The Woman in the Window(16)

“Yeah.” He looks up, at the lights sunk in the ceiling. “There a reason you keep it so dark? A medical reason or something?”

I feel myself flush. “A lot of people in my . . .” What’s the word here? “. . . position feel exposed if the light’s too bright.” I gesture to the windows. “And there’s plenty of natural light in this house in any case.”

David considers this, nods.

“Are you getting enough light in your apartment?” I ask.

“It’s fine.”

Now I nod. “If you find any more of Ed’s blueprints down there, just let me know. I’m saving them.”

I hear the snicker of Punch’s door flap, see him slink into the kitchen.

“I really do appreciate all that you do for me,” I continue, although I’ve mistimed it—he’s moving toward the basement door. “With the . . . trash and the housework and everything. You’re a lifesaver,” I add, lamely.

“Sure.”

“If you wouldn’t mind calling someone to take care of the ceiling . . .”

“Sure.”

Punch bounds onto the island between us and drops something from his mouth. I look at it.

A dead rat.

I recoil. I’m gratified to see that David does, too. It’s a small one, with oily fur and a black worm of a tail; its body has been mauled.

Punch watches us proudly.

“No,” I scold him. He cocks his head.

“He really did a number on it,” David says.

I inspect the rat. “Did you do this?” I ask Punch, before I remember I’m interrogating a cat. He springs from the island.

“Look at that,” David breathes. I glance up: On the opposite side of the island, he’s bent forward, his dark eyes glittering.

“Do we bury it someplace?” I ask. “I don’t want it rotting in the trash.”

David clears his throat. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday,” he says. Trash day. “I’ll take it all out now. You got a newspaper?”

“Does anyone anymore?” That came out more pointed than I intended. I follow up quickly. “I have a plastic bag.”

I find one in a drawer. David extends his hand, but I can do this myself. I snap the bag inside out, tuck my hand inside, gingerly grasp the carcass. A little shiver jolts me.

I tug the bag over the rat and seal the band at the top. David takes it from me and slides open the trash receptacle beneath the island, dumps the dead rat inside. RIP.

Just as he’s yanking the garbage bag from its container, there’s a sound from downstairs; the pipes sing, the walls start talking to one another. The shower.

I look at David. He doesn’t flinch; instead he knots the bag at the top and slings it over his shoulder. “I’ll take this outside,” he says, striding toward the front door.

It’s not as though I was going to ask him her name.





15


“Guess who.”

“Mom.”

I let it slide. “How was Halloween, pumpkin?”

“Good.” She’s chewing on something. I hope Ed remembers to watch her weight.

“Did you get a lot of candy?”

“A lot. More than ever.”

“What was your favorite?” Peanut M&M’s, of course.

“Snickers.”

I stand corrected.

“They’re little,” she explains. “They’re like baby Snickers.”

“So did you have Chinese for dinner or Snickers for dinner?”

“Both.”

I’ll have a word with Ed.

But when I do, he’s defensive. “It’s the one night of the year she gets to eat candy for dinner,” he says.

“I don’t want her getting into trouble.”

Silence. “With the dentist?”

“With her weight.”

He sighs. “I can take care of her.”

I sigh back. “I’m not saying you can’t.”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

I bank a hand against my forehead. “It’s just that she’s eight years old, and a lot of kids experience significant weight gain at this age. Girls especially.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“And remember she already went through a chubby phase.”

“You want her to be a waif?”

“No, that would be just as bad. I want her to be healthy.”

“Fine. I’ll give her a low-calorie kiss tonight,” he says. “A Diet Smooch.”

I smile. Still, when we say goodbye, it’s stiff.





Tuesday, November 2





16


In mid-February—after nearly six weeks shriveled inside my house, after I realized that I wasn’t Getting Better—I contacted a psychiatrist whose lecture (“Atypical Antipsychotics and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”) I’d attended at a conference in Baltimore five years back. He didn’t know me then. He does now.

Those unfamiliar with therapy often assume that the therapist is by default soft-spoken and solicitous; you smear yourself along his sofa like butter on toast, and you melt. It ain’t necessarily so, as the song goes. Exhibit A: Dr. Julian Fielding.