The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  ‘This is perfect,’ he said.

  ‘I have dishes to do,’ I argued.

  ‘They can wait.’ He kissed my cheek, then my forehead and finally my lips. We kissed for a long time, the magic of the first wedded year dancing in our hearts.

  The dishes didn’t get done that night, but it was okay. Instead of chores or responsibilities, we spent the night revelling in the beauty of our love, in our connection and in each other.

  Then, our early dance morphs into another scene, a scene from later in our marriage.

  ‘Dance with me,’ he said, holding out his hand. He started humming the familiar song.

  ‘I can’t,’ I replied, icily, averting my gaze to the ground. Tears formed, burning the inner corners of my mascara-laden eyes.

  ‘Please, honey. Don’t do this. I love you. I know things are tough right now.’

  ‘Tough? You have no idea what tough is. There you are, pretending things are great, but in the meantime, I’m devastated. How can you even suggest we dance, like nothing’s happened? Like nothing’s changed?’

  ‘But, baby, it hasn’t. It doesn’t have to. Just dance with me. I love you. I’ve always loved you and only you.’

  I looked up to see his pleading eyes this time. They sobered me, but the anger wouldn’t let go. I knew it was misplaced. I knew none of it was really his fault, and maybe a piece of me knew I was being slightly insane. He loved me; I knew this.

  But it wasn’t enough. He just wasn’t enough then.

  The hurt and denial intensified. It whirred within me. I tossed my linen napkin on the table, kicked the leg of the wooden heirloom and stormed to the kitchen.

  ‘I need to finish the dishes,’ I bellowed. And with that, the dance never happened, the song left unsung as the stark silence filled the growing void between us.

  * * *

  I open my eyes, tears flowing again. They’re still dancing, the moment not lost.

  ‘Dance with him always. Every time. Don’t let anything stop you,’ I whisper into the darkness, a silent prayer for the couple. If only there had been someone to warn me. If only I had danced when he asked.

  But the ‘if onlys’ can’t change anything. All they do is make an old lady lose her mind a little more, make her lose sight of the good. I’ve got to let it go.

  So, standing, I call for Amos as I trudge up the stairs to slip into my nightclothes and put another evening behind me. Another wedding anniversary is over, and I’ve survived. Sometimes, after all, survival is the best we can hope to achieve.

  Chapter 5

  I’m taking a break from the window today. It doesn’t do an old woman any good to completely absorb herself in another life. My own days may not be exciting anymore, the sparkle of youth long gone, but I need to live them as best I can. I need to get up, move around, do things. I have no choice.

  Well, I suppose there is always a choice. But right now, I think the only choice I can reasonably make is to keep pushing through, like I’ve done for so many years.

  I decide, with a sigh, to do some cleaning today. The house isn’t very dirty, it’s true. When you live alone, there aren’t any people to pick up after, many dishes to wash, many beds to make, or much dirt to clean. There are no lawn clippings tracked in on his shoes to swipe up or coffee cups scattered about to tend to. Life alone is decidedly less messy, although I’m no longer certain that’s something to be happy about. In my younger days, I hated cleaning. I would yell at him for leaving his socks around, for leaving dirty plates on the end table. I was frustrated to no end that no matter what I did, the house was never clean.

  Now, the house is too clean. Other than the dusky smell from age and time passing, other than the stale air from the doors and windows being shut, it’s pretty much the same as it’s been for years. Not a picture is moved, not a new decorative display has been added. What’s the point? In many ways, this draughty house is a mausoleum for the past, so little having been changed in so many decades.

  Still, I feel like I need to do something that seems productive even if it really isn’t. I have nervous energy building, and I need to burn it somehow. I want to get rid of it before it builds up anymore.

  I stumble towards the cleaning closet and stoop to get the duster. My back aches as I lean down, but I try to ignore it.

  Amos meows at my feet as I head towards the living room, ready to crack every piece of dust there is, ready to swipe it all away.

