The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  Of course, looking back, there were warning signs. Flickers of who she was hiding, what they were hiding. I just didn’t want to see. Maybe I didn’t want the fantasy world I’d created to disappear. Maybe I wanted to keep believing their love story was perfect, would be my comfortable company for my final years. Maybe I hoped it would remind me of my own early love story, of that swooning feeling, of those first-kiss moments. Maybe I just missed him, and I was soothing that pain by watching them.

  Whatever it was, I know this – things are changing.

  They’re changing.

  They’re breaking.

  I think it started as tiny cracks, almost unnoticeable signals of them coming undone. The angry gesture on the front porch over some argument I couldn’t hear, smoothed over by a kiss on the cheek and what looked like an apology. Abandoned dinner one night in the kitchen, a screaming match ensuing as she stormed out … followed by a sweet, tender embrace at breakfast the next morning.

  I thought they were running their course, fighting like couples do. I thought maybe the honeymoon years were just wearing off because we all know they do wear off.

  I thought they were okay. Maybe they thought that too.

  But as the weeks go on, I realise something I hadn’t before.

  Something’s not right. Something’s not right at all. In fact, something’s so grotesquely wrong and hideously tainted, I don’t know if there will be any turning back.

  Things haven’t been right for a while now, I’m starting to realise. Behind that bubbly smile, that sunshine yellow, she’s not perfect. Not even close.

  Why with all bright stories is there a monster, unseen, that festers beneath the boiling surface?

  As the weather gets colder, the frost settling in, it’s clear that maybe I didn’t really know my neighbour from 312 Bristol Lane at all.

  Clearly, clearly the broken mug, the breakdowns, the unwarranted tears – none of it was a dream at all. It was only the beginning of what was to come.

  * * *

  A thin blanket of snow smooths itself over the front lawn, over the road, over the steps of their place. I stroke Amos, wrapping the thicker blanket around the both of us as we rock, staring out the window. I can feel the cold air streaming from the window, thinking about how an inspector would probably say this old window should be replaced.

  But I don’t want to replace it. It feels … special. I’ve spent so many hours here, right here with it. There’s nothing wrong with the old sometimes. The new isn’t always better.

  With the cold weather settling in, I’ve been seeing less and less of the couple from 312 Bristol Lane. It seems like a routine has established itself.

  Every morning, he leaves for work in their car, a tie straight as can be, a briefcase in his hand. She doesn’t walk him to the door. She doesn’t kiss him goodbye anymore.

  At exactly 5.01 p.m., the car pulls in, he gets out and the door slams.

  Around 6.00 p.m., dinner is placed on the dining room table.

  There’s no dancing. They sit across from each other, at either end of the table, the silence between them discernible from over here.

  I want to scream.

  What are they doing? Where are the dancing, kissing, smiling days? What happened to them? How did things change so much? I wish I knew what was happening so I could help, but something is very wrong. There’s been a continental shift.

  Not just with them. With us too.

  Jane hasn’t been over in weeks, probably a month. Has it really been a month? It’s hard to tell. I lose track of time. But I know it’s been a while, and I’m worried.

  At first, I thought I did something to make her mad. I thought maybe she was upset over the broken mug or about how I handled it. I thought perhaps there was more than I understood. That I’d said something that I forgot. I racked my brain over and over, trying to pull back our conversations, trying to analyse every minute detail for the misstep.

  I came up empty-handed.

  I considered calling their phone, but I didn’t want to be a bother. Plus, I don’t even have their number. I told myself they were just busy. She was probably doing some organising or in the middle of a sewing project or whatever housewives did these days. Maybe she was painting a room, perhaps a nursery. Maybe they were expecting after all.

  Still, it’s been a long time. I haven’t really seen much of her, not during the day, even though I’ve been watching the house. I see her every now and then, but not as much as usual. What is she doing in that house? She never leaves. I’ve watched and watched obsessively so I didn’t miss it. I know, though, she hasn’t left that place. It’s worrisome, frighteningly so. It doesn’t do to be cooped up. I’m one to know. A girl that age needs friends, needs to be social. I want to see her smile. I want to talk to her about soap operas and pie and all sorts of things.

