The Other Mrs.(52)

Sitting there in the café, I imagine the angry, tempestuous waves I saw on my run. I think of all the people who ride the ferry to and from the mainland day after day after day, sitting at the top of it with over three miles of seawater with which to dispose of a murder weapon.

So much latitude, so much leeway. Everyone so wrapped up in themselves, not paying attention to what others around them are doing.

The current of the Atlantic sweeps upward along the coast and toward Nova Scotia. From there it’s Europe-bound. There’s little chance a knife would wash ashore on the coast of Maine if the killer tossed it out to sea.

I leave my coffee where it is when I go. I didn’t drink a drop of it.



CAMILLE


I’ve always hated the ocean. But somehow I convinced myself to follow him there because wherever Will was was where I wanted to be.

I found a place to stay, an empty house near his. The house was teensy, tiny, pathetic, with sheets that hung from furniture, making everything ghostlike.

I walked through the inside of the house, looked everything over. I sat on their chairs, I lay on the beds just like Goldilocks. One was too big, too small, but one was just right.

I opened and closed dresser drawers, saw nearly nothing inside, forgotten things only, like socks, dental floss, toothpicks.

I turned the faucets. Nothing came out. The pipes were empty, the toilet was, too. The cupboards, the refrigerator were nearly bare. The only thing there was a box of baking soda. The house was cold.

In that house, my existential crises were frequent. I found myself stuck inside, killing time, wondering why. I was trapped in darkness, feeling like I didn’t exist, feeling like I shouldn’t exist. I thought that maybe I’d be better off dead. I thought about ways to end my life. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’d tried before, would have done it, too, if I hadn’t been interrupted. It’s only a matter of time until I try again.

Some nights I left that house, stood in the street watching Will through the window of his own home. Most nights, the porch light was on, a beacon for Sadie when she wasn’t there. It pissed me off. He loved Sadie more than he loved me. I hated Sadie for it. I screamed at her. I wanted to kill her, I wanted her dead. But it wasn’t as easy as that.

As I stood in the street, I watched smoke come gushing from the chimney and into the night, gray against the navy sky. There were lamps on inside the home. A yellow glow filled the window, where the curtains were parted in a perfect V.

Everything about it read like a damn greeting card.

One night, I stood watching through that window. For a second, I closed my eyes. I imagined myself on the other side of it with him. In my mind, I grappled with his sweater. He tugged at my hair. He pressed his mouth to mine. It was wild and fierce. He bit my lip. I tasted blood.

But then the rev of a car engine roused me. I opened my eyes, saw the car come chugging up the street. The Little Engine That Could. I stepped out of the way, dropped down into the ditch where the driver wouldn’t see me lurking in the shadows.

The car passed slowly by. Puffs of smoke sputtered from the back end of it. I think I can, I think I can.

I watched as Will knelt in the room inside his house. He wore a sweater that night, gray, the kind with a half zip. He wore jeans, he wore shoes. He was playing with his kid, the little one, on their knees in the middle of the room. The stupid kid, he was smiling. He was happy as a damn clam.

He took the kid by the hand. Together, they rose from the floor, went to the window. They stood, looking out into the night. I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. I could see everything on the inside because of how dark it was outside. The fire in the fireplace. The vase on the mantel; the painting on the wall.

They were waiting for Sadie to come home.

I told myself he wasn’t trying to ditch me when he came to this island. He had no choice but to go. Just like a larva has no choice but to turn into a flea.

Just then another car came passing by, but this time I didn’t move.

  I tried not to be a nuisance. But some days I couldn’t help myself. I left messages on Sadie’s car window; I sat on the hood of her car, chain-smoked my way through a pack of cigarettes before some old hag tried to tell me I couldn’t smoke there, that I had to smoke somewhere else. I didn’t like being told what to do. I told her, This is a free country. I can smoke wherever the hell I want. I called her things, a biddy, an old bag. She threatened to tell on me.

I let myself into their home one day when no one was there. Getting inside was easy. If you watch anyone long enough, you know. The passwords, the PINs—they’re all the same. And they’re all there in the paperwork that gets tossed in the trash. Someone’s birth date, the last four digits of a Social Security number on a tax form, a pay stub.

I hid out of sight, watched Will’s car as it pulled away before I went to the garage keypad, plugged some code in. I got it on the third try.

From there, the door to the house unlocked. I turned the knob, let myself in.

The dogs didn’t bark when I stepped inside. Some guard dogs they are. They scurried over, sniffed my hand. They licked me. I petted their heads, told them to go lie down, and they did.

I stepped out of my shoes, made my way around the kitchen first, tinkering with things, touching things. I was hungry. I opened the refrigerator door, found something inside, sat at the table to eat.

I pretended this was my home. I kicked my feet up on another chair, reached for a days-old newspaper. I sat awhile, reading obsolete headlines as I ate.