The Widow's Walk

by Robert Barclay

  Perhaps he has gone, she thought, and I could go back into the house. But what difference would it make? He is Seaside’s new master, and because of that he is sure to return.

  Although the barn was old, it remained sounder than it appeared. This corner of hers on the second floor was comforting, and she would come here to be alone with her thoughts and memories. Because of the cold, she did not visit here often in the wintertime. But during the summer she spent many hours here.

  Some time ago, when one of Seaside’s previous owners had been away, she had used the opportunity to steal a chair from the house and bring it here, to her secret hideaway. Over time she had also absconded with clothing, which she kept locked up in an old chest, along with some perfume she had also taken. When another of the owners had thrown away his old mattress, in the dead of night she had dragged it to the barn and agonizingly hauled it up the stairs.

  Finally rising from the floor, she dusted herself off and went to lie down upon the tattered mattress. But she could not sleep just now, for her mind was still too shocked and confused about what had happened. The mere idea of it caused such terror in her heart! That encounter had been no dream. It had been quite real, and totally unlike anything she had ever experienced.

  She reached alongside the mattress and looked into a hand mirror that she had also stolen from the house many years ago. Although it was old, its glass remained clear. Seventeen decades had come and gone, yet she hadn’t aged a day. She had neither become ill, nor had she ever required food or water. It was as if she were trapped in time, while all the rest of the world had aged. As she continued to regard her likeness in the mirror, another thought struck her.

  This is the face he saw; the same face that no one else in the world has beheld during my more than 170 years of this awful imprisonment. But how in God’s name had he been able to do so, when in all this time no one else could? Who is he, that he can do such things?

  While trying to make some sense of it all, she put down the mirror and closed her eyes. The man named Garrett who stood in the kitchen doorway last night had actually seen her! But how could this be? And perhaps more importantly, what had caused it to happen? Because she had become so startled during the encounter, her spontaneous reactions had been to scream in panic and flee the house. Later on she realized that there must have indeed been some logical reason for what had happened, but to her further dismay, she still had far more questions than answers.

  Her strange ability to remain unseen and unheard by others had at first seemed a terrible curse. But as she began to grasp the true nature of her situation, she understood that these qualities were in some ways a blessing. They served as a sort of protection, a way in which she could still operate in the world without being discovered. She had long known that should her existence be revealed, her life would never be the same. She would become an object of investigation, never-ending study, and perhaps even derision. And to Constance, that would become a hell far worse than the one she currently endured.

  But now a man named Garrett was able to see and hear her, causing that sense of protection to be vanquished, and it frightened her. Was this the beginning of her salvation, or the start of a new spiral down into some other form of torment?

  She would only learn these things through experience, which meant another encounter with Garrett. But did she dare? And if she did, what would become of her? What sort of man was he? Would he treat her kindly and try to help her? Or would he use the nature of her situation to reveal her to the world and perhaps try to make a fortune? Although she was desperate to learn more, she also knew that whatever action she took, she must proceed with caution.

  She had of course known that for a second time, Seaside had gone into foreclosure. At first that news had broken her heart. But the last owners had been crude people who never appreciated the house for what it truly was. Worst of all, she was forced to stand by and watch them destroy her beloved home.

  Although she knew that it would do no good, she had screamed, wailed, and pleaded with them while they gleefully wrecked Seaside. Each blow from their sledgehammers and every vulgarity they spray painted on the walls had felt like someone was stabbing her. But once her anger had calmed enough to allow some meaningful introspection, she had attributed this violation to the day and age in which she found herself. Despite its many so-called advances, to her the modern world had become a venal and ugly place.

  Deciding to take the gamble, Constance left the barn had and began the walk toward Seaside. It was a lovely autumn morning with a bright blue sky and puffy clouds. Before entering the house she crept down along one side and looked out toward the driveway to find that there were no cars present. Emboldened, she went around to the backside of the house and let herself into the kitchen.

  For several moments she simply stood there listening, but all she heard were the muffled sounds of the sea crashing against the shoreline. She then walked on down the hall, carefully peering into each room. She also did the same on the second floor, again finding that she was apparently alone. Finally relaxing a little, she went back downstairs and into the parlor where Garrett and the other man, named Jay, had stood talking last night.

  She walked over to the table and looked down at Garrett’s floor plans. To her amazement he had labeled each room correctly. From her place in the kitchen last night she had only been able to hear bits and pieces of their conversation, but what she had gleaned from it was that Garrett was the new owner, and Jay was the man responsible for the day-to-day activities of renovating Seaside.

  Just then a rare smile crossed her lips as she thought about the other part of last night, the part about which Garrett did not fully know. Before Garrett had seen her, he had gone to the roof to view the widow’s walk. Summoning up all of her courage, Constance had silently followed him and then hidden in the shadows, watching.

