She Stopped for Death

by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli

  The two women stared at the silent house as it seemed to move oddly in all the swaying shadows. It looked like a place where nothing could possibly be alive. Where nobody could ever live. If there were human beings in there, they only sat in chairs in corners and never spoke. If they moved, it would have to be in a crouch, darting quickly, heading toward another corner and another chair so as not to break the glass-like quiet that would shatter at any decibel above a whisper.

  Jenny couldn’t help but shudder. Beside her, Zoe put her hands on her bare arms and rubbed hard as she looked at the windows across the front. Four of them. Narrow and tall, all covered with heavy lace drapery. Zoe straightened her shoulders, then cleared her throat.

  They were in no hurry, now that they were standing in front of the house.

  “I saw a movie when I was a kid,” Jenny said as she looked again at the windows on the second floor, then down. Nothing moved. If a curtain did move or the door opened, she decided she would turn and run after all. Normal people just didn’t live the way these two women lived. “In the movie, a man went into a swamp and got stuck in quicksand.” She leaned over to half-whisper to Zoe. “He went down slowly until there was only the top of his head showing and then nothing. I never forgot it. I don’t want that to be me.”

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “In that movie.”

  “You see monsters everywhere,” Zoe said. “That’s nothing but fiction. I’m afraid of the real thing.”

  Jenny had a comeback, but a curtain twitched in an upper window. She caught her breath.

  “I saw it, too,” Zoe whispered, her round eyes growing huge. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Zoe pushed the gate, stepping through it to a flagstone path, half buried by years of moving dirt.

  “She can’t bite us,” Jenny mumbled to make them braver.

  “Can’t come out with an axe and chase us into the swamp,” Zoe whispered back, eyes glued to the front door.

  They stopped, side-by-side, at the bottom of the steps, checking the narrow windows on either side of the door.

  “Not exactly welcoming,” Jenny said.

  “She’s a poet,” Zoe whispered back. “Never knew one with fangs.”

  “Really? Not even one?”

  They climbed the steps, ignoring creaking boards. Zoe carried the bag of books, holding them tight against her chest.

  “I think I’ll run after all,” Jenny muttered as she set her foot down and the old wood boards sagged under her.

  “I’ll ring the bell and be right behind you.”

  Zoe pushed the doorbell.

  Nothing happened. No sound of a ringing bell came from beyond the door.

  Zoe pushed the bell again. “Doesn’t work.” Zoe opened the hanging screen door to knock on the inner door, first timidly and then with all her strength.

  The sound of a voice calling out came from somewhere in the house.

  Trickles of fear made the hair on Jenny’s arms stand up.

  There was an answering call inside the house.

  Then nothing. No one came to the door.

  Zoe set the books down quietly on the unpainted porch floor. “I’m out of here,” she mumbled and headed back toward the steps.

  Jenny flew by her, gone like a shot down the path and out the gate.

  They raced to the street and to the car, jumped in, and slammed the doors behind them. Jenny fumbled with the key, then pushed her foot on the gas and took off as fast as she could go.

  Zoe, in the seat beside her, waved her hand to go faster, then waved again, all the while looking in the rearview mirror as if something was running after them, coming up the road.

  Chapter 5

  Back home, they carried the new printer into Zoe’s office and set it up without a single word passing between them.

  Jenny hurried to her mother’s house with the list of the books they’d bought for Emily in her hand. By now she felt a tiny bit of pride—as she did whenever she stood up to fear. Or almost did. A whole life of avoiding that house and now she’d been on the porch. That was something to feel good about. Maybe not the ungraceful exit, but at least she’d gone through that gate. She would never be as brave as her sister, of course. Lisa the Good wasn’t afraid of anything. Lisa the Good didn’t mind the places where old, bent people answered the door on Halloween and dropped ancient suckers into their pumpkin-shaped baskets with shaky hands. Lisa the Good always had a sweet word for everybody—didn’t matter who. No discrimination, Jenny thought sourly as she walked to the kitchen.

