Читать книгу The Widow Next Door: The most chilling of new crime thriller books that you will read in 2018 - L.A. Detwiler - Страница 11

I meticulously turn my gold band as I stare at the photograph on top of the stony, dusty fireplace. Amos is asleep on the sofa. I reach out a hand gingerly, almost afraid to touch the glass, afraid if my fingers make contact with it, the fact he’s gone will be real.

Time eases the pain and shock of his death, but it doesn’t take away the burdens of loneliness and loss. It doesn’t make it easier.

For the fourth time today, I touch the chilling glass, eyeing the black and white photograph with both sadness and a smile. In the picture, we’re looking at each other, love radiating even without colour. There’s a rose bush behind us. I can still see the vibrant reds within the murky grey. One of my delicate hands shoves back the itchy veil from my ravishing curls. He’s staring at me as if he wants to devour me, and, if I remember correctly, I think he did want to, judging from the words he was whispering in my ear right after the camera flashed.

It makes me blush just thinking of it.

We were so young, so naive, so in love. I was so happy then.

Time was hard on us, as it is to so many. Still, this picture has always sat on this fireplace, a symbol of that perfect day. Each time I’ve seen it over the years, it’s been like a connection to the past. It’s a relic of the love we once had – the carefree, roses-in-the-background kind of love, where starry-eyed lovers think nothing could ever tear them apart.

‘So long ago,’ I say out loud to the picture, feeling in some ways like that moment was yesterday and in some ways like it was two hundred years ago instead of sixty-seven.

My hands shaking, I squeeze the photograph as if I can clutch on to us, on to the people in the picture. My mind wraps itself around the memories, good and bad, and my chest heaves with the realisation of all that’s happened. I’m suddenly desperate to hold on to what I see, and before I can stop myself, I’m squeezing harder and harder. I squeeze until my hand vibrates from the effort. I squeeze until I hear a punchy crack, the glass snapping right in the middle, the line weaving down my body in the photograph, marring the perfect, smiling woman.

I set the cracked memento back down, my hand finding the edge of the mantel now. I stare at my handiwork, the cracks now giving it a new feeling. I don’t know why, but it suits the picture. The imperfections make it better. My finger traces the cracked glass for a moment, and I marvel in the pattern, in the new texture, and in the picture that is still very much the same but also a little bit different.

I study the faces I know so well but that somehow seem so distant from me. The glass shifts slightly, leaving part of the picture uncovered. It will fall prey to the elements, to the air of life around it. It’s not protected anymore.

Gazing at the photo, I am bombarded with thoughts and ideas, a dull roar making me tired. I listen to the words, trying to home in on the ones to pay attention to, wondering how I got here. Wondering if I could’ve ever imagined how it would all turn out.

I couldn’t have. I would have never known how things would rotate and swirl, spinning into a cacophony of chaos as we drudged through the years. I didn’t understand it, even then, how actions have consequences. Or maybe I just didn’t want to understand it.

I certainly had experiences. Looking at the eyes of the woman in the photograph, I see what so many didn’t.

I see what he didn’t.

I see the secrets of a haunted past, of consequences not yet uncovered, of the havoc my actions would reap covered up with a charming smile.

Life flies by. That’s the cliché all old people say to the young, but it’s so damn true. One minute, you’re standing by the rose bushes on your wedding day, wondering what beautiful things life will greet you with. The next, your frail, shaking hand is touching the glass of the past, staring into eyes and skin you don’t even recognise anymore, wondering how it all came to pass.

I wipe the single tear that streams down my cheek, and I exhale.

‘I miss you,’ I say into the crisp October air, wishing like in the movies, a voice could whisper back. But it doesn’t. I’m alone, all alone, as usual. There will be no anniversary card from him today. There will be no red roses, no sweet embrace to remind me I’m not alone in this crazy world. Instead, there will be me, Amos and an endless day of nothingness, which has become our tradition.

It doesn’t do to dwell on the past. I know that. I know I have to keep going. Sighing, I lay the photo flat on the mantel, the cracked glass now face down. I tear myself away. I step on the creaking floorboard in the living room as I make my way to my only sanctuary – the rocking chair. I plunk my body down, suddenly regretting the dress slacks and blouse I put on. I don’t know what I was thinking this morning when I painstakingly got dressed. It’s Wednesday. I have nowhere to be today. It’s not grocery shopping day or doctor’s appointment day. It’s just a stay-at-home Wednesday, even if it is my wedding anniversary. I guess it just seemed respectful to put some effort in. In some crazy part of my mind, I suppose I thought maybe he could see me from wherever he is. It’s nuts, I know. But putting on those soft pink slacks and matching blouse made me feel like I was appreciating what today was. It just didn’t feel right sitting in my robe.

