L.A. Detwiler - The Widow Next Door

They moved in to 312 Bristol Lane on a Thursday, a blazing July sun gleaming off the white picket fence as if everything was about to change. I stared on as Amos sat purring on my lap, cuddled against the afghan covering my legs. I stroked his angora-like fur, watching box after box spew into the house. Their smiles were palpable across the yard, my view unobstructed by blinds, draperies or annoying trees. I could see it all, every smile, every box, every hope going into that two-storey. Aside from the newcomers, the always deserted road remained that way, and I was glad. For the first time in a long time, I was thankful I lived on a dead-end street, the only people on the cul-de-sac me and 312 Bristol Lane. It gave me a chance to watch without obstruction or distraction. I smiled, Amos’s purrs calming me.

I was glad to have neighbours again. The months that 312 Bristol Lane sat empty were truly boring. It had been a while since there was life next door, the real estate sign sitting in the front lawn for longer than it ever had over the years. Maybe the house was just waiting for the right people to buy it, or maybe the market was on a downward spiral. Whatever was happening, I missed having activity on the lane, having someone to watch and to learn about.

I could tell from that first day that this new couple would be exciting to study, unlike the last neighbours who had left in quite a hurry. It had been a while since I had someone next door who truly interested me. There have been several couples over the many years I’ve lived here, but even on that first day, I knew there was something different about these two people. They felt different than all the couples who had lived there before.

From the first day I saw them, the couple was, quite simply, mesmerising. I think it was just the way they interacted with each other. It was electric, and I liked them right away. I found it comforting to watch the young couple, so obviously in love. You had to be in love to be skipping under the stifling heat, carrying box after box until your arms felt like they would fall off. I’ve been through only a few moves in my lifetime, but it’s enough to know moving isn’t particularly fun. Still, the lively young couple jaunted up the steps, leaning to help each other out. The woman, a perky blonde, seemed especially excited, dancing around the front lawn, eyeing up their new dream home, calling the man who was clearly her husband over to peer at a discovered flower or a charming feature.

I pulled the afghan tighter around my legs, feeling simultaneously happy for the couple and a little envious. I would give anything to be her, wearing a sundress on a day like that. Instead, my old body shivered despite the heat. Getting old meant the loss of so much, and warmth was no exception.

The blonde-haired woman stooped down to stow a box on the front step, and the black-haired man followed suit. He wore a simple grey shirt and some pants, nothing fancy. I couldn’t fault him for that. It was move-in day, after all. Fashion could take a back seat on a day like that.

The blonde wrapped her arms around her man, his arms currently empty. The two embraced on the front step of their brand-new home, a sparkling new life ahead of them. They kissed, and I felt my cheeks moving into a smile at the sight. It was beautiful to see young love again, to remember that feeling, to recall the burning desire I’d once felt in my own youth when I’d been a perky blonde who wore short sleeves instead of afghans on a July day.

In some ways, I could feel the warmth flooding my veins, could feel my own husband’s kiss on my lips, like it had just happened. In other ways, sitting in the stiff rocking chair, staring out the window, it felt like a lifetime ago. My aching hands stroking Amos’s soft fur, I leaned my head back, rocking gently, taking in the sight as the young couple smooched.

I got up a few times that day, stirring Amos from his sleep, to get a cup of tea, to use the bathroom, to wander to the sofa to watch my soap operas on the television at noon. For most of the day, though, I sat, rocking aimlessly, blissfully watching the ins and outs of the new couple.

Their smiles enlivened me. Their joyous skipping, despite their clear exhaustion, energised me. I sat for a long time just wondering how their story would unfold, feeling lucky to be privy to their interactions. I would get to uncover their lives from right here. I would get to be a witness to their love.

The thought thrilled me. After so much loneliness, I had something to look forward to. My heart swelled.

This was what love looked like, love in its truest, purest form, love ready to take on life.

Staring out that window on that summer day, though, I hoped the couple could make it last, could hang on to the kiss on the front steps.

Despite my silent prayers, I knew without a doubt that, before long, the joy would fade and the couple’s dream home would become a slaughterhouse not much unlike my own.

A woman has a way of knowing these things.

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.