The Woman in the Window(57)

One flight down and I peer into the library, into the study. The Russell place peers back at me. I feel as though it’s tracking me as I move through my house.



I hear him before I see him.

And when I see him, he’s in the kitchen, sucking water from a tumbler. The room is shadows and glass, as dim as the world beyond the window.

I study his Adam’s apple as it bobs in his throat. His hair is scruffy at the nape; a slim hip peeks from beneath the fold of his shirt. For an instant I close my eyes and recall that hip in my hand, that throat against my mouth.

When I open them again, he’s looking at me, eyes dark and full in the gray light. “Quite an apology, huh?” he says.

I feel myself blush.

“Hope I didn’t wake you up.” He raises his glass. “Just needed a refill. Got to head out in a minute.” He gulps the rest of it, sets the glass in the sink. Drags a hand across his lips.

I don’t know what to say.

He seems to sense this. “I’m gonna get out of your hair,” he says, and comes toward me. I tense, but he’s making for the basement door; I move aside to let him pass. When we’re shoulder to shoulder, he turns his head, speaks low.

“Not sure if I should be saying thanks or sorry.”

I look him in the eye, summon the words. “It was nothing.” My voice is throaty in my ears. “Don’t worry about it.”

He considers, nods. “Sounds like I should be saying sorry.”

I drop my gaze. He steps past me and opens the door. “I’m heading out tonight. Job in Connecticut. Should be back tomorrow.”

I say nothing.

When I hear the door shut behind me, I exhale. At the sink I fill his glass with water and bring it to my lips. I think I can taste him all over again.





57


So: That happened.

I never liked that expression. Too flip. But here I am and there it is:

That happened.

Glass in hand, I drift to the sofa, where I find Punch curled on the cushion, his tail switching back and forth. I sit beside him, stow the glass between my thighs, and tilt my head back.

Ethics aside—though it isn’t really an ethical issue, is it? Sex with a tenant, I mean?—I can’t believe we did what we did in my daughter’s bed. What would Ed say? I cringe. He’s not going to find out, of course, but still. But still. I want to torch the sheets. Ponies and all.

The house breathes around me, the steady tick of the grandfather clock a faint pulse. The whole room is in shadow, a blur of shades. I see myself, my phantom self, reflected in the television screen.

What would I do if I were on that screen, a character in one of my films? I would leave the house to investigate, like Teresa Wright in Shadow of a Doubt. I would summon a friend, like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. I wouldn’t sit here, in a puddle of robe, wondering where next to turn.

Locked-in syndrome. Causes include stroke, brain stem injury, MS, even poison. It’s a neurological condition, in other words, not a psychological one. Yet here I am, utterly, literally locked in—doors closed, windows shut, while I shy and shrink from the light, and a woman is stabbed across the park, and no one notices, no one knows. Except me—me, swollen with booze, parted from her family, fucking her tenant. A freak to the neighbors. A joke to the cops. A special case to her doctor. A pity case to her physical therapist. A shut-in. No hero. No sleuth.

I am locked in. I am locked out.



At some point I rise, move to the stairs, put one foot in front of the other. I’m on the landing, about to step into my study, when I notice it. The closet door is ajar. Just slightly, but ajar.

My heart stops for an instant.

But why should it? It’s just an open door. I opened it myself the other day. For David.

. . . Except I closed it again. I would have noticed if it had been left open—because I did just notice it had been left open.

I stand there, wavering like a flame. Do I trust myself?

Despite everything, I do.

I walk toward the closet. I place my hand on the knob, gingerly, as though it might twist away from me. I pull it.

Dark inside, deeply dark. I wave my hand overhead, find the frayed string, tug. The room flares with light, blind white, like the inside of a bulb.

I look around. Nothing new, nothing gone. The paint tins, the beach chairs.

And there on the shelf sits Ed’s toolbox.

And I know, somehow, what’s inside.

I approach, reach for it. Unbuckle one latch, then the other. Lift the lid, slowly.

It’s the first thing I see. The box cutter, back in place, its blade gleaming in the glare.





58


Wedged in the library wingback, thoughts tumble-drying in my brain. Had settled myself in the study a moment earlier, but then that woman appeared in Jane’s kitchen; my body jolted, and I fled the room. There are now forbidden zones in my own house.

I watch the clock on the mantel. Nearly twelve. I haven’t had a drink today. I suppose that’s A Good Thing.

I might not be mobile—I’m not mobile—but I can think my way through this. It’s a chessboard. I’m good at chess. Concentrate; think. Move.

My shadow stretches along the carpet, as though trying to detach itself from me.

David said he hadn’t met Jane. And Jane never mentioned having met David—but then maybe she didn’t, not until later, not until after our four-bottle throttle. When did David borrow the box cutter? Was it the same day I heard Jane scream? Wasn’t it? Did he threaten her with it? Did he end up doing more than that?