  Twenty minutes later, sweat beads on my forehead. I’ve managed to dust all the pictures and shelves on the left half of the room. I’m huffing a little, out of breath from the stretching and bending. It’s pathetic.

  I take a seat, duster in hand, frustrated with myself. I can’t even do things I hate, like cleaning. There’s so little left I can do, even when I’m feeling up to it.

  I sit, staring at the broken photograph that still lies flat on the mantel. I don’t need to look at it to know the curve of my lips, the lines of his stance. It’s seared into my memory like a scorching flame.

  I think about all the times we fought in this room – about dusting, about him pulling his weight, about all sorts of decisions. I think about his eye rolls that would infuriate me, all the times he tried to tell me to calm down. Sometimes, I savoured the chance to get to him, to push his buttons. Such is marriage, I suppose – annoying each other, getting angry. It’s not all perfect, you know.

  In the middle of my dusting depression, there’s a knock at the door. For a moment, I think maybe I’m hearing things; it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe Amos jumped on the counter or maybe something fell. But no, there’s another gentle rap, rap, rap, and it’s clearly coming from the front door.

  Energised by the possibility of a visitor, which rarely happens, I pick myself up from the couch, tossing the duster to the floor. I’ll retrieve it later.

  ‘Coming,’ I yell in a voice hoarse from age and time. I mindlessly fluff my hair and try to smooth my shirt. I will my feet to shuffle faster.

  In my youth, I used to be afraid to open the door, afraid a serial killer or a burglar would try to weasel his way in. I always made my husband go. In the past couple years, though, I’ve realised two things.

  First, there’s no one else to answer the door now.

  And second, at my age, who cares if it is a burglar or a serial killer? Maybe it would make things interesting. That’s the one good thing about getting old – fear wanes a bit because really, what is there to fear? Death? It’s knocking on my door anyway.

  Not literally, though. Because when I open the door, I smile.

  It’s her: Jane from 312 Bristol Lane.

  ‘Hi there, can I come in?’ she asks. She’s got a delicate scarf wrapped around her neck to keep out the biting chill of the autumn air.

  ‘Of course. I was just doing some pesky housework.’ I extend my hand towards the interior of the house, ushering her in from the brisk air. I’m surprised she’s here, but also excited to have some company. You don’t always realise how lonely you’ve been until the chance to talk to another person arises. I’ve never been one to complain when someone interrupted my cleaning. The rest of the dusting can wait for another day.

  She steps over the threshold, getting ready to kick off her shoes on the rug inside the doorway that masks the hardwood, protecting it from what, I don’t know. ‘You don’t have to take them off, really. It’s fine. Come in. Can I get you some tea?’

  ‘Tea would be lovely. If you show me where it is, I can make it.’

  I want to say no and be a good host. I want to tell her it isn’t a bother, that I can make her tea. But my hands are aching from all the damn dusting, and I’m out of breath. So I smile and nod, leading her slowly to the kitchen.

  Amos meows, rubbing Jane’s legs as she makes a fuss over him.

  ‘You like cats?’ I ask.

  ‘Love them. I’ve always wanted one, but my husband’s allergic.’

  I give a sympathetic nod as I point her towards the tea cupbo
ard. ‘Everything is in there, dear, and the kettle is on the stove.’

  I pull out a chair and have a seat, feeling like a lump on a log sitting here while company makes tea in my own house. Watching her move gracefully, though, her long, slender body stretching to reach the tea and then to fill the kettle with water in the sink, I smile. It feels good to have someone here to care for me, even if it is just a cup of tea. I can’t remember the last time someone ventured in and spent some time with me. It’s been years and years. Who would come to visit, after all? That’s a terribly sad thought, I realise, and decide not to think about it. Instead, I choose to focus on the beauty of the fact I finally do have someone to visit with me and to make me tea. It’s really a lovely thing.

  I study her, realising that the stoic stare the other day must have been in my imagination. How foolish I was to think she was anything but kind and sweet. She’s lovely, inside and out. Looking at her in my kitchen, I can’t imagine anything but warmth radiating from her.

