The Woman in the Window(27)

GrannyLizzie: And the students in my third grade class made a big get well card for me. It’s enormous. Glitter and cotton balls everywhere.

thedoctorisin: That’s very sweet.

GrannyLizzie: Honestly I would give it a C+, but it’s the thought that counts.





I laugh. LOL, I type, but then I delete it.

thedoctorisin: I worked with kids, too.

GrannyLizzie: Did you?

thedoctorisin: Child psychology.

GrannyLizzie: Sometimes I feel like that was my job . . .





I laugh again.

GrannyLizzie: Whoa whoa whoa! I almost forgot!

GrannyLizzie: I was able to take a little walk outside this morning! One of my old students dropped by and got me out of the house.

GrannyLizzie: Just for a minute, but it was worth it.

thedoctorisin: What a terrific step. It will only get easier from here.





That might not be true, but for Lizzie’s sake, I hope otherwise.

thedoctorisin: And how wonderful that your students are so fond of you.

GrannyLizzie: This is Sam. No artistic instincts at all, but he was a very nice child and now he’s a very nice man.

GrannyLizzie: Although I forgot my house key.

thedoctorisin: Understandable!

GrannyLizzie: Wasn’t able to get back inside for a moment.

thedoctorisin: I hope that wasn’t too frightening.

GrannyLizzie: A little freaky but I keep a spare in our flower pot. I have beautiful violets in bloom.

thedoctorisin: We don’t have that luxury in NYC!

GrannyLizzie: Laughing Out Loud!





I smile. She hasn’t quite mastered it.

GrannyLizzie: I must go make lunch. Friend coming over.

thedoctorisin: Go do that. I’m glad you have company.

GrannyLizzie: Thanky ou!

GrannyLizzie: : )





She logs out, and I feel radiant. “I may do some good before I am dead.” —Jude, Part Sixth, Chapter 1.



Five o’clock and all’s well. I finish my match (4–0!), sip the last of my wine, and walk downstairs to the television. A Hitchcock doubleheader tonight, I think as I open the DVD cabinet; maybe Rope (underrated) and Strangers on a Train (criss-cross!). Both starring gay actors—I wonder if that’s why I paired them. I’m still on my analyst’s kick. “Criss-cross,” I say to myself. I’ve been monologuing a lot lately. Stick a pin in that for Dr. Fielding.

Or perhaps North by Northwest.

Or The Lady Vanish—

A scream, raw and horrorstruck, torn from the throat.

I spin toward the kitchen windows.

The room is silent. My heart drums.

Where did it come from?

Waves of honeyed evening light outside, wind shifting in the trees. Was it from the street or— And then again, dredged from the deep, shredding the air, full-blooded and frenzied: that scream. Coming from number 207. The parlor windows gape, the curtains restless in the breeze. Warm out today, Bina had said. You should open a window.

I stare at the house, my eyes flicking between the kitchen and parlor, swerving up to Ethan’s bedroom, back to the kitchen.

Is he attacking her? Very controlling.

I don’t have their number. I wriggle my iPhone from my pocket, drop it on the floor—“Fuck.”—and dial directory assistance.

“What address?” Sullen. I answer; a moment later an automated voice recites ten digits, offers to repeat them in Spanish. I hang up, punch the number into the phone.

A ring, purring in my ear.

Another ring.

A third.

A fo—

“Hello?”

Ethan. Shaky, quiet. I scan the side of the house, but can’t find him.

“It’s Anna. Across the park.”

A sniffle. “Hi.”

“What’s going on there? I heard a scream.”

“Oh. No—no.” He coughs. “It’s fine.”

“I heard someone scream. Was that your mom?”

“It’s fine,” he repeats. “He just lost his temper.”

“Do you need help?”

A pause. “No.”

Two tones stutter in my ear. He’s hung up.

His house looks at me neutrally.

David—David’s over there today. Or has he returned? I rap on the basement door, call his name. For an instant I fear that a stranger will open the door, explain sleepily that David’s due back in a little while and would you mind if I went back to bed, thanks so much.

Nothing.

Did he hear it? Did he see it? I ring his number.

Four tones, long and unhurried, then a generic recorded greeting: “We’re sorry. The person you have called . . .” A woman’s voice—always a woman. Maybe we sound more apologetic.

I press Cancel. Stroke the phone as though it’s a magic lamp and a genie will spout forth, ready to dispense his wisdom, grant my wishes.

Jane screamed. Twice. Her son denied that anything was wrong. I can’t summon the police; if he wouldn’t come clean to me, he certainly won’t say anything to men in uniform.

My nails carve sickles into my palm.

No. I need to speak to him again—or better still, to her. I jab the Recent button on my screen, press the Russells’ number. It rings just once before it’s picked up.