Even here, across the way, I can hear crashing, loud yelling and chaos.
I pet Amos as I watch the terrifying sight unfolding around their kitchen table.
She’s frenzied, chasing him around the table like he’s prey, and he’s got his hands up like he’s begging.
There’s no stopping her, though. She’s out of control again, but it feels different. It seems more intense this time, like an irrepressible explosion that simply can’t be tamed. She cannot be controlled, and I wish I knew why. I think he probably wishes that, too.
The disturbing dance continues, round and round their table. She’s gesticulating wildly, her voice harsh and grating even all the way over here. I stroke Amos, my breaths quickening as I watch the struggle, the fight. He throws a chair in her path to stop her, but she comes at him, taking a glass from the table and throwing it across the room. It smashes into the wall behind his head and he yelps.
I don’t know what to do. I’m scared, so scared. I wish someone was here, someone who could help. I want to call the police, but I’m so entranced, so afraid to take my eyes off the scene. Scared that if I even blink, I’m going to miss something vital. As the only witness to this, I feel a need to pay attention, to not miss a beat. Still, how can I just sit here and watch it unfold? How can I let her do this? But then again, what can I do? What can I possibly do?
A single tear trickles down my cheek, warm and wet. It runs onto my lip and the saltiness is surprising. It’s like my senses are heightened. The feeling of Amos between my trembling hands. The taste of the tear, the sound of the screaming.
It feels like I’m here but I’m not, like somehow I’m watching myself sitting here watching them.
The screaming and fighting continue for what seems to be forever. She’s still feverishly waving, and he’s still trying to calm her. And that’s when things change. That’s when the fiend emerges, the side of her I can never unsee.
Looking back on that day, I would say it was the point of no return for the monster – no longer a woman – living at 312 Bristol Lane.
With that choice, she sealed not only her fate, but all of ours.
Chapter 21
I would have missed it if I wasn’t watching so closely. If I had blinked, if I had turned away for a second, I would have missed the crucial piece of the puzzle.
For a moment, she pauses, and I think she’s done. I think she’s calmed down, that his safety is guaranteed. I naively think that we can all breathe and everything will just go back to normal.
But then I see it – her fingers creeping, creeping towards something on the table. It’s beside the plate, and at first I think she might be grasping at the napkin to dry her tears. However, when she picks up her hand, there is a glimmer to the silver object in her hand.
A knife. She’s picked up a knife.
His hands are up now, and he’s backed against the dining room wall.
It’s the dining room where they ate candlelit dinners once, where he asked her to dance. It’s the dining room where they swayed in each other’s arms what seems like a lifetime ago. It’s where they should only have happy memories.
She’s tainted that. She’s ruined that forever. Maybe she’s ruined everything with that single flick of the wrist, with the grasping of her fingers for the object that will never really be put down.
She walks towards him, the knife pointed directly at her target. I can’t be sure, but from here, it seems like she’s smiling, her lips curled up in a sinister expression.
He looks panicked, terror racking his body. He must know she’s not bluffing, and he must know everything’s changed.
She sashays closer and closer to him. His hands are up, his back against the wall. Trembling, his lips move, his eyes locked on her.
What must it feel like to be him? To watch the woman you love strutting towards you, wielding power and danger over you? What must it be like to be so afraid of the woman who sleeps beside you, who is supposed to be your life partner? What is it like to be terrorised in your own home, but trapped by a love you can’t explain?
His lips keep moving, and I squint to make out the words.
Please. He’s saying please. He’s begging the woman he loves, the woman he shares a life with, to show mercy. But at this point, I don’t know if mercy is hers to give. I don’t know if she’s capable of anything but evil.
She puts her free hand on his chest and, if it weren’t for the knife, it would be the most loving gesture she’s shown him in weeks. However, the knife hangs in the air like a dart ready to pierce its target.
Please don’t.
These are my words now. I’m murmuring them, chanting them. My blood is warm and tingly as I watch her, as tears fall. She needs to stop. This needs to stop.
I need to stop it.
There is a pregnant pause, a moment that seems to tick on and on and on. I watch her as she presses against him, the knife taunting him and teasing him with what could happen. The fear in his eyes, in his posture, is discernible, even from here. My breathing is ragged, tears welling, as I consider the very real possibility that this is how it ends. I will bear witness the utter unravelling of them, of him, and of her. And the reality is there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.
Nothing at all.
My hands clench as I study the scene, the knife paused as if frozen, her arm unwavering in its intensity. His lips keep forming the words, over and over and over. Please. Please. Please don’t.
But she doesn’t waver, doesn’t shake, doesn’t seem to care.
She is resolute in her actions and righteous in her stance. She is unbreakable in her position of power. I hate her for that. With one jerk of the knife, she could change this narrative forever. My hands shake because I’m squeezing them so hard, my heart pounding out of the walls of my chest. In just one movement, 312 Bristol Lane could be transformed into a true horror story, even more terrifying than what it’s been so far.
But before it all ends in a bloody mess on the floor and a final piercing of who they are, there’s a flick of her wrist, and the knife falls to the floor. She wipes her hands as if she’s got dirt on them, spins on her heel and saunters away. It looks like there’s a bounce in her step, and her head’s a little higher. She looks like she enjoyed it.
