The Garden House

by Linda Mahkovec

  Paula lifted the extra slices of cake and handed them to Miranda. “Don’t forget these.”

  “Thanks. If Ben calls me tonight, I’ll save it for him. If he doesn’t, it’s all mine.”

  Paula laughed and walked Miranda to the front door. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She went to the kitchen and came back with an envelope. “A letter for William came to our address. Looks like it’s from his school. Here you go.”

  Paula’s cell phone rang and she glanced at the number. “It’s Derek.”

  “Tell him hello. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Miranda waved goodbye as Paula answered the phone and then closed her door.

  Miranda cut through Paula’s yard, admiring the purple clematis bordering the driveway. She hoped hers would grow as thick with blooms. As she crossed into her yard, she glanced down at the letter – and stopped in her tracks: William J. Priestly. “Jasper,” she whispered. “I knew it!”

  Her heart began to beat faster and she hurried to her front door. She looked around before unlocking it, stepped inside, and closed the door. She set the plates of cake and the letter on the table thinking that if the middle initial stood for Jasper, then he would have heard her paging him at the pool.

  She walked to the living room window, and peered down at the garden house. It was still dark. He was out later than usual.

  The phone rang causing Miranda to jump. She ran to the kitchen, relieved to hear Ben. But it was a bad connection and his voice kept breaking.

  “Ben, what exactly did Doug tell you about – ” She raised her voice, trying to make herself clear. “No, I was over at Paula’s. Paula’s! Yes. What did Doug say about – ” but they kept talking over each other, catching only fragments, and then she lost the connection.

  She tried to call him back a few times but the calls didn’t go through. She hung up the phone in frustration.

  Miranda took a quick bath, and then curled up on the living room couch to read. After a while, she realized that she had read the same page at least three times. She set the book down, knowing she would have a hard time sleeping after the chocolate cake and two cups of coffee. She forced herself to read a couple more pages, and shut the book when she heard a car door slam down below.

  She turned off the lamp, and went to the living room window. Standing in the darkness, she parted the curtains and saw that William had again parked his car behind the garden house. A light went on inside. She could see him pass the lighted window.

  She stood watching for several minutes, wondering if she was making herself crazy with all her suspicions. Yet some stubborn part of her kept asking – what if? What if I am right? Or partly right? What was he doing down there?

  The deck would give her a better view, she decided. She silently slid open the door, stepped outside in her nightgown and bare feet, and then walked to the railing where she could see the garden house. The light was still on, and the shade was up on the window facing the house.

  She would try to get a little closer. Put her mind at rest. And then go to bed.

  Slowly, she walked down the paving stones that sloped to the garden house. At the bottom she stopped, feeling a twinge of guilt at what she was doing – spying. She wavered for a moment. What would Ben say? She groaned and started to return to the deck.

  But after three steps she turned around, and crept closer to the garden house, thinking, I don’t care what Ben thinks – I need to know. Careful not to make a sound, she tiptoed towards the lighted window, noticing that it was cracked open. Bit by bit, she inched forward until she was able to catch a glimpse inside.

  William was at his computer, his back to her. So, apparently he was alone. She watched him for a few moments, trying to make out what was on the screen. She took a step closer and squinted – they looked like photos of women and, she leaned forward, squinting harder – girls? She couldn’t be sure.

  She jumped when William suddenly scooted his chair back. Miranda held her breath.

  He stood and ran his hand through his hair. Then he went to the suitcase, unlocked it, opened it, and lifted something out. His back was to her, but when he slowly turned, Miranda realized, with a loud gasp, that he was holding a doll.

  He jerked his head to the window.

  Miranda stepped back and covered her mouth. She watched his reflection in the window; he cocked his head as if listening. Then he moved towards the front door.

  Miranda dashed back in the direction of the deck, and crouched behind the rhododendrons, making herself as small as possible. With both hands covering her mouth, she sat utterly motionless, cursing the fact that her nightgown was white.

  Had he heard her? Would he come outside to investigate?

  She heard the front door open, and footsteps on the porch.

  “Hello?” William called out. “Is anyone there?”

  Remaining absolutely still, afraid to breathe, Miranda waited until she heard him go back inside and close the door. When she saw the shade being pulled down, she fled across the flagstones, up the steps to the deck, and back inside her house.

  With trembling hands, she locked the door. She went back to the living room window and peered through the parted curtain. She could see movement behind the lighted shade in the garden house.

  She narrowed her eyes, all her suspicions falling into place. “You sneaky, conniving pervert!” she said softly. “I don’t know what you’re up to. But I’m going to nail you.”

  Chapter 10

  Miranda remained vigilantly awake through most of the night, and didn’t fall asleep until almost morning. The darkness of the day caused her to sleep much later than usual, yet when she awoke, she still felt groggy, her thinking all fuzzy.

  She looked out her bedroom window and saw William’s car parked behind the garden house. She tried to detect whether there was any movement inside, but it seemed still. Above the garden house, the sky hung heavy and gray, threatening rain.

