed and said nothing. Greg wondered what kind of life Henry had had at age six, or again at age sixteen, with a mother like Marietta. He thought: So that's where preachers come from. Then he felt ashamed at judging Henry while enjoying his hospitality. He also marveled at these people who swooped in after a neighbor died and straightened up her home to make it more presentable. It seemed both decent and interfering. No wonder Henry had been so uncomfortable in Mrs. Dempsey's living room.