The Coach House

by Florence Osmund

  Marie’s confounded mind kept racing back to the fact that, except for some cash, she had nothing with her. Nothing on her well-thought-out list. Nothing she needed to make a rational departure.

  She kept moving until she reached Irving Park Road, the major street that separated the small south end of the cemetery grounds from the rest. The traffic was light, and she was certain she could dash across it without incident. Her only concern was that Richard may be out looking for her.

  Marie leaned up against a tree while she observed the traffic. There were times when no car drove by for what may have been a full minute, enough time for her to get to the other side. She inched closer to the street and looked both ways. Just go.

  The woods on the other side of the road were thicker and more difficult to maneuver. She had walked a couple hundred feet into the woods toward its perimeter when she saw faint lights filtering through the trees. She smiled at the sight of the homes, homes whose deep backyards butted up against the dense foliage of the woods. The houses were spaced far apart, each on at least an acre of land, the sparser versions of the woods that extended into their backyards providing ample places for a game of hide and seek or annoying obstacles for mowing the lawn, depending on one’s age and point of view.

  She walked along the eastern boundary of the woods, careful not to allow herself to be seen by anyone who happened to be looking out their back window. Her pace slowed down to a slow walk, until even that was not feasible.

  A fallen log provided a place for her to sit. She put her head in her hands, and losing all self-control, she cried, releasing deep soul-searching sobs that she needed to get out of her system if she was to go on. What am I doing? Where am I going? And what am I going to do when I get there? She pulled herself up off the log and continued walking.

  Aside from the sounds of her own movement, it was deathly quiet in the woods. The thick branches above sheltered her from the rain that had just begun to fall. The cool saturated air penetrated her skin, right through her trench coat.

  She felt the gash on her head constricting, the pulsating blood underneath it pushing from the other side. It was almost eight-thirty, two and a half hours since she had been shoved down the stairs. But it felt much longer.

  When she came upon a huge fallen tree, she would either have to climb over it or go around it. Not having the strength to do either, she sat down in front of it, curled her knees up into her chest, and buried her head in her crossed arms. She asked God for help and hoped He wouldn’t hold it against her that she had waited until she was in dire trouble to make contact with Him.

  She reenacted in her head the scene that had taken place at her house. She tried to remember exactly what she heard when she approached the living room. Something about money. Twenty big ones. She distinctly remembered someone mentioning Fiefield, the hospital in Milwaukee where Richard was spending so much of his time. It was Fiefield’s money someone had said.

  Cops, mobsters, a large amount of money, and Fiefield…and Richard. She knew very little about organized crime, just what she read in the papers. It sounded like extortion. She wished she had read the newspaper articles more closely now. Or maybe not. She was aware of what happened to people who “knew too much.”

  The sound of an owl high above made her jump. She straightened her stiff body to a standing position and walked closer to the houses. There had to be someone in one of them who could help her in such a way that the police, Richard, or any of his sleaze-ball friends wouldn’t find out. But which one?

  She bent the seedling trees out of her way and stepped high over shrubs to get around the fallen tree. She continued walking, looking at the houses, wondering whose door she should knock on. Her stomach emitted an occasional growl either out of anguish or hunger.

  Marie crept closer to the edge of the woods where there was scant light emanating from the houses. It was close to nine o’clock. She found a stump and plopped herself down. She watched the houses as lights were turned on and off, probably mothers getting their children ready for bed or husbands sitting down to read the evening paper.

  She looked right and then left. The same kind of activity was going on in each house as far as she could see.

  It took her a few minutes to realize no lights were going on and off inside the house directly in front of her. The longer she looked at it, the more lifeless it seemed. She slid down the tree stump, rested her back against it, and then pulled her feet up under her body like an Indian scout. Her eyes stayed focused on the house. Desperate people do desperate things, Richard had once told her. She hadn’t been able to relate to that statement at the time, but she did now.

  She closed her eyes and watched the watery patterns of color float around the inside of her eyelids. The harder and deeper she concentrated on them, the more mesmerizing they became. She squeezed her eyes even tighter and looked for signs to guide her in some direction. But none came.

  The vocal owl interrupted her thoughts again. She looked at the row of houses with lights. If she squinted, the flickering looked like fire flies… except for the house directly in front of her. She played the “what’s their story” game in her head. Away visiting relatives? Abandoned? Electric turned off due to nonpayment? On vacation? The possible scenarios were endless.

  “What!” she blurted out. The white tail of a frightened deer vanished into the darkness of the woods. “Good grief,” she sighed and then laughed at herself. She focused on a small window at the back of the unlit house. It was low enough for someone to crawl into.

  As she pulled herself up from the ground, the pains shot through her battered body so hard that it took several short jerky moves until she could stand completely straight. She looked to her left where the woods appeared to stretch on forever. She looked to her right, toward home. When she looked straight ahead, the choice became easy.

  Slipping alongside the garage with slow, stealthy strides, Marie approached the dark house and focused on the window. She crept up the decaying wooden stairs with noiseless steps, tiptoed across the porch, and then waited for a noise, any noise. Her back up against the house, she looked at the low moon shining through the branches of the trees. I can do this.

