House of Windows

by John Langan

  But as the washer had gurgled and churned, I'd heard Roger saying, "Boy, the best part of you dribbled down your mother's leg." He might as well have been standing in the laundry room with me. "And when you die, may you know fitting torment." Another voice had accompanied his: that of the thing in the corner—the house—that house that Roger had built, so to speak. "Blood and pain," it whispered, and the words had slithered around the room. Turning away from the picture, I'd departed the laundry room for the idiot comforts of the TV.

  Blood and pain, I heard as I stood in the kitchen hours later. They were the kinds of things you sealed covenants with, weren't they? Wasn't that what the priest said during mass, during the consecration: "This is My blood, the blood of the new covenant"? You drank that blood, and you were included in the pact. Pain was part of the deal; there was no blood without pain. The pain authenticated the blood.

  Roger spent the day in his office. We passed each other at breakfast, and at lunch, with the bare minimum of conversation—in fact, I don't think we said anything at all during breakfast. On some abstract level, I wasn't happy about that but, really, what was there to say? We were like a pair of actors who can't stop repeating a scene. "Lift your curse." "No!" Exit Roger.

  If all of this were a movie, and me its director, this would be the moment where I'd have me reflecting on my marriage. I'd probably have Roger doing so, as well. You'd have a shot of me opening kitchen cabinets and sifting through them, followed by a shot of Roger, picking up a book from his desk and opening it—very symbolic actions—then there would be some kind of scene from earlier in the film—just a snippet, shown slightly out-of-focus to make it clear this is a memory—a mutual memory. I imagine I'd choose the first class I had with him. Why not begin at the beginning, right? From there, we'd alternate among those three locations, the action in each advancing a little more each time. Now I'm running water into a pot, Roger's writing on a legal pad, and we're in bed together. Did I mention there's a song playing on the soundtrack? Of course there is. Something slow, full of anguish, regret, and possibly a string section. If I wanted to be artsy, I'd choose an aria from some opera or another—but you have to expect the studio heads would insist on something more commercially viable. Fine. I'm sure Bryan Adams would be available. By this time, the song would be nearing its guitar solo. I would be slicing tomatoes, Roger would be staring at a map, and the two of us would be standing in front of the judge, holding hands as we recite our vows. There's time for one more set of images, maybe two. You'd show me—first turning off the burner and removing the pot from the stove, then standing looking out the kitchen window, arms crossed, forlorn. Roger would put down his pen, raise his glasses, and we'd see him looking out his office window, arms crossed, forlorn. Parallelism, you understand. As for the memories, the Greatest Hits of Veronica and Roger, Volume 1, what would the last two be? Would you want them to be ambiguous—me watching Roger sleep in his hospital bed; the two of us in the car returning from the Cape—or would you prefer to keep them relatively happy—the waiter setting our main courses in front of us at the Canal House; the two of us walking on the beach? Marriage as a three-minute montage—you want to remind the audience of the good times the protagonists have shared, set them up so that what's coming next has real impact.

  None of that would've been inappropriate. All of it happened—we had had good times together—great times together. There were moments I was as happy with Roger as I've ever been, and given the right set of circumstances, I might have indulged in just such a mental movie of our relationship. Except—well, except for everything else, for the other movie advertised on my inner marquee. This one's title was Roger Croydon: The Dark Side—a bit over the top, but essentially on target. I don't have to tell you what scenes it showed.

  When you're in a relationship—at first, you can't believe how much you have in common, right? You find similarities all over the place, no matter how much of a stretch they seem to anyone else. He likes the Yankees and you're from New York? It must be fate. That doesn't last for too long. At some point, you start to notice the differences. If you're lucky, either those differences are minor enough to be insignificant—lovable quirks—or they complement each other—the whole "opposites attract" thing. If you're unlucky, those differences become glaring and irreconcilable. What started with you noticing the other person likes to put butter on the bread for their tunafish sandwich ends with one or the other of you packing your things in cardboard boxes you got from the liquor store. When you're fifteen and your boyfriend turns out to be an alien, it's rough. Your world is over; how will you ever love again; blah-blah-blah. When you're twenty-six and you've seen beneath the mask your sixty-five-year-old husband puts on so he can look at himself in the mirror each day, it's a combination of completely depressing and terrifying. I'd known there was a lot to Roger when we got together. He'd been around for longer than I had—a lot longer—and nobody's perfect. But there had been a connection there. I had felt it. We had been inevitable. A consecration of its own, remember? Of course, inevitable doesn't mean eternal, and as I boiled water for the spaghetti that would accompany the vegetable sauce simmering on the stove, I had the sickening thought that maybe I'd—we'd made too much of all this. Maybe Roger and I had never been meant to have anything more than a fling. We might've been together for a couple of years, even, but when all was said and done, we'd been supposed to go our separate ways. If that were the case—

  No, I thought, I got pregnant—there was the baby—our baby. And what happened to that child? my inner devil's advocate asked. Your husband sacrificed it to guarantee his revenge on his older son. Quite the candidate for Father of the Year, wouldn't you say?