  Dora wanted to know which books they’d bought and looked a little skeptical. “Sounds as if they might be too modern.”

  Jenny waved the idea away. “If Emily’s any kind of poet, she’ll want to know what poets are writing now.”

  Dora conceded slowly. “If you say so, Jenny. I only hope she takes the gift in the spirit in which we meant it.” She started the dinner, talking from time to time under her breath, but saying no more to Jenny.

  That evening, sitting on the porch, there was an underground hint of what lay ahead of them in the small snakes of cooling air that wrapped around Jenny’s feet. The maples lining Elderberry Street were already tinged with yellows and reds. Jenny thought about going over to Lake Michigan in the morning and taking a long, hard swim before the water got too cold. She thought about calling Tony to see if he wanted to come along. She’d decided not to tell him she’d seen him on his way to town. She didn’t want trouble. What she hoped for was a pleasant, quiet day. And after all, he could have been out for so many different reasons. Maybe a friend had called. Maybe he forgot to pay a bill—nope, not on Sunday. Maybe somebody in Traverse wanted a library house.

  “I’ll be working at home all day, Jenny. Sorry.” A blatant lie.

  No hold on him, she grumbled to herself, but the words were boulders dropping around her. There was a certain weight to them that felt too heavy and cold to hold.

  She decided to forget it. But she would watch—she wasn’t a fool. She would watch and see where things between them went next. Keep your eyes open, she warned herself. Keep your eyes open.

  Later, Zoe and her flashlight coming through the pines was a welcomed distraction. Zoe climbed the front stairs with her usual grunt at every step, came through the screen door, and settled with a huge sigh into a rocking chair. Jenny was happy to have her friend there and shook off her anger at Tony for the moment.

  Dora heard Zoe talking and came out of the house with a bottle of wine to celebrate Zoe finishing the edits to her new book.

  “Didn’t finish, Dora,” Zoe said to a slightly embarrassed Dora. “But let’s celebrate anyway—like an unbirthday. Everybody should celebrate unbirthdays, don’t you think? And almost finishing manuscripts?”

  She drank deeply from a glass of the very good Pinot Grigio, then looked toward Jenny out of the corner of her eye.

  When Dora went back into the house, she asked, “You call Tony and ask him what he was doing driving into Traverse City when he was supposed to be at home?”

  “Nope.”

  “You call him and tell him you know he was lying?”

  “Nope.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sounds dumb. That guy likes you and you know it.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “So you’re just going to stew about it.”

  “I’m not stewing.”

  “Okay, so, you’re hot under the collar. Boiling mad. Stick a carrot in it and you’ve got a stew.”

  “You’re ridiculous . . .”

  Dora was back with napkins and shook her head at the two scrunched up in their big chairs. “You act like sisters.”

  She poured more wine. “I was always yelling at Jenny and Lisa for bickering. But then those days went so fast.” Dora sighed. “Now let’s lift our glasses and toast to Zoe’s fine literary endeavor. And by the way, we’ll also toast to the award you won in New York last month and . . .
well . . . anybody think of anything else we should toast to?”

  “Your friend, Emily Sutton. For coming out of her literary closet.” Zoe lifted her glass and started to drink but was interrupted by Jenny.

  “And my sister, Lisa, who finished her documentary. I hope she comes home soon. I miss her.”

  “And let’s not forget you, Jenny.” Zoe lifted her glass one more time. “For divorcing that crazy person you were married to and coming home.”

  “He divorced me, Zoe. Makes a difference. I can’t drink to that.”

  “Now, Now. You did see the value of his decision, Jenny.”

  “His decision was based on his testicles, which I base no value on at all.”

  “He wanted you back, remember?”

  Jenny frowned. “To help him get his office open again. I don’t think that qualified as a declaration of undying love.”

  Zoe clucked. “I’m drinking.”

  The wine glasses were refilled. The bottle was empty. The three sat rocking faster and faster until they were in a race, which was finally stopped by Dora, who was out of breath and laughing.