  After dressing, she went downstairs to make a cup of coffee, hoping it would help her to think more clearly. While the water boiled, she placed an English muffin in the toaster, and took out the butter and jam. Deep in thought, she jumped when the toaster popped up. She felt as if hands were pulling at her, poking at her, trying to get her attention from all sides. What? she wanted to ask. What is it I’m supposed to do? To know?

  She leaned against the counter and ate her breakfast, going over what she had seen last night. Had she overreacted? No. This time, even in the light of morning, her suspicions were strong.

  And yet part of her remained mired in doubt.

  What had she really seen? There was no proof of anything. But something was not right. No grown man carries around a doll, unless he’s up to something. What if he was using it as a lure? And what had he been doing at the pool? Outside the daycare? Why did he look so guilty when she asked him about the cries at night? No. She couldn’t let this go. He was a tenant in their house, and that made her responsible.

  She stood up straight in resolve. And then slumped back into indecision. What could she do? Watch and observe him? Let him know that she was on to him? He already knew that, she was sure. When Ben returned, she would discuss it with him, and make him understand. She tried his cell phone again, and then dialed Sam’s number. No reception.

  She filled her time doing laundry, cleaning, tending to the house plants – and checking on the garden house every couple of minutes to see if William was still there. With the impending rain, she knew he wouldn’t go walking. She glanced at the clock. He often left in the morning and didn’t return until evening – but it was mid-day and his car was still there.

  She felt she would go stir crazy if she spent the whole day checking on him. She grabbed her keys and decided to get out. She would run to the store, pick up a few things. Maybe she would call Paula when she got back and invite her and Derek to dinner. This was one day she didn’t want to be alone.

  While she shopped, she tried to call Ben, but the calls didn’t go through. She considered calling C
lara or Michael, but she didn’t want to worry them. And what would she tell them? No, the best thing was to wait for Ben to return.

  Back home, she began to put the groceries away, and reached for the phone to call Paula. A loud rap at the front door startled her. She glanced out the window at the garden house and saw that William had not yet left. Had she locked the door?

  Hesitantly, she went to the front door. Then lifting the phone to her ear, she pretended to be in the middle of a conversation, and opened the door.

  Paula stood there, smiling. “Hi, Miranda. We decided to head up to Vancouver for a few days. Check out a couple of antique stores and flea markets.”

  “Oh,” said Miranda. She realized she was staring at Paula with a look of alarm. “Sorry – I was just thinking of…” She waved the phone, and smiled. “That’s great!”

  “Spur of the moment, but those trips are always the best. My sister and her husband are going to meet us there. Just thought I’d let you know.”

  “Sounds like fun. I’ll keep an eye on the house.” She walked out to the driveway with Paula and waved over at Derek, who was putting a suitcase in the car.

  “We’re hoping to make it there before the rain begins. You might want to bring in some of the potted flowers. We’re supposed to get quite a storm.”

  Miranda glanced up at the sky. “Yes. I think I will.”

  From across the way, Derek tooted the horn.

  “I’m coming!” Paula shouted to him. “See you later, Miranda.”

  “Have a good time!” She walked to the edge of the yard and watched them leave.

  Then she went back inside and locked the door. All the vegetables she had bought were set out on the counter; she would go ahead and bake the lasagna she had intended for Paula and Derek. Keep busy. As she cooked, she tried Ben’s cell phone again, and looked out the living room window. William’s car was still there.

  By late afternoon, the sky was growing darker and the wind was picking up. They so rarely had real thunderstorms. But now there was no doubt; a real storm was building. She looked out at the garden, and worried about the willowy delphiniums and lilies. They would have to be tied, and the tallest flowers staked.

  Once the lasagna was out of the oven and cooling, she went outside to take care of her garden. A few drops of rain began to fall as she secured the delicate plants in the upper garden. Then she went back inside and stepped out onto the deck. She placed the potted plants and hanging baskets against the house.

  Tentatively, she moved to the railing and peered down at the garden house. Was William not going out? He went out every day. She began to wonder what it meant. Had he known that she was spying on him last night? She rolled up the table umbrella, and brought the cushions from the chairs inside, then locked the door.

  After pacing about the kitchen, she decided to work on the mosaic. She took out the bag of china pieces, dumped them on the kitchen table, and began filing some of the edges and setting them aside.

  It was early evening when she finally heard a car door slam. She ran to the living room window and saw that William was leaving. Thank God! She let out a deep sigh of relief as he drove off, and realized that she had been holding her breath all day.

  Feeling less tense, she made a cup of tea and sat back at the kitchen table. She spread out the mosaic pieces, separating them by color – shades of faded blue, green, and rose – and began to play around with different combinations. But no image or pattern came to her.

  Though she tried to concentrate, her mind was all over the place. Maybe the doll was just a gift for someone back East. But it didn’t look new. And why was he so furtive about it? What adult gets out a doll late at night?

  Something was not right. The feeling of unease that had been with her for weeks – ever since William arrived, she now had to admit – was heightened, urgent. That tapping on the shoulder to pay attention, was now a prod, a push to get out of her head and do something about it. Take some action.