Nonetheless, as the pants cut into my flesh uncomfortably, I wish I’d stayed in my nightclothes. If you’re going to stay home alone, you may as well be comfortable.

That’s what conclusion I’ve come to, anyway, even though my mother liked to tell me in my youth that beauty was pain. Sometimes now I think beauty might be overrated … then again, maybe it’s just a result of my unhappiness when I see the pallid skin in the mirror, the fried, grey hair. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking that beauty no longer counts, the corpse-like figure who peers back at me far from a thing of beauty.

Out of my peripheral vision, the heavy door to my right, in the centre of the back wall, calls me. Most days, I don’t look at it, the barricade efficiently doing its job. The brass doorknob hasn’t had fingerprints on it for so long, I don’t even know if it would turn.

In some ways, I’d like to think it wouldn’t. I’d like to think it’s rusted shut, shielding me from what’s just beyond the threshold.

A tear comes to my eye as I try to ignore it, try not to look at the door that hasn’t been opened in so long, that won’t be opened.

Even without looking at it, though, I can see it as if I’m staring at it. I can feel the smooth wood, the stain on it almost tacky. I can feel the imperfections and details, their pattern memorised by my creaky old fingers, which still remember every knot, every rough spot on that door, every detail. I glance down at my fingers as they do a dance on the rocking chair, recalling the shape of the doorknob and its chilling feel on my fingertips.

I take a deep breath, the pain in my chest swelling as I try to push the thought aside.

I’ve become a master at ignoring it. I walk past that door every day. I see it every day. Yet, a piece of me doesn’t see it, doesn’t notice it. It’s been blacked out.

Why today? Why now? Why does it have to come creeping in, to make me feel even worse?

I shudder, saying out loud, ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it. That’s enough.’ I hold my head, take a deep breath and open my eyes.

There. All’s better now.

I rock slowly, my head against the wooden headrest. Amos meows, jumping in the window this time to look out with me. He stares at a robin perched on the picket fence as I study the two-storey across the street. The bird looks so out of place against the rotting leaves. A bird like that belongs in the perfect white snow, a crimson marvel in a sea of plainness.

It flaps and drifts upward and away, landing on the spouting of 312 Bristol Lane.

I smile as I look at the perfect bricks, the adorable little window at the top, the shining windows in the front. It’s such a lovely house, made even lovelier by the fact there’s a couple there now, a couple I get to study.

I rock in my chair for a while, staring at the house, wondering where they are. The car is gone, and the house is so empty. I realise I’m so lost without them. It’s odd being on Bristol Lane all alone yet again. I really don’t know how I used to survive when they weren’t over there. What did I do with myself? It feels like a lifetime ago.

My mind drifts back, and I think about how not so long ago, the house was always empty, the creaky sign in the front yard begging someone to move in. It felt like ages and ages that 312 Bristol Lane was abandoned, desolate, and lonely. Just like me.

I furrow my brow, massaging my forehead with my thumb and forefinger. Before Bristol Lane, before the empty months, someone lived there. I know they did. I remember there was a couple there for a while, a short while. I remember they left in a hurry on a day not unlike today. Was it last year? Two years ago? Was it October they left or was it summer? Everything’s messed up in my head, and I can’t seem to set it straight. What happened to them? Why did they leave so quickly? My memory fails me.

But sitting here by myself with nothing to watch, I challenge myself to remember. It’s good to push the mind. I shake my head, trying to recall, searching the inner recesses of my brain for faces and names and details. My head starts to ache from the process, but I can’t let it go.

Who were they? I can’t believe my memory is so hazy. It frustrates me, causing me to rock a little faster, to rub my head a little bit harder.

Think. Remember.

Images come to mind of a couple, a black-haired woman with very tanned skin and an exotic look about her. I see her fuzzily in my mind, the details of her face blurred. She was lean and lanky, but in a model sort of way. She was married, her husband a rather large man. I remember thinking he didn’t need any pie. I do know that much.

I recall images of them moving in, angrily yelling in the front lawn. There were no sweet kisses. There was no laughter. They were miserable over there from the beginning. I remember feeling like they didn’t deserve a house as grand as 312 Bristol Lane.

I remember sitting here thinking I wished they would just move out, even on day one.

