The Widow Next Door
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.
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 cupboard. ‘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.