The Woman in the Window(56)

I can hear urine drilling into the bowl. Ed used to do that, pee so forcibly that it was audible even with the door closed, like he was boring a hole through the porcelain.

The flush of the toilet. The hiss of the tap.

There’s someone in her house. Someone pretending to be her.

The bathroom door opens, closes.

The son and the husband are lying. They’re all lying. I sink deeper into the cushion.

I stare at the ceiling, at the lights like dimples. Shut my eyes.

Help me find her.

A creak. A hinge, someplace. David might have gone back downstairs. I tip to one side.

Help me find her.

But when I open my eyes a moment later, he’s returned, flopping onto the sofa. I straighten up, smile. He smiles back, looks past me. “Cute kid.”

I swivel. It’s Olivia, beaming within a silver frame. “You’ve got her picture downstairs,” I remember. “On the wall.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Didn’t have anything to replace it with.” He drains his glass. “Where is she, anyway?”

“With her dad.” Swallowing wine.

A pause. “You miss her?”

“Yes.”

“You miss him?”

“I do, in fact.”

“Talk to them a lot?”

“All the time. Just yesterday, actually.”

“When do you see them next?”

“Probably not for a while. But soon, I hope.”

I don’t want to talk about this, about them. I want to talk about the woman across the park. “Should we check out that ceiling?”



The steps coil up into blackness. I lead; David follows.

As we pass the study, something ripples beside my leg. Punch, stealing downstairs. “Was that the cat?” David asks.

“That was the cat,” I answer.

We ascend past the bedrooms, both dark, and onto the uppermost landing. I slap my hand to the wall, find the switch. In the sudden light, I see David’s eyes on mine.

“It doesn’t look any worse,” I say, pointing to the stain overhead, spread across the trapdoor like a bruise.

“No,” he agrees. “But it’ll get there. I’ll take care of it this week.”

Silence.

“Are you very busy? Finding a lot of work?”

Nothing.

I wonder if I might tell him about Jane. I wonder what he’d say.

But before I can decide, he’s kissed me.





55


We’re on the floor of the landing, the carpet rough against my skin; then he hoists me up, carries me to the nearest bed.

His mouth is on my mouth; stubble sandpapers my cheeks and chin. One hand rakes my hair hard, while the other tugs at my sash. I suck in my gut as the robe spreads wide, but he only kisses me harder, my throat, my shoulders.

Out flew the web, and floated wide; The mirror crack’d from side to side; “I am half-sick of shadows,” cried The Lady of Shalott.



Why Tennyson? Why now?

I haven’t felt this in so long. I haven’t felt in so long.

I want to feel this. I want to feel. I am so sick of shadows.



Later, in the dark, my fingers brush his chest, his stomach, the line of hair trailing down from his navel like a fuse.

He breathes quietly. And then I drift away. And I half dream of sunsets, and of Jane; and at some point I hear a soft tread on the landing, and to my surprise, I hope he comes back to bed.





Sunday, November 7





56


When I awake, my head swollen, David is gone. His pillow feels cool. I press my face to it; it smells of sweat.

I roll to my side, away from the window, from the light.

What the hell happened?

We were drinking—of course we were drinking; I pinch my eyes shut—and then we made our way to the top story. Stood beneath the trapdoor. And so to bed. Or, no: First we hit the landing floor. Then bed.

Olivia’s bed.

My eyes bolt open.

I’m in my daughter’s bed, her blankets wrapped around my naked body, her pillow dry with the sweat of a man I barely know. God, Livvy, I’m sorry.

I squint at the doorway, into the dim of the hall; then I sit up, the sheets clasped to my breasts—Olivia’s sheets, printed with little ponies. Her favorite. She refused to sleep on anything else.

I turn toward the window. Gray outside, November drizzle, rain leaking from the leaves, from the eaves.

I cast a glance across the park. From here I can gaze directly into Ethan’s bedroom. He isn’t there.

I shiver.

My robe is smeared across the floor like a skid mark. I step from the bed, gather it in my hands—why are they shaking?—and swaddle myself. One slipper lies abandoned beneath the bed; I find the other on the landing.

At the top of the stairs, I take a breath. The air is stale. David’s right: I should ventilate. I won’t, but I should.

I walk down the stairs. At the next landing, I look one way, then the other, as though I’m about to cross a street; the bedrooms are quiet, my sheets still disarranged from my night with Bina. My Night with Bina. Sounds filthy.

I’m hungover.