  Zoe sang: “‘A very merry unbirthday to me, to me. A very merry unbirthday to you.’”

  Jenny muttered under her breath that little people should watch how much they drank since the wine didn’t have as far to go.

  Dora, in a deep voice, began to quote random lines of verse about the horrors of drink:

  If you drink too much

  A drunkard you will be . . .

  * * *

  Zoe was the first to see the light coming up the street. There was a dance of flashes cutting the dark into circles and squares and triangles. It continued on, passing in front of Zoe’s house, the light running over her manicured flowerbeds, then over the fairy houses. Diving moths danced shadows through the light.

  “Is that her?” Dora sat forward, whispering. Her hands clutched the arm of her chair.

  The light stopped in front of the Little Libraries. They heard one of the lids open.

  The three of them stiffened. They made no movement for fear of frightening the figure off again.

  The light swept the street—up one way, down the other. And then it flashed over them, frozen in place behind the screening, in their row of still rockers.

  The dark figure behind the light took a step forward, then another, and was soon coming toward them, up the walk.

  Jenny felt like a bug, caught in the bright beam shining directly into her eyes. She threw her hands up to deflect the light.

  Fida sat up, barking shrilly until Zoe snapped her on the nose.

  “Good evening,” Dora called and struggled from her chair to the door, pushing it open. “Come on up. We’re just sitting here enjoying this fine evening.”

  “No. I shouldn’t. I . . . can’t . . . Oh, dear. I’m not good at things like this.”

  “Things like what?” Dora bent down toward her, as if to appear smaller and of no threat.

  “Oh, you see . . .” The dark figure turned from side to side as if wanting to run, then came up one step. “I’m Emily Sutton, from Thimbleberry Street. You don’t know me but . . . I need . . .”

  “And I’m Dora Weston. My daughter, Jenny, is here with me. As is our neighbor, Zoe Zola—a fine writer, just like you.”

  “You do know who I am?”

  “Of course. I’ve always loved your poetry.”

  “I’m . . . overwhelmed.” Her voice cracked on the words.

  The flashlight shook as the woman joined them on the porch. After a long time she spoke again.

  “I came to thank you for the books, Dora Weston. What marvelous minds you’ve given me. Is there a special way, do you imagine, to thank someone for the gift of majestic words?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I was a little worried. They are very modern writers.”

  “But a poet’s mind is timeless, dear Dora.”

  The small woman, with light from inside the house shining on one side of her plain face, waved a hand then turned to Jenny and Zoe. “I think I might need your help. I don’t know where to go or whom to ask. I tried to get to the door today only to see you pulling off down the road.”

  Remembering their awkward escape, Jenny slid down in her chair.

  Zoe’s face drew into an embarrassed frown.

  Dora invited Emily Sutton to sit with them.

  Emily Sutton perched at the edge of a rocker, looking uneasy and ready to run. At first they spoke of the weather and of the cold to come, waiting until the poet relaxed back in her seat and turned to smile at each woman again and again, as if having stumbled on rare and fantastic creatures.

  Jenny finally dared to look directly at Emily Sutton. She was small but somehow looked strong. Her smile came with a dip of her head as if it was only for her—an inward smile. When she initially spoke, her voice had been very low—almost a whisper—and then, with time, she grew loud enough to hear. Now she turned to each of them and smiled as if enjoying herself. Her eyes were enormous globes absorbing the light. She turned from curious face to curious face.

  “I don’t know . . . I haven’t been anywhere in many years. I don’t usually see people.”

  “You’re here now. We’d like to help.”

  “I’m glad of that. I’m truly appreciative. You see, my sister Lorna’s disappeared and something’s happened to my cousin, Althea.”

  “That’s terrible. You poor thing.” Dora planted her feet solidly to the floor. “Whatever is going on?”

  “It’s a terrible thing.”

  “Where did your sister go?” Jenny felt timid even talking to the woman. It seemed intrusive to step into a place where Zoe’s fairies would be more at home.

