Читать книгу The Widow Next Door - L.A. Detwiler - Страница 9

My bones are creaking, a pain working its way from the inside out. It’s such a chore sometimes to even get moving, to walk across the kitchen, to stoop down to feed Amos. Some days, it’s a hardship to even prod myself out of bed, the comforter enveloping me in a way that says ‘stay’.

Sometimes, I think about staying in bed all day, my scratchy, aged blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon, protecting me from the vile world. There are worse things than to perish tucked in a warm bed, worn-out blanket or not.

Nevertheless, I deny myself the luxury of oblivion the bed offers. Instead, I wander over to Amos’s food station, the sweet cat already meowing, awaiting his morsels of food. I carefully open the can, scraping some of the gloppy tuna-like concoction onto his plate before making my own tea. It’s silly, I know, serving a cat before myself. But Amos is my best friend, my everything. It makes me feel good to have someone to pamper, to care for. It feels good to be needed.

After getting my cup of tea, only filled halfway, of course – I’ve learned the perils of a full cup the hard way – I trudge over to my spot, the familiar wood of the rocking chair welcoming me back into position. I rock for a moment, gently appraising the day, as is my custom. The sun is just coming up, glinting off the newly fallen leaves of reds, golds and oranges. It’s my favourite scene out my window, the cool breeze of the autumn air gently lifting the edges of the decayed leaves. Even in here, with the dusty smell of an ageing house, I can close my eyes and smell the earthy scent of autumn, feel the brisk air on my face, and see his perfect smile.

He always loved this time of year. In our younger days, he would drag me pumpkin picking at the Johnsons’ farm, hay bales lined up to lead the way. I’d roll my eyes and tell him it was pointless. Deep down, though, I loved those afternoons, wandering on the farm, choosing the right pumpkin we’d carve up that night accompanied by hot apple cider. I wish, even now, I could tell him I loved those days.

I should’ve told him how much I loved those days.

I sigh, my eyes temporarily averted by the sight of the neighbour – Alexander Clarke. He’s off to work, bright and early, before the day has really begun. He straightens his tie, a hand running through his hair, before jumping into his automobile and heading down the road.

It’s been three months since he and Jane moved in, three months of joyful furniture buying and evenings on their porch and walks. Three months of front-porch kisses and squealing laughter in the front yard. Three months of sheer happiness, of love in its truest, purest form.

At first, I’d worried they’d think it odd, an old woman and her cat peering out at them. I hesitated some mornings, wondering if I was being creepy, staring into the lives, into the business of others so regularly.

But I couldn’t peel myself away.

It became something to look forward to, studying them, watching them, trying to piece together their story from what I can see. It’s quite a fun game, really, and I get to learn more than one would think. From driveway goodbyes to outdoor chores, I can judge a lot about them, can put together so many titbits into a clear puzzle of my design. What’s more, they haven’t put up a blind in the window of their dining room or even draperies. The large bay window sits unobstructed by anything, its sparkling clear glass giving me a full view of their heavy wooden table. I get to be privy to their mealtimes, to their interactions, to their morning coffee.

I know. It seems ridiculous. But I can’t, I just can’t, take myself away from them. There’s something haunting about young love, about getting to see it all unfold. And for an old lady like me, alone and bored, these stories, these interactions, they keep me going. They make that creaky exit out of bed a little more bearable. They give me something intriguing to wrap myself up in.

I’ve come to learn that it’s okay, anyway. They’re so engrossed with each other, in their lives, they don’t notice a frail old woman peering out her window at them. Mornings when he leaves for work, afternoons when she busies herself with household work or other tasks, or evenings when they’re together, they’ve always got something to keep themselves go, go, going. The life of the young is exhaustingly busy.

Not that they’re stuck-up or selfish. No, they’re neighbourly enough. Well, at least the woman is. She came over about three days after they moved in, knocked on my door around eleven in the morning.

Let’s be clear: I liked Jane from the day she moved in. The way she carried herself, the way she ambled around even when she was clearly exhausted from moving – I saw something there. And once she came over for the first time, I really liked her, a deep-seated, internal liking of her.

Still, brewing beneath the surface, I felt something else, too. Maybe it was just paranoia roiling from my lonely days, or maybe I’ve just spent too much time in my own head. But something in me flopped when she came over, something unsettling finding its way to the surface. Not enough to make me change my mind about her – but enough to damage the perfect view of her just a little bit, just enough to make me slightly uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, there was something about her from day one that made that nervous anxiety easy to ignore, even if I shouldn’t have.

* * *

It was quite the task to hobble to the door before she scurried away, thinking me asleep. I rushed into the hallway, reminding myself to be careful, that it wouldn’t do to fall and hurt myself. How sad are the days when a broken hip becomes one’s biggest fear?

I made it in time, the girl standing in a bright yellow sundress holding a pie. Yellow is her colour. It makes her blonde hair look even blonder. It fits her complexion nicely. It fits with her neon personality. Maybe I’m partial, though. I’ve always been fond of yellow since I was a little girl. It’s a happy colour.

‘Hi, nice to meet you! I’m the new neighbour: Jane Clarke. I just thought since you’re our only neighbour, I’d stop and say hi.’