Still, I don’t remember the ins and outs of their lives or the details of what they were all about. What did they do all day? What interactions did I witness? I can’t really recall. It’s hell to get old, for the mind to start to fade. It’s crazy what we remember and what we forget.

I rock for a bit more, staring at the house, still trying to jog my memory, but it’s not really working. It’s like I can’t remember a time the sunshine-yellow woman didn’t live next door. Maybe it’s just that I don’t want to remember a time when she didn’t. I like them. They bring energy to the street.

The longer I think, though, the more anxious I get. I feel a bit like my skin is crawling, the prickling of the hairs on my arms making me uneasy. I may not remember the last couple so well, but I do get this sense of dread, of heaviness.

And even though I can’t remember the details, I do get one overwhelming vibe from my jaunt down memory lane: I don’t think I liked them very much.

In fact, the more I stare at the house, the more I’m certain of it. I didn’t like them at all, especially her. That dark, luscious hair didn’t fool me. She was beautiful on the outside, I know that. But she wasn’t a good person.

She was nosy. That’s it. I remember. She was so, so nosy. Always looking at me, perusing me like I was some kind of person to keep an eye on. The nerve of her. I’ve lived here so long, and this young thing moved in and thought she could take over the lane. She thought she could be rude, could get in my business. She was always glaring at me, always staring. And not in a neighbourly way or a curious way. It was in a way that told me she didn’t like me.

There were no afternoon teas with that one. There were no sweet gestures or pies or kind exchanges. There were just nosy stares and questions about what I was doing. There was no neighbourly love, I remember now.

I was so glad when they left. Surprised but glad. Did they leave in the middle of the night? I think they did. If my memory serves me correctly, which in fairness it doesn’t always, I think one morning I got up and the couple from 312 Bristol Lane were gone. They must’ve packed their belongings in the night and left like some scoundrels disappearing under the cover of darkness.

I knew she shouldn’t be trusted from day one. And I was right.

I guess none of it really matters now, though, in truth. Because those neighbours weren’t even important. The new people in 312 Bristol Lane are all that matters. I’m glad the other couple left so early. These two suit me so much better.

Still, I wonder what happened to them, the old neighbours. Where are they now? Is life working out as they planned?

I’ve lived long enough to know that life has a way of working out differently, no matter who you are. And now, the couple across the street get a chance to live out their story here, me bearing witness. I hope they get it right. I hope they make the story a good one. I hope they don’t turn out to be scoundrels. I hope with all my heart they find the life they want.

But even as the thought dances in my deepest wishes, I look down to see my hands slightly shaking. They deserve happiness … but will they get it? Will they find a way to make it work?

I inhale deeply, clutching my hands together in a prayer-like pose, trying to calm down the tremors.

It can happen. They can make it work. They can find the life I couldn’t. They can make their own happiness, can’t they? It’s possible. It’s certainly possible. But then again, life doesn’t always work out how you hoped.

* * *

It’s dinnertime. I spent the morning in my chair, of course, with my cup of tea. At noon, I watched my soap operas and read the newspaper. I even grabbed my favourite novel, Gone With the Wind. I was feeling literary today I guess, the dusty pages dog-eared from being reread so many times. After all, I was so bored today with the couple from 312 Bristol Lane gone. I wish I knew where they went, if for no other reason than to entertain my mind today with fancy visions of them doing whatever it is they’re doing. I hope they did something fun.

I was sitting in my rocking chair, flipping through the pages of my book with Amos on my lap when they came home. The car pulled into the driveway. It was late afternoon when they returned, smiling and holding hands up the walkway before heading inside. They looked good, happier than usual. I smiled at the sight of their return, the sun lowering on the horizon. I was so glad they were back. I closed my book and studied them, waiting to see what the view would uncover today.

It makes me a little sad that my day depends so much on their actions. How crazy that my mood clearly improved when they came home. Then again, they are the only sense of life left in my days. They’re the only things that remind me of what it means to do more than simply exist. Maybe I just need to escape from this house, from the memories – and from the date.

I have a cup of tea in my hands now as I settle back into the rocking chair. I ate a quick meal at the table, mainly to stretch my legs a bit. I found myself hurrying, though, to get my eating over with. I wanted to get back here so I didn’t miss anything. I hardly got to see any of them today, so I want to make the most of tonight.

Darkness looms as I settle in, studying the changing sky. A few birds are flying about, left and right, the impending night inciting them to head for home. Amos lets out a meow before plodding off to his cat bed in the corner of the room.

I stay put.

They’re having dinner tonight in the dining room.