  She had been intrigued by the way he had meticulously inspected the widow’s walk, almost as if he had been some kind of expert. Then the sea breeze had risen and carried the scent of her perfume his way. She watched, almost mischievously, as he detected the scent then turned this way and that, while trying to determine its source. And when his trip to the roof ended, she had silently followed him back downstairs and gone to sit in the kitchen. But never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined what might happen next.

  As Constance again turned her attention toward the floor plans that Garrett had drawn up, she came to a decision. For better or for worse, next time he was in the house she would confront him. She had no doubt that it would be a cathartic experience for each of them, and that Garrett might well think her mad when she told him her story. But she was at last willing to face her destiny, no matter what it might be. As she thought about it, a chill went through her

  When will he return to me? she wondered.

  Chapter 5

  The following Sunday afternoon Garrett was again aboard his motorcycle, this time roaring toward his parents’ house. Whatever troubles he might be suffering always seemed to vanish when he rode, giving him an indescribable sort of freedom that he had never been able to duplicate in any other way.

  Earlier this week, his mother had called and asked him to Sunday dinner. Garrett was hoping to speak to his mother in private, but his younger sister, Christine, and her family would be there too.

  Garrett’s mother was the finest cook that he had ever known, and it was because of her that he could hold his own in the kitchen. He’d packed two bottles of very good wine—one red and one white—inside his motorcycle saddlebags. He smiled as he predicted her horror of transporting wine this way, for she would surely insist that he had bruised it. Downshifting smoothly, he cruised through a yellow light and confidently took the next corner with just the right amount of lean. He then twisted open the throttle and sped up again, the Harley’s twin exhausts trumpeting in his ears.

  Some ten minutes later, Garrett arrived at his parents’ home. This was not the larger house in which he and his siste
r had grown up. On Garrett’s advice his parents had wisely sold that property at the top of the market, then bought a smaller home for cash, pocketing a substantial profit. With the arrival of their twilight years, they were also grateful for the reduced home maintenance. “You don’t own a house,” his father, Dale, was fond of saying. “The house owns you.” Given his huge renovation project that lay ahead, Garrett knew that truer words were never spoken.

  Garrett guided his Harley onto the driveway, then unpacked the wine and let himself into the house. At once the unmistakable aroma of prime rib teased his nostrils.

  “Garrett, that’d better be you!” his mother called out from the kitchen.

  Garrett laughed and went to join her. After putting his wine bottles and sunglasses atop one of the counters, he smiled.

  “It’s me, Mom,” he answered.

  Virginia Prescott stopped nurturing a piecrust and crossed the kitchen to embrace her son. Mixing spoon still in hand, she finally released him and stepped back a bit.

  “Let me look at you,” she said, in that firm but loving way only a mother can master. She smoothed his windblown hair. “You seem a bit thinner. Starving artist syndrome, no doubt. Well, no worries. You’ll certainly get your fill today.” She then looked disappointingly at the wine. “Oh, God,” she said. “Please tell me that you didn’t bring those by way of that horrible mechanical beast you ride.”

  Before answering, Garrett looked at her lovingly. Thanks to her own cooking she was a little rounder than she had been some twenty years ago. Her stylish, rather wayward gray hair was of medium length. Chocolate brown eyes, a full mouth, and a straight, aristocratic nose completed the picture. Garrett had seen earlier photos of his mother, and in her day she had been a knockout.

  After her discharge from the army, Virginia had gone on to complete her Ph.D. in psychology, which had been no small feat while also raising two children. The hundreds of patients she helped over the decades had worshiped her, and many became dismayed when she retired last year.

  Garrett took a Coke from the refrigerator and opened it. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

  “Country club,” Virginia answered while getting back to her pie. “His monthly poker game, you know.”

  Just then Freckles, Dale’s black and white spotted English setter came bounding down the hall and skidded recklessly into the kitchen. Whenever she ran she always seemed to have twice as many legs, all of them flailing about madly in her eagerness. Garrett reached down and tousled her ears.

  “Hey, girl,” he said. “Are they treating you all right?”

  Ever in search of food, Freckles relentlessly snuffled every part of Garrett that she could reach. Finally satisfied that he wasn’t hiding a porterhouse steak anywhere on his person, she ambled across the kitchen where she made several quick, manic circles before finally lying down on her dog bed.

  “Why does she always do that?” Garrett asked absently.

  “The snuffling thing or the little circles thing?” his mother asked.

  “Both.”

  “Since they have to do with eating and sleeping, she probably learned them from your father,” she answered.

  Pausing in her work, Virginia gave Garrett a more serious look.

  “So tell me,” she said, “how is everything out at the mausoleum? Have you started renovating the place yet? And by the way, have you had any serious bites on your condo?”

  From the moment he had first driven his parents out to view Seaside, Virginia had jokingly referred to it as “the mausoleum.” But he also suspected that of all the people in his family, it was she who best understood his motives.

  “Seaside,” Garrett answered.

  “What?” Virginia asked.

  “Seaside,” Garrett repeated. “I discovered that was the name given to the house by its second owners, and I’m going to keep on calling it that.”

