А Финн - The Woman in the Window

No response. I wonder if he’s asleep. But it’s midafternoon.

An idea flares in my brain.

It’s wrong, I know, but this is my house. And it’s urgent. It’s very urgent.

I move to the desk in the living room, slide open the drawer, and find it there, dull silver and jagged with teeth: the key.

I return to the basement door. Knock once more—nothing—then push the key into the lock. Twist it.

Pull the door open.

It whines. I wince.

But all is quiet as I peer down the stairs. I descend into darkness, softly in my slipper feet, grazing one hand along the rough plaster of the wall.

I reach the floor. The blackouts are drawn; it’s night down here. My fingers brush the switch on the wall, flip it. The room bursts into light.

It’s been two months since I last visited, two months since David arrived for a tour. He scanned it all with his licorice-dark eyes—the living area, with Ed’s drafting table front and center; the narrow sleeping alcove; the chrome-and-walnut kitchenette; the bathroom—and nodded once.

He hasn’t done much with the place. He’s scarcely done anything with the place. Ed’s sofa is where it was; the drafting table has stayed put, although it’s now level. A plate rests on its surface, plastic fork and knife X-ed across it like a coat of arms. Toolboxes are stacked against the far wall, next to the outside door. On the topmost box I spot the borrowed box cutter, its little tongue of blade glittering beneath the overheads. Beside it a book, spine broken. Siddhartha .

A photograph in a slim black frame hangs on the wall opposite. Me and Olivia, age five, on our front steps, my arms wreathed around her. Grinning, both of us, Olivia with her summer teeth—“summer here, summer there,” Ed liked to say.

I’d forgotten about that picture. My heart twitches a little. I wonder why it’s still hanging.

I tread to the alcove. “David?” I ask quietly, even though I’m certain he’s not here.

The sheets are roiled at the foot of the mattress. Deep dents in the pillows, like they’ve been scissor-kicked. I catalogue the inventory of the bed: filigree of brittle ramen noodle coiling upon pillowcase; prophylactic, wilted and greasy, snagged upon the newel; aspirin bottle lodged between bedstead and wall; hieroglyphs of dried sweat, or semen, inscribed across top sheet; a slender laptop at the foot of the mattress. A belt of condom packets is looped around a floor lamp. An earring beams on the nightstand.

I peek into the bathroom. The sink is brindled with whiskers, the toilet yawning wide. Within the shower, a gaunt bottle of store-brand shampoo and a shard of soap.

I retreat, return to the main room. Run a hand along the drafting table.

Something nibbles at my brain.

I grasp at it, lose it.

I scan the room once more. No photo albums, although I suppose no one keeps photo albums anymore ( Jane did, I remember); no CD wallet or DVD tower, but I guess those are extinct as well. Isn’t it amazing how according to the Internet, some people might as well not exist? Bina had asked. All David’s memories, all his music, everything that might unlock the man—it’s gone. Or, rather, it’s all around me, floating in the ether, but invisible, files and icons, ones and zeros. Nothing left on display in the real world, not a sign, not a clue. Isn’t it amazing?

I look again at the picture on the wall. I think of my cabinet in the living room, packed with DVD slipcases. I’m a relic. I’ve been left behind.

I turn to go.

And as I do, I hear a scratch behind me. It’s the outside door.

And as I watch, it opens, and David stands before me, staring.

50

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I flinch. I’ve never heard him swear. I’ve barely ever heard him speak.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I back up, open my mouth.

“I was just—”

“What makes you think you can just come down here?”

I take another step back, stumble. “I’m so sorry—”

He’s advancing, the door behind him wide open. My vision rolls.

“I’m so sorry.” I breathe deep. “I was looking for something.”

“For what?”

Breathe again. “I was looking for you.”

He lifts his hands, drops them to his sides, the keys flailing in his fingers. “Here I am.” He shakes his head. “Why?”

“Because—”

“You could have called me.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No, you thought you’d just come down here.”

I start to nod, then stop. This is almost the longest conversation we’ve ever had.

“Could you close the door?” I ask.

He stares, turns, pushes it. It shuts with a crack.

When he looks back at me, his features have softened. But his voice is still hard: “What is it you need?”

I feel dizzy. “Can I sit?”

He doesn’t move.

I drift to the sofa, sink into it. He stands statue-still for a moment, the keys jumbled in one palm; then he jams them in his pocket, tugs off his jacket, tosses it into the bedroom. I hear it land on the bed, slither onto the floor.

“This isn’t cool.”

I shake my head. “No, I know.”

“You wouldn’t like it if I went into your space. Uninvited.”

“No. I know.”

“You’d be fuck— You’d be pissed off.”

“Yes.”

“What if I’d been here with someone?”

“I knocked.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?”

I say nothing.

He watches me for another moment, then walks to the kitchen, kicking his boots off. Opens the refrigerator door, grabs a Rolling Rock from the shelf. Chinks it against the edge of the counter, and off pops the cap. It hits the floor, rolls beneath the radiator.

When I was younger, that would have impressed me.

He presses the bottle to his mouth, sips, slowly walks back to me. Slanting his long body against the drafting table, he sips again.

“Well?” he says. “I’m here.”

I nod, gazing up at him. “Have you met the woman across the park?”

His brow creases. “Who?”

“Jane Russell. Across the park. Number—”

“No.”

Flat as a horizon.

“But you did work there.”

“Yeah.”

“So—”

“I worked for Mr. Russell. I never met his wife. I didn’t even know he had a wife.”

“He has a son.”

“Single guys can have kids.” He swigs his beer. “Not that I thought about it that far. That was your question?”

I nod. I feel tiny. Study my hands.

“That’s what you came down here for?”

I nod again.

“Well, you’ve got your answer.”

I sit there.

“Why do you want to know, anyway?”

I look up at him. He’s not going to believe me.

“No reason,” I say. I push my fist against the armrest, try to stand.

He offers me his hand. I take it, his palm rough against my own, and he pulls me to my feet, smooth and swift. I watch the bands of muscle shift in his forearm.

“I’m really sorry for coming down here,” I tell him.

He nods.

“It won’t happen again.”

He nods.

I move toward the stairs. I feel his eyes on my back.

Three steps up, I remember something.

“Did you—didn’t you hear a scream the day you were working there?” I ask, turning, my shoulder pressed against the wall.

“You already asked me that. Remember? No scream? Springsteen.”

Did I? I feel as though I’m falling through my own mind.

51

As I enter the kitchen, the basement door clicking shut behind me, Dr. Fielding calls.

“I received your voicemail,” he tells me. “You sounded concerned.”

I part my lips. I’d been prepared to share the whole story, to decant myself, but there’s no point, is there? He’s the one who sounds concerned, always, about everything; he’s the one magicking my medication to the point where . . . well. “It was nothing,” I say.