  I shake my head, telling myself I need to get it together. It wouldn’t do to lose my mind at this stage of the game.

  She picks out two teabags.

  ‘Put them in after. You put the teabag in after,’ I say when she tries to put it in the cup first.

  She turns to look at me, wordlessly setting down the teabag.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. No use messing with routine now.

  ‘It’s lovely of you to stop by,’ I say once she’s got the kettle on and has a seat across from me.

  She smiles. ‘Sorry it’s been so long. You know how it is. Busy and all that,’ she says, waving her hand.

  I nod and smile, not wanting to ruin the moment by telling her I have no clue what she’s talking about. Because I don’t these days. Busy for me is having to retrieve the mail from the slot or make a single phone call. Busy isn’t really in my vocabulary anymore, the sleepy pace of life I’ve become accustomed to seeming quite sad.

  But busy was in my vocabulary at one time, so I choose to speak from that point of reference. ‘Life’s so hectic, huh?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Everyone’s right, you know. It flies by. Really does.’

  ‘That’s what they all tell me. Some days, though, with the washing and cooking and all that, it’s kind of hard to believe.’ Her smile, carefully outlined in a gorgeous hue of lipstick, is wide, softening the words.

  ‘I always hated chores. It’s the one bonus of being a lonely old woman – you don’t have to worry about keeping up appearances, you know?’

  She reaches across to pat my hand. I shouldn’t have laid on the lonely part. I don’t want pity. But she smiles. ‘Yeah, well, not many people to keep up appearances for these days. We barely know anyone in this town.’

  I see a hint of sadness in her eyes and wonder what it’s all about.

  Then again, I seem to recognise it. The haze of the honeymoon stage is dulling a bit and the knowledge of wifely duties is setting in for her. It isn’t easy sacrificing your identity to be part of a duo. I get it. I had so many days when I, too, wondered why. What was the point of it all? Was laundry, cooking dinner and sex once in a while really what life had come to? It’s a struggle painted on her face, one I understand even after all these years.

  ‘Don’t you have friends in the area?’ I prod, curious now, wanting to give her a chance to vent.

  She shrugs. ‘Not really. I’m originally from out of the area. I met my husband, we fell in love and, before I knew it, I was packing up my bags and leaving everyone I knew. I didn’t mind. He’s a good enough man. Handsome, good job. It’s just – a little lonely sometimes, you know?’

  ‘I know, dear. But you’ll make friends. Are you working?’

  ‘No. I’m a full-time housewife. Seemed like it made the most sense for us, you know? I’m hoping to have kids soon, start a family.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ I say, a smile taking over.

  ‘How about you, do you have any kids?’ she asks as she stands to tend to the boiling kettle and make our tea.

  I sigh, fidgeting with my ring. Pressure builds in my chest, a pain throbbing. I inhale and exhale, telling myself it’s okay. It isn’t her fault. It’s an innocent question. ‘No, no kids. It was just my husband and me. I’m the only one left now, obviously.’

  She turns, pausing from the tea pouring. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’

  My wedding ring turns slowly in between the fingers of my right hand, spinning round and round as my foot taps. I look up at Jane, though, and am grounded in the fact she didn’t know. How could she?

  I force the fake smile I’ve used so many times to the forefront and reassure her. ‘It’s fine. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret. I’m doing okay, really. I’ve learned to make peace with it.’

  She looks at me, a long look, and I can tell she wants to ask something but is debating. I want to nudge her forward, but I don’t want to be pushy. I get the sense she’s … I don’t know what. But I get this creeping suspicion I need to be careful with her, watch my tongue. I don’t want to push her away. It would be terrible to push her away.

  She turns the conversation now to autumn and Mark’s Mart and the price of strawberries as she brings the tea over. We laugh and talk like two old friends for the next couple of hours, sipping our tea in between laughter and the exchange of stories.