He, on the other hand, slides to the floor, out of sight. I wonder if he’s crying. I wonder what’s next. What could possibly be next?
I realise with a start that I’ve been barely breathing, my lungs now gasping for air. I hear a wheezing and wonder if it’s me. No, it’s not me. My lungs are filled now. I’ve taken breath after soothing breath. My lungs are content.
But there’s a clear gasping sound, a desperation echoing.
Confused, I glance down.
‘Amos, oh dear, I’m so sorry,’ I announce, freeing my hands from around his tiny neck.
The cat gasps, his tongue out as his lungs drink in the life-saving air. When he’s finally recovered, I stroke him in apology. He jumps down, crouching suspiciously in the corner.
What have I done? Lost in the spectacle, I’ve almost strangled Amos, the only companion I have left.
I sit for a long time, thinking about the event I’ve witnessed and thinking about the feel of Amos’s delicate neck between my fingers. His life was literally in my hands, and I almost let him go.
I almost let him go.
* * *
He’s leaving her. I know it. He’s going to leave her. What sane man would stay? No man is going to put up with this. Nobody puts up with this, right?
Sure, there are stories about this sort of thing. Gossip in the grocery store, murmurs in the pews. There are tense relations palpable from across the church, and there are harsh, jagged words that signify a sinister undertone to the happy pretences. I’ve had suspicions, just like everyone else. But this is different; 312 Bristol Lane is different from those grocery gossip sessions.
For one, he’s a man. True, a bit of a passive man – but he’s capable of
standing up for himself, isn’t he? He has the finances. He’s not trapped like some of the women I’ve heard about in a similar position. He could get out. And, although he loves her, he’s not possibly going to let her get away with this. He can’t let her get away with this, he just can’t. It’s too dangerous for it to carry on.
It’s the only thing that lets me sleep that night – knowing he’s going to leave.
True, it’s a scary prospect that she’ll be alone, all alone in the house right beside me. It’s not that I’m afraid for myself, not really. As I said before, I’m an old woman with little life left to live. Death doesn’t scare me, so she can bring her worst. I can handle it. In truth, I’m afraid for her, of what will happen when she’s left to her own devices.
I know I shouldn’t care. She’s shown her true colours, and I no longer believe with certainty that goodness will win. I think she may be too far gone now. Still, maybe it’s an ode to the past or of who she was, but I can’t give up on her completely. I care what happens to her, even if I shouldn’t. I really believe there’s something wrong, a sickness manifesting itself in her that she can’t shake. It’s her fault how she behaves – but I still feel badly for it. I hate watching her ruin her life. I hate that she’s royally messed it up and there’s no going back. And I don’t want to bear witness to her further decline once he’s gone.
But he’s got to go. I know it, I’m sure he knows it, and she has to know it. What’s her plan in all this? What, does she think he’ll stay and be her puppet for the rest of his days? Does she really think there’s no line? Does she really think she’s not crossed it, time and again?
I don’t feel like tea the next morning. I’m jittery enough as it is. I need to see this play out, and my hands are already shaking like a drug addict’s. Caffeine won’t help. Maybe what I need is wine to soothe my nerves. It sounds perfect right about now.
I feed Amos, the cat still a bit rattled from yesterday. I speak to him in my most soothing voice, the most gentle voice I can muster under the circumstances. It’s arguably a little bit shaky, but he sneaks over to his food bowl once the tuna hits the ceramic. There are still blood spatters from the robin in his dish. I wonder for a moment, did he devour it? And then I perch myself at the window like the dead robin, and I wait. I wait for the blood to spill, for the final shattering to happen.
Like clockwork, Alex leaves for work, his tie straight and his jacket on. He starts the car and peels out of the driveway. I’m pretty sure this is it. Even though he doesn’t have a suitcase, I am confident he’s gone, long gone. He’s not coming back. Jane, just like me, is going to be alone.
I expect to see her wallowing today. I wonder if I’ll see a glimpse of her pacing at the window, watching for him. I wonder if I’ll get to see her chewing her nails and looking forlornly out the glass, feeling regret and sorrow for what she’s done.
Does she realise what she’s done?
She has to see that she’s wrong.
And maybe it’s the hope of seeing this, seeing some sign that she’s not a total monster, that causes me to sit at the window all day, only rising twice to use the bathroom and once for a glass of water. I don’t eat because I can’t seem to muster up an appetite. I just need to see how this works out. I need to see how she sorts this out.
But there is no reward for my toil. She doesn’t pace or longingly look out the window. There are no tears or sad looks to hang hope on. She passes the window just twice, once carrying some type of food and once carrying a cup of coffee. The second time it looks like she’s gone into the living room, probably to watch her soap operas.
In short, she acts like nothing has happened. Her movements, her whole demeanour is the calm, collected Jane I sometimes see. There is no sign of guilt or fear or of awareness of what she almost did yesterday. The woman wielding the knife yesterday is unrecognisable – the cheerful, ordinary version is back for the moment. I can’t believe she isn’t shaken by what she almost did, or more accurately, what she did. How can she just let it all go? How can she ignore the fact she stepped over a line yesterday? And does she even want to come back from it?
