L.A. Detwiler - The Widow Next Door

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.’