  “Okay,” Virginia answered. “So what’s going on with Seaside?”

  Garrett briefly told her of his meeting with Jay Morgan, and that the restoration was to begin soon. As for his condo, he said that he had heard nothing from his Realtor for several days now, and he made a mental note to give her a call.

  “Well,” Virginia said, “if the condo doesn’t sell and you need some financial help, please tell us. The last thing this family needs is a house-poor architect.” She laughed compassionately at that last thought. “God,” she added, “now there’s an ironic concept.”

  Garrett also laughed and then thanked his mother for her kind offer. He loved being here, and it always felt the same—comfortable, forgiving, and safe. Then his expression darkened a bit.

  “So we’re alone in the house?” he asked.

  With precision accuracy, Virginia centered her crust onto a pie dish and carefully trimmed its edges.

  “Just you, me, and Freckles,” she answered. “And I’m pretty sure that we can count on her discretion. Why do you ask?”

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  On sensing Garrett’s needful tone, Virginia turned and raised her eyebrows.

  “As your mother?” she asked, “or as a shrink?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “As a family member, it would usually be unethical for me to formally counsel you,” she said, “but that doesn’t matter much, now that I’m retired.”

  As Garrett sat down at the kitchen table, his mother poured a cup of coffee and joined him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Virginia had already morphed into psychologist mode, her mood impassive, her mind alert, her facial expression neither condemning nor condoning.

  “I had a very strange dream,” Garrett said.

  “Tell me about it,” his mother answered.

  For the next ten minutes, Garrett described his dream. He stopped short of telling his mother about actually seeing the woman at Seaside, for fear of sounding crazy.

  “So you dreamed of a beautiful woman,” Virginia answered. “That in and of itself is not unusual.” She took another sip of coffee, thinking. “The part about her begging you to help her is interesting, though. So too is the way that she was dressed.”

  “What do you think it means?” Garrett asked.

  “Easy there, cowboy,” Virginia replied. “I haven’t heard anywhere near enough yet.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Garrett said.

  Virginia smiled before taking another sip of coffee.

  “Now that your purchase of Seaside is said and done, how do you feel about it?”

  Garrett scowled and leaned back in his chair.

  “Am I supposed to act guilty?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Virginia countered. “But even if you did feel guilty, you went ahead and bought Seaside anyway. I’m not judging you, son. I’m simply asking.”

  Virginia got up from the table and went to warm up her coffee. When she returned, she thought to herself for a few moments before continuing.

  “I don’t know all that much about dream analysis,” she said. “But what I can tell you with certainty is that every dream you’ve ever had, or ever will have, will be a product of your own mind. In most cases, dreams are about subconscious problem solving. In addition, we alone are the actors, the producers, the writers, the directors, and so on. Your mind sensed a problem and tried to solve it.”

  “What problem?”

  “I don’t know,” Virginia answered. “I wasn’t a part of it.”

  “Okay,” Garrett answered. “The woman in my dream was blond, and perhaps the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. And she was begging me to help her. Help her do what? I wonder. Do you think I’ll ever know?”

  “Probably not,” Virginia answered. “Nor may you need to.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ah, men,” she answered. “I keep forgetting that you’re all from Mars, as they say. Clearly, you’re searching for your perfect woman.” Then Virginia smiled again. “You know,” she added, “for a Ph.D., you can be pretty de
nse sometimes.”

  Garrett smiled a little bit. “It’s indigenous to the gender,” he answered.

  “No argument there,” Virginia replied. “And then there’s this business about the way the woman was dressed. What do you suppose that means?”

  “I have no idea,” Garrett answered.

  “Okay, then,” his mother said. “I’ll spell it out for you. You have a great love for antebellum culture—so much so that I have oftentimes thought you would actually be happier living in the past. There’s nothing wrong with that, Garrett. Many perfectly normal people feel that way. As I said before, what your subconscious mind has done is to invent your ‘dream woman,’ so to speak. Plus the added touch of her being in so much distress and literally begging for your help only made her more attractive to you.”

  Garrett’s expression sobered again.

  “It seems that I have some thinking to do.”

  Virginia nodded without smiling.

  “And one more thing about love,” she said earnestly. “As you search for it, there’s something you really need to watch.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t let your heart alone dictate your decisions. That’s far too dangerous. Although they are often at cross purposes, until your heart and your mind agree, you’re still in search of the right woman.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Garrett said.

  She smiled and patted his hand.

  “Anytime, kiddo,” she answered.

  Just then they heard a door open and close.

  “Hello the house!” Garrett’s father called out.

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Virginia shouted back.

  Garrett looked at his mother.

  “You’ll keep this just between us?” he asked quietly.

  Virginia nodded.

  “You bet,” she answered.

  When Dale Richmond entered the kitchen, Freckles bounded up from her languid repose and hurried over to eagerly snuffle every reachable inch of him. After again finding nothing edible, she glumly returned to her bed and expertly performed several more circles before settling down. As if on cue, Garrett and Virginia looked at each other and laughed.