  In the near dark of the porch, with light streaming from the house behind them, Jenny felt the woman’s large eyes turn to her with a probing, even searching, look.

  “There was a man.” The voice wasn’t weak now, only far away. “He came and she packed a bag. Lorna left with him.”

  “And your cousin?” Zoe spoke up. “Where has she gone?”

  Emily lifted her shoulders high then shrugged.

  “You should call the police.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do a thing like that. Imagine men in uniform in my house. There’s been no one there since . . . well . . . when we were a family.”

  “You’re completely alone?” Dora’s voice was sympathetic.

  “Yes.” The woman melted back into her chair. The toes of her dark shoes barely touched the ground. She took three deep breaths. “My mother left us. Went away like Lorna. Althea came from Traverse City with my groceries. Like clockwork every week. I don’t know what’s happened. I’ve called and called but she doesn’t answer her phone. So you see, I have no one left in my miniscule world. The house is nothing but echoes and shadows, and soon I’ll be out of food. I don’t shop. I don’t go to the bank. I don’t look for clothes. I don’t do anything a woman should do.” She moved self-consciously in her chair. “But I never imagined I’d be left alone. Your kindness touched me—with the books. You needn’t have done so much. I only wanted to bring a few of my poems to share with your readers. I thought . . . well, I thought maybe, if I offered my words, you might think me deserving of your concern.”

  “Why don’t we all go inside, Miss Sutton?”

  “Emily.”

  “I’ll make us a cup of tea, Emily.” Dora got up and led the way into the house, with Emily Sutton following reluctantly. Jenny pretended her head wasn’t doing a silly little spin from too much wine. Zoe followed, unhappy that her nose was itching and things buzzed through her brain that she didn’t want to pay attention to.

  The woman put her hands up to cover her eyes when Dora snapped on the overhead kitchen light. She shook her head and pointed to her face. “The light’s so strong. I don’t live with such harsh light.”

  Jenny jumped up to dim the overhead fixture, then sat down, transfixed by this apparition. The woman wore a cult-like gingham
bonnet, twisted strings hanging down the front of her plain cotton dress, mother-of-pearl buttons incorrectly buttoned. Her shoes were black oxfords. On one, the dark laces were untied. She wore grayed anklets. She was pale, her very plain face almost blank. Her hair, sticking out everywhere under the bonnet, was a deep, unnatural red.

  When she looked up at them, her bulging eyes moved from one face to another—not unkindly—but avidly taking in each woman and assessing her.

  She licked at her lips, then pulled her tongue back into her mouth as if it were a secret she didn’t want to share. “You are kind.” She took the cup Dora offered, but shook her head at anything more.

  “I shouldn’t,” she kept saying as she looked around Dora’s large yellow kitchen, white sheers draped across the large window to the backyard, framed photos of spices hanging along the walls.

  “What a pretty home you have, Dora Weston.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Lorna knew who you were. She’s the one told me about the library box and, though she didn’t want me wandering out alone, she agreed I might put a few of my poems in it one day. I don’t want to be forgotten, you see.” Emily set her cup down. “I see you have two boxes now. I hope I’ve used the right one. I’ll stop, if you think I shouldn’t leave the poems for fear children might find them.”

  “I don’t think the children will mind,” Dora hurried to assure her.

  “And how can we help you, Miss Sutton?” Jenny bent toward her, feeling the need for sleep, but too entranced by this fey woman to leave.

  “Oh, no, call me Emily. Like bees and butterflies, I prefer being called by my given name: Emily. An Emily. A hive of Emilys. A flock. A murder. A rainbow of butterflies—a rainbow of Emilys.” She smiled playfully.

  “I’m not asking for charity. I have money,” she went on. “I get a government check each month. My mother arranged it all. What I need most is someone to go to the market for me. Maybe an errand or two. Althea did all that, except paying the bills. The bank manager takes care of that.”

  “Jenny and I could go into town to check on your cousin.” Zoe finally spoke, her voice too loud, making Emily wince. “Maybe she’s been sick.”