  She knocked on the door and then immediately wished she had given that more thought. What will I do if somebody answers? Ask for help? Run? Say, “Excuse me, Madam. I must have the wrong house?”

  A whole minute passed while she stood at the door in anticipation. A second minute passed.

  The world around her was still. Marie’s chest tightened with each shallow breath she took of the cool evening air. She put her hand on the doorknob and let the cold metal tingle her fingers before she gave it a turn. Her heart pounded absurdly fast. The doorknob didn’t budge left or right.

  She moved away from the door, toward the window, and picked up a clay pot from the corner of the porch. To her dismay, a screen blocked access to the glass. She looked around for something to pry off the screen. Finding nothing, she put the pot down and tried to pry the screen off with her hands, but she couldn’t get her fingers in between it and the window frame. She struggled with the screen. When the rotting mesh eventually gave way, she was able to bend the flimsy frame of the screen in such a way that it popped out.

  Pot back in hand, Marie pressed her nose up against the window and discovered it was a kitchen. The small table and counters were bare. There were no dishes in the sink or in the dish drainer. One of the upper cabinet doors dangled crookedly from one hinge exposing an empty cabinet. On the wall opposite from the window was an open doorway leading somewhere.

  The pot was too big for her to get her small hand around. She fumbled with it until it dropped. The noise of it shattering on the porch floor sounded like a gunshot, but the silence that followed was just as unnerving.

  Ready to run, Marie waited for a light to come on, someone to yell at her or a dog to bark. But nothing happened. She closed her eyes for a few seconds while she mustered up more courage. From where it came, s
he didn’t know.

  She looked down at the broken pot and then scanned the porch for some other makeshift burglary tool, but she found nothing. Driven by a combination of fear and desperation, she picked up the largest piece of broken pot and hit the window as hard as possible. She hit the glass again and again and again, the frustration mounting inside her chest like rolling waves. When it finally burst, the noise hung in the air like a well-struck church bell.

  A shard of glass ripped through her wrist with the strike, the warmth of the blood dripping down her arm chilling her.

  Marie broke off the jagged pieces of glass still stuck in the window frame and carefully placed them in the sink that was directly below. With both hands gripping the bottom of the sill, she lifted one leg up and wedged her foot into the corner of the window, giving her the necessary leverage to boost the rest of her body up.

  As she crouched on the window sill, she thought for an instant she heard her own pulse. She waited. Time had become abstract. She stayed in the hideously awkward position for several minutes while she took it all in.

  Scared and exhausted, Marie stepped into the sink and lowered herself to the floor into the eerie silence of the house.

  CHAPTER 14

  Shelter

  Marie stood in the middle of the deserted kitchen, its mustiness overwhelming. The likely once white curtains with red cherry and gingham checked borders were a sure sign it had been a cheerful room at one time. She studied each inch of wall, the glass-knobbed cupboards, and the black and white checkerboard linoleum floor as if they held the answers she so desperately wanted to know.

  The crusty scab from the gash on her forehead pulled at the tangled hairs around it. The cut on her wrist from breaking the window was deep, and the throbbing radiated well into her fingers, making them tingle. She took the towel hanging over the faucet and crudely wrapped it around her wrist in an effort to stop the bleeding.

  Marie turned toward the broken window, filled her lungs with fresh air, and then hung her head down and closed her eyes, slowly shaking her head from side to side while trying to rationalize her next moves. Terrified that someone may be in the house but desperate enough to take that chance, she concentrated on taking steps forward to check things out. But other thoughts kept getting in the way. Where is he right now? I should have stayed to help at Field’s. I want my belongings. What am I doing here? This is not how I planned it!

  Her trance-like state lasted another full minute. The queasiness in her stomach rising upward, she closed her eyes again, trying to deal with her swimming thoughts one by one. I have to make the best of this situation. It was a difficult affirmation to behold.

  She rubbed her sweaty palms on her dirt-smudged coat while she walked through the kitchen and then into the long hallway. A closed door was on her left. She placed her hand on the doorknob and waited several seconds before she turned it. She pushed it open, just a crack, and peered in at the stairs leading down to the basement. She shut the door.

  The second door she came upon was also on her left, but this one was ajar. She stared into the room until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and were able to decipher the white claw foot of a bathtub. The toilet bowl was empty, exposing blackened porcelain. She glanced in the mirror over the sink but couldn’t see much more than an obscure shadow of herself in the reflection. Hoping to find some sort of medical supplies, she tugged at the cabinet door under the sink, but it was stuck shut.

  Marie continued to grope her way down hall toward the front of the house. She kept listening for noises, any noise that would indicate she wasn’t alone. But all she heard were her own tenuous footsteps on the hardwood floor.

  The front door had no window or sidelights, keeping the foyer as dark as the rest of the house. A short wooden bench was its only furnishing. She opened the door next to the bench, which she assumed was a closet, but saw nothing but blackness inside. Too scared to check it out more thoroughly, she shut the door.