  Just then her eyes rested on William’s letter. She briefly considered opening it, but decided against it. He wouldn’t risk anything incriminating in a letter addressed to the house. Still, she reached for it and examined it closely; it appeared to be of an academic nature. Should she deliver it? No. She pushed it aside, but kept eyeing it now and then. Don’t even think about going down there, she told herself.

  She shifted the mosaic pieces around, drumming her fingers. Then she stood up, and took the key from the kitchen shelf. William would be gone for at least a few hours. And she was just delivering his mail, after all. And the cake from Paula. All very plausible. She would just take a look around, make sure everything was all right, and call it quits. Nothing wrong with that.

  She headed down the flagstone steps, sheltering the plate and letter from the raindrops and wind. Decisive action was always better than inaction, she thought. She felt stronger, more in control. It was better to get to the bottom of things, rather than sitting there imagining the worst.

  Miranda stepped onto the low porch of the garden house, and even though she knew no one would answer, she knocked loudly.

  After a moment, she tried the door and found that it was open. Did William not lock the door? Or did he keep it open in the daytime? She stepped inside, calling out in an overly cheerful voice, “Hello?”

  She waited a moment, and then moved to the center of the room.

  “Hello? William? Is anybody here?” She stood still and listened. Other than the wind blowing outside, she heard nothing.

  She set the plate and letter on the desk near the computer, listened again, and then went to the door and looked outside. She was about to close the door, but then realized that she wanted it open. And though the evening was growing dark, she decided against turning on the overhead light or the lamp. She didn’t want to call attention to herself, and she would only be there a minute.

  She went back to the desk and picked up some folders. Beneath them was a cell phone. Had William forgotten it? Did he have two? She sifted through the folders. Notes for different projects, a drafted syllabus. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  In the waste basket next to the desk, she noticed some crumbled papers. She lifted them out, spread them open, and tried to smooth them. They were lists of addresses, some of them circled, others crossed out. Most were relatively close to the neighborhood, though others were much farther away in Bellingham and Redmond. She was sure they were home addresses, not businesses. What did they mean? Again, she had the feeling that something was not right. She opened the desk drawers, but except for a few pens and paper clips, they were empty.

  Next to the bed she saw the suitcase. Overcoming her revulsion, she lifted it and placed it on the desk. She tried to open it, but it was locked. She drummed her fingers on the desk, and then turned in a slow circle, observing the objects in the garden house. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, she thought.

  She walked to the back and glanced into the bathroom and behind the shower curtain, and then looked around the kitchen. Then she opened the door to the back, walked out onto the gravel where the car had been parked. She bent over and examined the dirt, the clumps of flowers, the threshold, the door itself. Nothing.

  Then she went back inside and stood in the center of the main room. The light was fading now and casting the wall of cupboards in a shadowy gray. She shivered as she realized how similar they were to the ones in her dreams. She closed her eyes to better focus on the feeling from the room – and snapped them back open, flooded with a sense of the little boy in her dreams. Her nerves tingled with the sensation of entrapment and fear.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  Silence.

  She walked up to the cupboards and paused before the largest one. Then she slowly opened it. There were the kids’ skis and a large basket holding their lacrosse things. Why was she doing this? She knew what was in each of these cupboards. She and Clara had organized them just a couple of months ago. And yet she opened one after another. The
re was Michael’s tent and camping gear. She opened each cupboard, finding it all as she had left it. Nothing had been disturbed.

  She was just about to leave when she noticed the ladder-like steps leading up to the loft. She blinked at them a few times, wishing she had brought her cell phone. See it through, she told herself.

  She moved to the steep steps, grasped the railing, and began to climb, one step after another, each one squeaking as she placed her foot on it. It had been a while since she had been up there. On reaching the top, she peered over; and breathed a sigh of relief. There was the futon on the floor. A small dresser. Nothing else.

  Then she looked at the wall to the left, where a storage area had been built, a low closet that sloped with the roof. She and Clara had forgotten about it. She tried to remember when they had last used it. Should she wait for Ben?

  She hesitated a moment, then climbed onto the loft floor, and had to stoop over in the hot, close space. There was a small lamp by the bed that she tried to switch on. She turned the knob again and again, before accepting that the bulb was burned out.

  Her heart pounded as she walked over to the cupboard, and she could feel the pulse beating in her neck. A tiny trickle of sweat rolled down her back.

  “Hello?” she asked, her voice small and weak.

  She made herself move over to the wall, and stooped even more to open the low door. Her hand shook as she placed it around the handle. Holding her breath, she opened the door, and peered into the darkness.

  Gradually, the shapes became recognizable: stacked boxes, board games. There was Clara’s old dollhouse behind the boxes. She ran her hand over the boxes and examined the dust on her fingertips. Nothing had been moved here for a long time. With a deep release of breath, she closed the door. She climbed back down the steps, her hand sweaty as she held on to the railing.

  When she reached the floor, she realized she was still trembling. Her stomach was fluttering in nausea at the vague images she had feared to find. Her hand went to her stomach, pressing it, as if trying to quell the fear. What had she expected really?