In short, I can’t even fathom how can she go on after yesterday. I live across the yard, and my whole world’s been turned upside down. I’ve collapsed in on myself, my thoughts a whirling mess of contradictions, fears and what-ifs. How can she just keep breathing, keep living like she didn’t try to kill him?
But what surprises me the most, what really makes me crazy, comes later in the day.
Chapter 22
Alex comes home. He hasn’t left.
But there’s one catch – he’s three hours late. That means he must’ve at least considered it. He must’ve thought about leaving. Maybe he even did leave, his car chasing dusty trails to unknown destinations. Perhaps he was long gone. Yet something changed his mind, because here he is, slowly pulling into the driveway.
I can’t believe it. I’m stunned. What is he doing? What could he possibly be thinking? Why would he walk back into this?
Am I losing my mind? She did have a knife to his throat, didn’t she? Did I imagine it? Because why else would he be back?
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, taking deep breaths and counting to ten. My head is swirling and pounding, pain rippling through my body. I don’t understand. How could anyone understand?
I open my eyes to see him, hands in his pockets, trudging up the driveway, up the stairs onto the porch. At the door, he hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. He turns and glances at the car and, for a moment, it seems like he’s looking right at me. I think for a second he might wave or might come over. If he does, I’m telling him. I’m telling him what he needs to hear – get out. Get out before it’s too late, before she does something truly maniacal, something unthinkable. Something more maniacal and unthinkable, that is.
But eventually his hand turns the knob, and he steps inside – to what, I can’t be sure. You can never be sure.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. This is absurd. How could he do this? How could she?
Suddenly, I don’t feel like living vicariously through 312 Bristol Lane. I don’t feel hope or joy or company. I feel betrayed. I feel awestruck by how wrong I was about them, about what they could mean. I feel like I’m living a nightmare, the only witness to the dysfunction of the house across the street. And I also shudder thinking about what terrors are lurking ahead, Jane the ringmaster in this twisted sport.
I no longer like my prime seating or view. This window feels more like an execution viewing window, not a glimpse into a peaceful world I’m missing.
I rock gently, staring at the car in the driveway, sickened at what might happen next. But, like so many of us, I can’t turn away. I can’t stop looking. Human nature beckons me to stare on, to watch the disaster unfold, to see the tragedy. I’ve been called to be a witness in this covert trial unfolding. I just don’t think I’m strong enough to do the job.
* * *
Time passes. How much time? I don’t know when I come to how long I’ve been sleeping. I do know it’s dark, the moonlight shimmering down onto 312 Bristol Lane, looking like some kind of Christmas card. This is no Christmas card, though. This is something very different.
I shudder, a chill from the frosty window wafting towards me. I pull the afghan from my lap up around my chin, tucking in for the sight across the way.
The moonlight casts an eerie glow on them, glinting off the silver of his car and the silver in her hand.
They’re both outside. She’s screaming, and a shoving match ensues again. This time, though, she’s claimed a new victim. I watch him chase her, beg her to stop, as she sinks the knife into the soft flesh of the tyres, getting two before he tackles her to the ground, the snow around them as she cries and kicks like the beast she’s become. The car sinks lower and lower, her damage done.
He sinks to the ground, too, and for a second, there’s an odd peacefulness to the scene. It’s like she relen
ts, exhaustion kicking in. She collapses in to him as he almost cradles her in the snow, his arms locked on her wrists, the knife still in her grasp. She’s sobbing, and he holds her. Down on the ground, the chilling white around them, I wonder if they can get back up. I pull the blanket even tighter around me, as if I’m the one sinking into the snow, as if I can feel it wrapping itself around me like it must be them.
The knife drops out of her hand, finally. She’s given in, beaten at her own game. But she’s still won. The car, deflated, isn’t going anywhere for now, and neither is Alex.
Of course, it’s not just a broken-down car that’s holding him hostage. He’s deflated, too, and I think even with four working tyres, he’s not going anywhere. He’s too far in. Like her, he’s too far gone.
After a moment, he must loosen his grip, because she stands in a perfunctory motion, swiping at her eyes, glancing at the car, and then, arms wrapped around her chest, she marches inside, leaving him sitting, staring, freezing.
She slams the door, and I watch him in the beams of the moonlight, wondering how a human being gets to that point. Wondering how a human being becomes willing prey, how someone becomes so chilled they don’t even feel the knife stabbing in over and over again.
My hand finds my heart underneath the scratchy afghan. I feel the steady thumping of it in my chest, feel the blood pulsing through me.
I think about that for a long while after he’s gone. I think about it as I stare at the spot where he sat in the snow, icy frost chilling him both externally and internally.
Chapter 23
Nine years old. A June day. No school.
I was out in the front yard, the sprinkler spraying wildly as my sister jumped higher and higher, screaming in delight in her orange swimsuit. Towel wrapped around my shoulders, I slinked off, hair drenched, letting the sun soak into my skin. It felt so good.
The Widow Next Door Page 13