It seems they only have dinner there once in a while. They have a tiny table in their kitchen, too.

She’s gone above and beyond today, though. There are beautiful candles adding a soft glow to the room. With the encroaching darkness, it’s getting even easier to see the scene. She still hasn’t put blinds or curtains up. I hope she keeps it that way. The glass is a little bit dingier now, time passing and caking a thin veil of dirt and dust on the pane. Still, my view is almost unobstructed. Maybe she’ll wash the windows soon and my view will be improved.

She’s wearing royal blue tonight, a satiny finish on the top of her dress gleaming beautifully in the eerie glow of the candlelight. The light dances off her face, her hair swept upward in an elegant style. Her dark lipstick painted on her perfectly shaped lips contrasts with her pale skin in a way that is arrestingly gorgeous. I can’t stop watching her as she carefully places items on the table, a graceful domestic dance.

Next, she puts a casserole in the centre of the table, fidgeting with her hair after she does. It seems like she has a bunch of different dishes on the table. I wonder what she’s made and if she’s a good cook. She disappears for a moment, walking back with a basket between her two hands, golden bread rolls stacked up towards her chin. I wonder if she made them from scratch. They’re the best, after all. They’re so worth the work, even if they are tedious. My mouth waters at the thought of the homemade rolls I always made, the ones that practically melted in my mouth.

Eventually, he comes in, and she gives him a peck on the cheek. He loosens the black tie around his neck, the white collar on his shirt standing at attention. They sit across from each other, the long table in between them, each at the head seats so they are sideways to me. They each hold up a glass of champagne or wine or some other drink and toast. The candlelight dances between them, the glow of the room warm yet oppressive at the same time.

I wonder what their toast is. I hope it’s something sweet. She should say something like, ‘To an amazing night with a man who makes every day a special occasion.’

Okay, so that’s a little cheesy, I know. But I think she should say something to make him know he’s special, that every single day with him is special.

It’s not my toast to give though, so I just sit, studying them, not knowing what she decides on. I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m sure it will do.

There is a shuffling of dishes as they heap their plates, passing around the casserole and laughing. She has a wide smile, and her head flies back at several moments in laughter. He’s a good storyteller; I can tell. He talks with his hands, just like her. Good storytellers, I think, should talk with their hands.

Plus, he makes eye contact with her when he’s telling a story. I always liked that. You need to look into someone’s eyes to really speak to them. It’s a skill so many ignore.

I watch the scene, a peaceful scene, as the moon rises over their house. They take their time, languishing over dinner. I’m glad to see they’re appreciating the meal, that they’re taking a moment to just slow down. They’re always rushing about, to and fro. I like that they’re focusing on each other, even if just for tonight.

After a while, he gets up from the table, putting his napkin down. He crosses the distance between them casually, in a couple of strides. Standing before her, he offers her his hand, and I smile at the gesture. I love an impromptu dance. More than that, I love a man who isn’t afraid to dance without a reason, to dance around the dining room table on a Wednesday evening.

She shakes her head as if she’s embarrassed, looking down at the plate in front of her.

I will her to change her mind. Don’t say no. Please don’t say no. You’ll regret it someday if you do. Someday, you’ll wish you had danced with him every chance you got. Someday, you’ll give anything to feel his hands on your waist, to have him twirling you around that table in a fit of laughter.

And for a moment, I think I’m losing my mind because, as if she’s heard my whispered prayer, she looks up from the table, turns her head and stares directly at me. I feel our eyes lock, my stomach flipping at the odd sensation pulsing through me as she stares. It’s like her eyes pierce through me, body and soul. I’m so uncomfortable, yet I can’t look away. After a long moment of her staring, no smile, her face steadfast, she glances back to the scene playing out.

With some coaxing, she eventually nods and takes his hand. She doesn’t say ‘no’ today. I exhale the breath I didn’t realise I was holding, shaking my head.

Did I imagine it? Certainly, she hadn’t been looking at me, had she?

I brush off the chill in my veins, focusing instead on the beautiful scene unfolding before me now. They lean in to each other, dancing by the candlelit table like two lovers who just uncovered the truth between them, his hand finding the waist of her satiny blue dress, her head resting on his shoulder.

I close my eyes, partially because I feel like this intimate moment should be between the two of them only, and partially because I’m drifting back to one of the many dances by the dining room table I had.

Our song plays in my head, that jazzy, big band song. He sings it to me in my ear, his hot breath sending chills down my spine.

* * *

‘This is crazy,’ I said, giggling wildly.

‘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.