  I miss her, the smiling, sunshine-yellow her. But what can I do about it?

  What an excuse. I’m old, but I’m still alive. I can do something, surely. So I decide to take things into my own hands.

  I just came home from the store, another trip out into the world to remind me why being cooped up isn’t so bad. I made it, though, the bagger boy helping me this time. The lanky one, the suspicious one. I was forced to go through that awful woman’s checkout lane again since she was the only one open. She is still claiming the other bagger boy was never there. It makes me suspicious. I hope nothing bad happened to him. I hope he’s okay.

  I don’t like the lanky bag boy. I kept one eye on him at all times. Who knows what kind of crazy thoughts are whirling in the head of a boy like that? He has dark eyes, eyes I don’t trust. I clutched my purse close as he loaded the bags in my car. I hadn’t really wanted help out to my car, but the devil at checkout lane three insisted. Probably a scam to steal money from me or to cover her tracks over the missing bagger boy. He’ll probably show up on a milk carton next month – do they still put missing children on milk cartons? I don’t even know.

  Maybe the lady at checkout three was just trying to be helpful. I looked a little frazzled today. I feel it. Still, people are rarely invested in anything outside of their own interests, so I’m wary. She’s not getting one over on me, though.

  Anyway, I’m back now and I carefully unpack the ingredients for a rhubarb pie, her favourite. My favourite too.

  It has been so long since my hands have made a pie by themselves. I don’t really know if I can do it but I need to try.

  It takes me a lot of time just to get started, let alone to make the thing. I sit down every fifteen minutes or so to take a break, my breath raspy to the point of concern. But I’m nothing if not tenacious. My husband used to say I was stubborn. Maybe that stubbornness pays off sometimes.

  In considering it, I realise I’m stubborn as a mule – that’s what he used to say in our early days when we used to joke around a lot. He thought it was cute then. Stubborn is good when you’re making a pie, but I’ve learned that stubbornness has its downside, too.

  Amos sits at my feet, watching the oven as the pie cooks. I would lean down to peek at it, to flip the trustworthy oven light and watch the pie bubble up, but it’s hard to stoop down that low. I decide to let the old oven work its magic. You have to trust in some things, after all, and it’s never let me down yet.

  When the timer startles me and I gingerly pull the pie out, my back aching with the effort, I am a little disappointed. It is definitely not the best pie I’ve ever made. It wouldn’t be winning any farm show awards. I consider slamming it into the waste bin or opening up the window and bailing it out for the birds or shredding it with a knife, chopping it into little pieces and feeding it to the garbage disposal. I feel frustrated. Why doesn’t anything work out like it should? After a few deep breaths like I was taught so many years ago and counting to ten, I reconsider. The pie smells okay. And what was that saying about the thought and all that really mattering?

  Whatever it is, I decide the pie will be a good enough gesture. What
ever’s happening with my neighbour – and I am convinced I’m not imagining it – maybe a pie will help. There isn’t much a pie can’t help with. Plus, it’ll be a good excuse for me to get close to the house, to do some snooping and maybe figure some things out. Maybe if I can just peek in the front window, I’ll be able to see into their living room, see what she’s up to.

  As I watch the pie cool, I realise maybe my logic is a little faulty. There are many things, now that I think about it, that a pie cannot fix. Arthritis, a lost cat, diabetes, a hole in a roof – pies really don’t fix all that much, in truth. This pie idea was probably a waste of time.

  But the love that goes into the pie – that could maybe fix a broken person. At least make them feel noticed. Isn’t that half the battle in life, to be noticed? To be appreciated?

  Goodness, now I’m just rambling to myself. Those are the worst moments – when I realise I’m babbling incessantly in my own head. At least I’m not in the habit of talking out loud to myself. At least, I don’t think I am.