  So why did I stay? Why didn't I pick up my purse and car keys and drive as far away from that house as fast as I could? I mean, that's the question you always ask in these kinds of stories, isn't it? Sooner or later, you say, "Why didn't she leave? Why didn't she get out while she could?" In the film, that's why you have that montage of happy memories—to justify the decision to stay. "Oh, look, she still loves him." As importantly, "He still loves her," so she's making the right decision. I did love Roger—despite everything, the feeling refused to die—but that emotion wasn't foremost in my mind. I wouldn't call what was duty, but it wasn't that far removed from it, sort of a, "You made your bed," sentiment.

  Maybe watching that wretched adaptation of The Scarlet Letter the previous night had stirred the idea; although I doubt it. It's one of the things I've always responded to most strongly in Hawthorne's novel, Hester Prynne's refusal to evade the consequences of her decision. She made a choice, and she will accept whatever comes as a result of it. She could run away, she knows that, but that would be dishonest. Speaking as a feminist, I find it one of the most frustrating things about Hester's character. "No," I want to say, "what are you doing? Don't you realize that by doing this you're only propping up a corrupt system? You can leave—go!" But she doesn't go—it's as if, through staying, she owns what happened. I don't want to sound as if I thought, "Gee, I'll be just like Hester." It's more a case of using her example to describe a similar impulse within myself. I'd like to say I stood in the front door with my keys in hand, or even that I made it as far as backing the car out of the driveway. Those would have been more dramatic, wouldn't they? And they'd make it appear I'd struggled more to avoid what was coming next. I didn't, though. Keys and purse remained where they were on the hall table. Instead, I drained the pasta, plated it, and ladled the sauce over it.

  As for Roger, I'm not a hundred percent certain, but I'd be willing to bet he spent his day attending to the map by the door. Although the nine sheets of paper that composed it were overcrowded with his handwriting, with letters, numbers, and occult symbols in blue, black, red, green, purple, and gold ink, he would have been unable to see anything but the few remaining white patches—to you or me, barely noticeable; to him, vast empty spaces, ice-fields stretching to the horizon. There was still more research to be done, mo
re facts to be collected. His most recent acquisitions, he'd read three times already. The books he'd had longer he'd half-memorized. He didn't read them so much any more as let his eyes drift across the pages, on the lookout for information—facts, connections—that might have eluded him. The clock was ticking; I was seeing the Asmai Mountains over the house; Ted was near.

  What a relief it must have been when a new fact caught his gaze. He must have run to the doorway with it burning in his mind, like a prophet taking dictation from God. Once the detail had been recorded, he would have stood back and admired his work, happy that that much more of the paper's unforgiving whiteness had been occluded. Did his eyes stray to the circle at the center of his construction? To the silver window of the mirror glued there? I imagine him doing his best not to look at it and being unable not to catch a glimpse of his reflection. Did he see anything else in there? In the strip of office shining in the center of the map, did he see a figure standing as if across the room from him? Did he turn, his son's name on his lips?

  Shortly after I finished my dinner and put Roger's in the oven to keep warm, the phone rang. I wasn't expecting anyone to call, although I felt a surge of hope that maybe Addie was calling to invite me out for another meal with her and Harlow. She wasn't. I picked up the phone, and heard my mother saying, "Veronica? It's me. It's Mom."

  Talk about the last person on earth you would have expected. I mean, since our little chat after my wedding, I literally had not heard from her once. Encounters with the supernatural included, there have been few times in my life I've been speechless. This was one of them.

  "Hello?" Mom called. "Is anybody there? Veronica? Are you there?"

  "Mom," I said. "Hello."

  "You are there," she said. "I was afraid I'd dialed the wrong number—I hate when I do that."

  "No," I said, "you dialed the right number."

  "I know it's been a long time since we talked," Mom said. "You haven't called me at all—but before you jump down my throat, let me say that I haven't called you, either. I know that. The telephone works both ways. The last time we spoke—I've been very upset about the way that went. You said some very hurtful things to me, when I was only expressing my opinion, which I think I have a right to do as your mother. But I didn't call to argue. All that is past, now, so let's try to put it there. How are you doing?"

  "I'm hanging in there," I said, because, really, I hadn't heard from this woman in years, and I'm supposed to open up to her, forget everything she said?