  Someone entering the house through the front door would have been greeted by a natural wood-carved staircase leading to the second story. Marie looked up but couldn’t see past the first several steps.

  An expansive archway gave way to the living room. Heavy floor-to-ceiling flowered draperies were tightly drawn over all the windows. She slowly crept into the center of the room. All she could see were obscure forms of furniture.

  The same heavy drapes covered the windows in the dining room. Her eyes now fully adjusted to the lack of light, she saw two primitive-looking candlesticks placed on a lace runner on the dining room table. A large sideboard occupied the inside wall opposite the windows. Two portraits, obviously painted many years earlier, hung above it. Their somber faces suited the rest of the room, dark and dreary.

  Marie scrunched up her nose and made a sour face at the smell, a smell that reminded her of antique shops; that “old” smell permeating wood and fabric after having been in inadequate ventilation for a while.

  She retreated to the stairs leading to the second floor. The first step creaked uncomfortably loud. On the next step, she placed her foot on the outside perimeter of the stair, close to the wall, so as to not create another noise. She continued to clumsily climb the stairs, left foot on the left edge of the stair, right foot on the right edge of the next stair until she reached a landing. She made a quarter turn to her left to continue up the rest of the stairs, but before her foot could locate the next stair, she bumped into an unexpected wall. The second floor had been crudely blocked off with several rough planks of wood. Relieved, she quickly descended the stairs. She sat on the bottom stair for a minute, rubbing her tight thighs, before moving on.

  Feeling a bit more confident, Marie took a closer look at the contents of the living room. The few pieces of furniture inside were old and heavy, the fabrics dull and uninviting. A kerosene lamp that had been allowed to go bone dry was the only sign of possible lighting for the room. There were no personal things in sight that one would expect. No pictures, knickknacks, books, or reading glasses.

  Back in the kitchen, Marie opened the last closed door. As with every other room in the house, it was completely devoid of light. She stared into the room long enough to ascertain its contents.

  “Oh!” She didn’t expect a bedroom to be right off the kitchen. Her mind raced in several directions. She wanted to turn around and run, but raw fear kept her from moving. What do I do if someone is in here? Someone sick? Someone irate that a stranger is in their house? A strong man? A weak woman?

  Her eyes bore into the bedspread until she was convinced no one was in or on the bed. She did the same with the chair beside it. It was a simple room with an unassuming dresser and chest of drawers completing the entire décor.

  She approached the closet, her unsteady hand grasping the doorknob and giving it a quick turn. She pulled the door open and peeked inside the black cavity. Too dark to see anything and not wanting to walk all the way in, she quickly shut the door.

  Marie made her way back into the kitchen where a sudden gust of wind brought in cold damp air through the broken window. She returned to the bedroom to get the bedspread. In addition, she found a card table leaning up against the wall next to the bed. It was made of heavy solid wood, but she was able to drag it across the kitchen floor to the window. After struggling to lift it up onto the counter, she positioned it in front of the window and draped the bedspread over the table, tucking it in as best she could, hoping that was enough to keep the night air out.

  Resembling a relinquished marionette, Marie slowly collapsed on the bed, trying to ignore the repulsive smell of the linens. Now completely depleted of physical and emotional strength, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about the events that led her to this place.

  At first, all she saw on the inside of her eyelids was blackness, then the infiltration of streams of red. And then whole images appeared.

  The cop from across the street stood there with his gun drawn. Richard grabbed her and pulled her into the kitchen, h
is grip hurting her arm. He pushed her down the stairs. She didn’t stop tumbling for the longest time. “Hey Med Man,” one man shouted. “Whack the bitch!” “I’ll take care of it,” Richard said. “Trust me.”

  She fought to pry open her eyes and feared she might be losing her grasp on reality, but she was too exhausted to do anything about it.

  Convinced there was no one else in the house, Marie surrendered to much needed sleep. Her last thought was a pinprick memory of something Richard had said to her during their courtship. “The moment I first saw you, I knew my life was about to change.” And so was mine, my cunning husband, so was mine.

  * * *

  The sound of the crash caused Marie to bolt upright in bed. Completely disoriented, she blinked several times, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Was that real, or did I dream it? She waited to see what was going to happen next. But nothing did.

  The pains shot back and forth through her legs like darts as she eased herself off the bed. She felt her way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where she was greeted by a gust of air from the cool clear night. A wave of relief quivered through her when she realized it was the table falling down off the counter that had caused the loud noise. She hoisted it back into place, this time positioning it tighter against the window.

  She fumbled her way to the dining room in search of a candle. After stubbing her big toe on the sideboard, she sat down on one of the dining room chairs, kicked off her shoe, and bent over to rub it. The dizziness she felt on her way up to a sitting position made her pause.

  Marie found a candle in the sideboard, stuck it in one of the candlesticks, and felt her way back to the kitchen in search of matches. The kitchen drawer next to the stove produced a box of them. After several failed attempts, she got one to ignite.

  The candle cast a ghoulish glow as it flickered on the kitchen table. Captivated by its movement, Marie mindlessly watched the fire beams scamper aimlessly around the room. She looked at her watch. It was eleven at night.