  I gather the pie after it cools and haphazardly cover it in foil. I’m a little nervous … the steps to my house are a bit slippery. I’ll have to be careful. It might take me a while to get there, but that’s okay.

  I trudge across the yard, my feet shuffling. I try my best to avoid the icy patches on the front step, in the grass. It’s a dangerous trek, especially with my hands full, and halfway through, I want to give up.

  But I don’t give up, not on tasks like this. Not on tasks everyone says are impossible.

  I’m out of breath when I get to their steps, but I clamber up them. I get to the landing and feel like this was a dumb idea, a wretched, stupid idea. What will I say?

  I’ve been watching and noticed you’re sad? You don’t seem yourself. You don’t visit the old hag next door anymore, so I came to you.

  This was foolish, utterly foolish. I really need to find a hobby. Maybe I should move myself to one of those facilities for old people. Maybe I could take up knitting there. But then I look back at the house, the two-storey. So many memories. Can I really just give that up? That’s even sillier talk. It’s home, like it or not, lonely or not. It will always be home. I can’t escape it.

  What to do now? What if she sees me standing here like a mad old woman? Or worse, what if she’s busy?

  Suddenly, I start to think about all the things she could be doing in there.

  What if she’s having an affair?

  No, that can’t be. I’ve never seen anyone else go in.

  What if she’s doing something illegal?

  Like what? I respond to myself.

  Drugs?

  That seems highly unlikely.

  More likely than not, I’m just being overly imaginative. Overly worrisome. She’s probably just tired of the winter weather. Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she just wants to be lazy. I’ve been through my lazy times in life. I surely can’t judge.

  I realise my fingers are aching with cold now, the joints cracking when I unfurl my left hand from around the pie. The wedding ring that is nestled in its familiar spot stings against my skin, colder than the rest of my hand thanks to the metal. I inhale the frigid air, and it feels sharp against my lungs. I cough a little, my body expelling a freezing breath.

  I wish I were back home, looking out the window. Suddenly, this is all too much effort, and for what? Some woman I don’t really know, a woman who clearly is someone with a few screws loose? I shouldn’t be messing with fire, shouldn’t be poking at it. I guess it’s in my nature to meddle, though.

  I imagine Amos on my rocking chair, looking sadly out the window at me. He’s probably meowing, scratching at the glass, wanting me to come back. That cat does need me. What would he do if something awful happened to me out here? I should be getting back before I slip and fall.

  I can see it now … that’ll cheer her up, when she finds an old woman dead on her doorstep. I picture myself sprawled about on the steps, the snow falling on my back as I rasp for air, broken ribs impeding my breathing. I imagine what it will feel like, my lungs burning, as I take my last breath.

  Talk about having the opposite of my intended effect – not sure a dead body is what she needs to see. So, I decide to do the best I can. I precariously lean down – a task in itself – and put the pie on the stoop. I think about knocking, but I’m so slow, she’d be at the door before I get down the steps. I don’t want to embarrass her. I don’t want to make things awkward. I just simply wanted to do something for a neighbour, to let her know people care. I want to prompt her to reach out, to confide in me. I want to know what’s going on over here. I’m sure she’ll know the pie’s from me; she will. And then, if she wants to talk, she’ll know my arms are open. I imagine her coming over for a cup of tea, filling me in and easing my mind. It’s going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it.

  It’s perfect really, even if the pie is frozen when she finds it.

  It’s the thought, remember?

  Satisfied that I’ve come up with a workable solution, I wipe my hands, a little clapping noise occurring when they brush against each other.

  ‘I’m coming, Amos,’ I proclaim, glancing down the empty cul-de-sac road, finding it empty as usual. No surprise there. It’s always empty. Except for 312 Bristol Lane and me, and a few birds now and then.

  I scuttle back home, treading cautiously over the slick spots. I open the front door and plop on the reclining chair once I’m inside. It was his favourite chair, and now I see why. Even after all these decades, it’s cosy.