  "And—Donald? Your husband—what is his name? I assume you're still married."

  "Roger. And yes, we're still married."

  "Roger, that's right," she said, as if she hadn't remembered it all along. "He's well?"

  "More or less," I said. "To tell you the truth, he's been having kind of a rough time recently."

  "Oh? Why is that? His health?"

  "His son. He died not that long ago."

  She inhaled sharply. "I'm very sorry to hear that. What was it, drugs?"

  "A rocket-propelled grenade," I said. "He was in the Army. He was killed in Afghanistan."

  "How terrible. Were you close?"

  "Not really. But it's done a number on Roger."

  "Of course, of course. I can't think of anything worse than losing your child. However much you fuss and fight, you never stop loving them. Please tell him I'm very sorry."

  "I will."

  "Has he spoken to anyone about it?"

  "Just me."

  "No one professional?"

  "No."

  "Encourage him to. After your father died, I was a wreck, I don't mind saying. You weren't any help. You were busy with your own grieving, I know. For a little while, I felt like I was losing my mind. You have no idea how bad it was. At times, I just wanted to join your father. Fortunately, I went to see Father Gennaro and he put me in touch with a very nice nun who did grief counseling. I don't have her number, but I can give you her name."

  "That's okay. If he goes, we'll probably use someone local."

  "Of course. How about you?"

  "I'm coping."

  "It must be difficult for you. I've never known anyone in exactly the same situation—we did have a friend who married a widow, but they were both young and her children were young. I'm sure you haven't known what to say. How could you? Do any of your friends have children, yet? You're not pregnant, are you? I assume you would have called me if I'd had a grandchild."

  I was this close to telling her about the miscarriage. The information trembled on the tip of my tongue, razor-sharp. I swallowed my phrasing and substituted, "Not yet."

  "Are you planning to have children? With your husband's age—how old is he?"

  "Sixty-five."

  "I thought he was closer to sixty. In that case—well, you need to take that into account. Not to put too fine a point on it, but it's no easy job raising a child, let me tell you. You want to be sure you're going to have all the help you can get, for as long as you can get it."

  "We're not thinking about it right now."

  "It's nice to be a young mother—I was with you, and that let me stay in touch with you much better than a lot of older women."

  "How's California?" I asked.

  "Very nice. The weather is gorgeous, naturally, although it isn't always perfect. It's very expensive, you won't be surprised to hear that, but I'm fortunate that your father left me very well provided for. Between the death benefit from his job and the life insurance policies, I'm—let's just say I can afford to live out here. I do some work with Aunt Shirley—actually, I've become quite involved in the business. I'm basically her partner; although neither of us puts it that way. The job's given me enough money to take some wonderful vacations. Last year, Bob and I went to Hawaii, and the year before that—"

  "Wait a minute. Who's Bob?"

  "Bob—what?"

  "You just said you went to Hawaii with someone named Bob."

  "Did I?"

  "Yes, you did. Bob who?"

  "Bob Foyle. He's—someone I met. Through your aunt."

  "And you're seeing him? What am I saying? You went to Hawaii with him. Of course you're seeing him."

  "Bob has been very good to me. He's a travel agent—"

  "Thus the trip."

  "Is there a problem with me seeing someone? Is there a problem with me being happy?"

  "Are you going to marry him?"

  "No. I've been married once, and while I loved your father dearly, once was enough. Bob agrees with me—he's divorced—actually, he's been married twice; as he says, 'Two times too many.'"

  "You're living together, aren't you?" Talk about things you'd never expect to say to your mother.

  "I don't see that that's any business of yours."

  "Which is tantamount to an admission. Oh my God."

  "It's not as if we could get married, even if we wanted to. Bob's looked into it, and he could have his first marriage annulled—he was very young—but the Church won't do anything about the second. And I refuse to be married in a civil ceremony. How tacky."

  Thanks, Mom. "So you decided you'd just move in together."

  "I don't know what you're getting so upset about, Veronica. Everybody does it, these days. It's the way of the world."

  "Is that what you'd tell Dad?"

  "As long as I don't marry anyone else, I don't think your father will care."

  I laughed. "It's funny. I used to worry that Dad would have been disappointed in me, in the choices I'd made. After this, though—"

  "Oh, he would have been."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Well, he would have. He used to have such high hopes for you—we both did. He had no doubt you'd make something of yourself. After the two of you had had one of your arguments, he would say things like, 'She'll make a fine lawyer.' I assume you haven't gotten your doctorate, since you haven't mentioned it. No man you brought home would have been good enough for your father—no daughter's choice ever satisfies her father—but someone
old enough to be your grandfather? Someone with a full-grown son? I mean, you know what you are to him."