I smiled, her energy contagious. She was bubbling and talking a mile a minute, the youth and naivety about life softening her in ways I was no longer soft. Looking into her clear blue eyes, I saw such hope and such dreams.

I missed those days.

‘That’s so nice, dear. Yes, it’s great to talk to you. How is your move going?’

‘Wonderful, thanks for asking. I just love this street. So quiet and peaceful. No traffic, no noise with the dead end and all. And how lucky, we have such a big lot, huh! And all of the peace, the privacy. I just love it here. I knew from the second I saw this house we had to have it. My husband Alex wasn’t so sure about it, but once I saw it, the deal was sealed.’

‘Yes. Bristol Lane is a quiet street. Kind of lonely sometimes, but overall, I like the peace. And your house is gorgeous.’

‘Oh, silly me. I’m sure you’re probably busy. But here’s a pie I made for you. I hope you like rhubarb. My husband says no one likes rhubarb pie, but I beg to differ.’

My hands literally clapped together. ‘Oh my, that’s my favourite. These old hands are too tired to bake many pies these days. Thank you. This is so lovely. Will you come in for tea?’ I shakily took the pie from her, revelling in the perfect golden crust. It had been so long since I’d had a rhubarb pie. I could hardly believe my good fortune. I didn’t even think anyone made rhubarb pie these days. It was like a blast from the past calling me home, and I didn’t hesitate to take up the offer.

I knew the girl was special from the first day she moved in. There was no denying it.

Of course, she’s not a girl. She’s a woman. Still, at my age, everyone under seventy seems like a girl. Age is all about perspective, and mine’s become quite a distant perspective these days.

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly. My husband’s at work today, and I have some cleaning to get done. But definitely soon, okay?’

‘Yes, dear. That would be great. Stop back anytime. Congratulations,’ I said, and Jane was gone, her lean legs carrying her down my porch steps and across the yard to her house, the skip in her step matching her bubbly personality.

I smiled, feeling I now had the best neighbours in the world, even if she did rush off pretty quickly. It was so thoughtful of her to bring by a pie, to spend time with an old woman like me, even if it was just a few minutes. I wished for a moment she would’ve stayed longer, but I didn’t want to cause trouble, not on our first meeting. So I let it go, thinking about how great it would be to have someone to talk to, wondering why I’d gotten goose bumps at the sight of her walking away.

* * *

As often happens, life for the young gets overrun by daily routines and to-do lists and the pressing matters of youth. She hasn’t been back since that first day. The rhubarb pie is long gone, and it saddens me a little bit. I had high hopes for us back then. I’d imagined all of the conversations, the lunches, the teas we’d share. I’d imagined what it would be like after all these years to have, dare I hope, a friend of sorts. But dreams don’t always go as planned, do they? And sometimes our biggest hopes are shattered by reality.

In truth, 312 Bristol Lane hasn’t quite turned out like I’d imagined at all. There has been little interaction for the past few months except for a few small encounters – and arguably, even they were a bit off-kilter.

On Sunday, I was making my glorious trek in my good old station wagon to Mark’s Mart for a few supplies. Jane had been cleaning the windows outside the house, and she gazed at the street from the top of her ladder. I smiled and tooted the horn. She didn’t wave, staring as if in another world.

I suppose she’d just been busy. That had to be it.

Regardless, there have been no visits, no more pies. I tell myself I can’t be annoyed, though. Life at that age is blissfully full. There will be plenty of time for tea drinking and porch sitting with elderly ladies and other generally dull tasks. Right now, she’s got other priorities.

I do worry. There’ve been subtle changes, small happenings, that have caused that nervous anxiety to resurge. Mostly, the anxiety is for them, the couple at 312 Bristol Lane.

Fewer goodbye kisses on the porch step, less hand holding at breakfast. I’m sure I’m overanalysing. It’s not enough to worry just yet. It’s a subtle change – but a change nonetheless.

Then again, maybe it’s all me. Maybe I’m imagining it. Perhaps these are just the musings of an overly bored woman. It’s no secret that I’ve got way too much time on my hands. Perhaps I need to find a hobby – but what? Knitting always did seem quite monotonous. Besides, these bones are too achy, too rickety, to be of any real use. And who would I knit for? Amos? I doubt the white Persian would want anything to do with a scratchy, crooked sweater I’d put together.

Besides, it’s much more fun watching. I’ve become quite a good observer in my late age.

It’s not all bad, either. Jane at 312 Bristol Lane still seems happy. She still smiles, skips around the house in a chipper fashion, saunters to the mailbox in her gorgeous sundresses, kicks back her feet as she leans on the front porch step.

To most, she probably looks the same. To her husband, she probably looks the same.

To me, though, I can see it, the shifting, the small clues that not all is well. Like a detective in waiting, I sit, pondering over the signs, wondering how they all fit together in the bigger picture that is her.

The only question is: what can I do about it? What can this old lady in her rocking chair who can barely walk the twenty feet to the bathroom in time do about it?

For now, all I can do is keep watching, keep waiting, and keep hoping she’ll come over. In truth, it would be good to feel a little needed.