  I take a few deep breaths, the cold easing itself out of my body, but not completely. I’m exhausted. I think I’ll take a nap now. There’s no harm in a nap. It’s one of the perks of my current life status – no one can judge me for napping all the time. Plus, after that trek in the bitter cold, I’ve earned it, right?

  I ease the recliner out, my coat still on, and lie back, looking at the ceiling. It isn’t long until my eyes are closed and I feel myself drifting, drifting away. Sometimes I think the drifting part is nice, so nice. I’d like to just keep on drifting, you know?

  Chapter 12

  The first thing I notice is my neck.

  Gosh, it’s killing me. I swear it audibly creaks as I slowly come to, the darkness enveloping me in a way that scares me. Where am I? What am I doing here? It’s so black, so dark. My heart catches a little. It’s too dark.

  It takes me more than a moment to remember. The older you get, the longer it takes.

  That’s right. The pie. Number 312 Bristol Lane. The long walk. The resting on the recliner.

  I slowly sit up, my neck reminding me that sleeping on the chair is never a good idea. I take a deep breath before forcing myself to my aching feet. How long have I been asleep?

  Amos meows at my feet as I stumble to the light switch in the living room and then the one in the kitchen. I flip it on and study the clock on the wall. It’s seven p.m. I don’t even remember what time I sat down on the chair. I don’t really feel rested, though. Just groggy. That walk wasn’t very long. How depressing that a single walk across the street exhausted me like that.

  Suddenly, I worry that I missed everything. I stumble towards the window, ignoring my growling stomach. Their lights are on. I slump into the rocking chair, staring, trying to appraise the situation.

  I don’t see them at the table, but I’ve missed dinnertime. I glance to the porch. It’s really dark and with this angle, I can’t tell if the pie is still there. They must’ve gotten it, taken it in. I’m sure. But I didn’t get a thank you. Maybe she doesn’t know it was from me.

  Then again, maybe I slept through her knocking. Who knows what happened. It’s out of my hands now.

  I still feel like maybe it was pointless. I exhausted myself for nothing … and now I’ve missed so much. What a terrible plan.

  Still, at least I tried. I study the empty room now, worrying and wondering. Where are they? What are they doing? Is she feeling better?

  And that’s when it ha
ppens.

  Like an out-of-control freight train, I see him appear in the window, his hands waving fiercely as he stops by the table, leaning on it. His posture is tense, like he can’t rest. He looks different. I can’t figure it out. He’s yelling, his mouth angry and wide.

  And then she appears. She’s talking – no, she’s screaming with her hands. I can’t make out the words. I try to read her lips, but it’s all happening so, so fast. She’s yelling, articulating with those hands. Her gestures are stabbing and pointed.

  Their voices increase. She stomps towards him, and then she shoves him.

  I cover my mouth, shaking my head. What is she doing?

  At first, I think I’m mistaken. The shove I thought I saw can’t be. That’s not how they do things. That’s not who they are. She’s not like that. Sure, she has her issues, but she’s not a physical person. This isn’t her, not really. Yes, things have been changing, but I still don’t think that’s who they are. This isn’t the woman who makes me tea and chats about soap operas. This isn’t the woman in the sunshine-yellow dress. That’s not her.

  Is it?

  But then it happens again. She shoves him a little harder this time. He’s a small man, some would even call him frail. Sure, he’s bigger than her, but there’s this energy about her that makes her a force. Even from here, the way she rages like a rabid animal is terrifying. I can’t imagine being up close.

  He feels that force. He backs away. It looks like he’s begging her to stop.

  But she’s out of control. Screaming, shrieking, clawing at him. Hitting him now. Punching him. More screams. More shrieks. More wild flailing, slamming him against the wall suddenly and violently throttling him. I bite my lip, feeling so helpless, as my fingers curl around the rocking chair handles. I want her to stop. I want all of this to stop. But what can I do? What can I really do? The devastating reality creeps into my veins, crawls under my skin, and settles in my chest.