  When she leaves and the house is empty, I realise how much she filled it when she was here. I realise how much I’d missed having friends, having conversation, having connection. Just having someone to sip some weak tea with on a dull afternoon. Someone to give me an excuse to stop dusting for. The time went so quickly with her there. I forget sometimes how having someone to talk to really does make the day go faster. I miss that.

  I also realise she never quite said why she stopped by. It was sort of odd timing, her showing up out of the blue.

  I don’t care, though. Because she can come back anytime. Maybe she’s just lonely too. Maybe she feels the need to do a good deed or do some penance by visiting a clearly isolated old lady. Whatever her reasoning, I hope she comes back, because as I lower myself into the tub very carefully later that night, I note that I feel peaceful for the first time in years.

  And when I crawl under the covers, settling my head onto the lumpy, familiar pillow later, I don’t think about the black emptiness of the room or the cold, empty spot beside me. I simply think about Jane’s smile, her laugh and how much I hope she returns.

  It’s good to have a friend, after all. I’ve always needed a friend, especially now.

  Life is hard. Life isn’t perfect. We all have our regrets, something I know all too well. Sometimes it takes another person to help us overcome those regrets, those feelings, that darkness. And even now, in this stage of my life, I’m surrounded by plenty of dark regrets.

  I could use a friend indeed. Maybe Jane is exactly the person to be just that.

  Chapter 6

  I was seven the first time I realised the world is a lonely place.

  In truth, I should’ve learned it years before that. My perfect place in the world was tainted the day Lucy came into my life. I just didn’t know it at the time. Of course, I’d been too young when she was born to know the difference between right and wrong, just and unjust, loved and not loved.

  When I was seven, though, things became apparently clear: I was no longer important in the family. Or maybe, in truth, I never was.

  We stood on the altar looking out at all the people. My eyes landed on my parents, sitting five pews back. I counted the five rows with pride, double-checking to make sure I’d counted correctly. I’d been working on my numbers, on my counting. My teacher said I was a smart girl. I’d beamed with pride that she’d noticed.

  Lucy stood beside me, her red satin dress shining under the streams of sunlight as the preacher spoke about something I wasn’t listening to. I was too busy watching Mom and Dad. Dad was in his best shirt and slacks, his jacket frayed at the edges but still lookin
g great. Mom was in my favourite dress, the blue one with pink flowers. She looked beautiful, even with her hair swept back.

  We’d been picked along with some other children in the church to perform a song. It was a special moment because I was getting to sing the solo. It was my mom’s favourite song, too: ‘The Old Rugged Cross’. I’d memorised the words. I’d practised over and over. I couldn’t wait for my moment to shine.

  This was going to be my moment. I imagined Mom and Dad beaming with pride, rushing up after the song to hug me, Dad lifting me into the air like he had when I was younger, before Lucy became their sole focus. They’d crowd around me, praising me for a job well done. After church, we’d all gather in the hall and they’d be grinning ear to ear, telling everyone I was their daughter.

  The preacher grew quiet, and I knew it was time. I fidgeted with the skirt on my blue-checked dress. Mom told me the mustard stain on the hem wasn’t noticeable. Still, I tucked the fabric over itself, clutching it with a hand to cover it. I needed everything to be perfect.

  The song began, our Sunday school teacher leading us as we sang the words in our makeshift choir. Lucy sang too loudly, as usual, her voice shrieking out the words. At one point, she stepped in front of me, shoving me over. I shoved her back slightly, knowing my moment to sing was coming up. I needed to be the centre of attention for once. I needed to be in the middle, noticed, for when it was my turn.

  She stepped forward again, right in front of me, and anger bubbled. It was just like her to try to steal the spotlight all the time. In school, at home, when we were baking with Mom – she was always stealing my spotlight. She was always making sure I was shoved to the side.

  Not today, I thought to myself. It was my solo. I needed this moment, had waited for it all week.

  I elbowed her in the ribs, inching forward as the song came to my solo. It was a soft shove, not enough to do any damage but enough to show her where she belonged.

  I opened my mouth to belt out the words, but at that moment, Lucy screamed, falling to the ground, tumbling down the steps of the altar.