The Woman Next Door Read online

  This "house thing," as she thought of it, was a good example of that overprotectiveness. A home of our own—it was a phrase he used in a tone that approached reverence. And Christine realized it was in reverence of her, or, more correctly, in reverence of her handicap. A home of our own. Compensation for all that life had denied her, the gift of privacy and independence in lieu of the gift of mobility.

  Fortunately, valid excuses had been easy enough to find: the expense, the neighborhood, etc. They were excuses that, over the past six months, she had ultimately been forced to agree with.

  Today, however, was the turning point; Christine knew it. Tim's enthusiasm was too great. An argument was inevitable. This place—the "Cornhill Preservation District"—charmed him. The ten square blocks of large Victorian homes and converted gas lamps and cobblestone streets was like a leap backward to a less convoluted, less self-serving, ultimately simpler time. Add to that the fact that houses still in need of restoration were selling for as little as a couple hundred dollars, and Christine couldn't blame Tim at all for his enthusiasm. Here his dream of a home of our own was all but assured. Only she—the focus of that dream—stood in the way.

  He turned right onto Selbourne Avenue. "The next one," he said, "is a gem. You'll love it." He reached the end of Selbourne Avenue and turned left onto Briar Street. He stopped almost immediately.

  The house, like most of the others in the district, was of brick, but it was simple, uncluttered. There was some scrollwork along the roof line and around the windows, but it did little to alter the house's appearance of strength and solidity. There was nothing gingerbready about it.

  Christine hated it. It was a hiding place, a fortress, a place to shut herself up in. That was why Tim had called it "a gem," she realized.

  "What do you think?" he said. He was smiling, pleased. This was the pièce de résistance.

  She smiled back, hoping he would catch the falseness of it. "I don't know."

  "You don't know? How can you not know? It's perfect, absolutely perfect. It's practically all you need."

  "All I need, Tim?"

  "All we need." He was still smiling, was obviously not aware of the implications of what he'd said. "Just the right size, doesn't need that much work, and we can get it for almost nothing. It's perfect."

  "Can we talk about it, Tim?"

  "Talk about it? Sure we can talk about it. Let's talk."

  "I mean later."

  He said nothing for a long moment, then: "I'm wasting my time, aren't I."

  She could hear the disappointment in his voice, the hurt just starting, and it made her suddenly, inexplicably angry with him. She said nothing.

  Tim put the car in gear. "Yes," he said, "we'll talk. I want to get this damned thing straight." He pulled away from the house. "It's the same old story, isn't it?"

  "The same old story?"

  "Yes. You suspect my motives: Tim wants to be the white knight for poor, crippled Christine."

  He paused. She said nothing.

  "I knew it," he continued. "Jesus, when are you going to learn I've grown beyond that!"

  He put the left blinker on, slowed the car. Christine looked ahead, read the street sign: "Longview Terrace."

  "Well," he said, "believe what you want. You always have." He turned onto Longview Terrace. "One more," be continued. "Then we'll go. Not that I'm letting you off the hook. We are going to talk. Your particular . . . delusion isn't doing either of us a bit of good."

  "Fine," she said. It was nearly a whisper.

  He glanced at her. "Are you listening to me?"

  She said nothing. She was looking out her window; she was very still.

  "Christine?"

  Again nothing.

  He reached across the seat, put his hand on her shoulder. "Honey?"

  She turned her head slowly. Their eyes met. He withdrew his hand spontaneously and grinned, suddenly nervous.

  "If looks—," he began, and fell quiet. She had turned her head again.

  In 1907 Joseph Stearns married Isabelle Morgan. It was a marriage that was several years in the making, a kind of gift to them both: Stearns had just finished law school and felt he could now support a wife.

  Owning a house, he believed, was critical to his new role as lawyer and husband; it had much to do with his standing in the community and with his status as a family man. Besides, Isabelle had, long before their marriage, made it clear that she would not accept living in apartments.

  In most things, Joseph Stearns was a conservative man. His politics, his religion, his social views all reflected his Victorian upbringing. It dismayed him, therefore, that his tastes in architecture didn't run in the same direction, that the plans his architect showed him depicted, as he called them, "nightmarish monstrosities." He supposed that his hatred of the architecture of the time meant that he was, above all else, a realist, an honest, no-nonsense man. And there was the cost to consider, as well.

  In the end, with the grudging help of his architect, he designed his own house. A year later, a couple months after their marriage, Joseph and Isabelle Stearns moved into their new home at 26 Longview Terrace.

  From the first day, Isabelle's disappointment was obvious. The house was too small, she said. It was too plain, she said. It was like a box made of bricks. The rooms, all the rooms, gave her claustrophobia. It had no charm, she said.

  And Joseph Stearns couldn't help but agree. His first attempt at architecture had been a dismal failure. The house was all but unlivable.

  In 1909 Isabelle Stearns died of influenza. A year later Joseph sold the house, at a substantial loss, to a sculptor named Gears. Gears lived in it until June 1922, when he boarded a train for New York City and was never heard from again. The house became the property of Gears's only living relative, his sister, Elizabeth O'Donahue, who used it as an income property. She rented it, variously, to newlyweds and transients and artists who, like her brother, found its plainness oddly appealing.

  But, because Elizabeth O'Donahue was a woman to whom the responsibilities of being a landlady were not as important as the meager financial rewards, the house slowly fell into decay. In March 1950, with a week's worth of snowfall on it, the back section of the roof of 26 Longview Terrace collapsed, killing a young mother and severely injuring her five-year-old son.

  Elizabeth O'Donahue was successfully prosecuted for negligence, and eventually the house reverted to the city, became a burden, a file number, an eyesore—only one of several hundred such houses in what had then become, and would remain for another decade, the slum district known as Cornhill.

  Tim Bennet didn't know how to deal with his wife's silence, because he didn't know the reason for it. If it was a "tactic," it was one he hadn't expected from her and had never before encountered.

  He leaned over and looked past her at the small red brick house. "Well," he said, "it's nothing if not ugly."

  Christine remained silent, her head still turned, her hands flat in her lap.

  "They're going to bulldoze it," Tim said, straining to sound casual, "unless some poor slob buys it pretty soon."

  He waited. Still nothing.

  "Okay," he said. "Okay." He straightened, put his band on the gearshift.

  Christine looked at him.

  "I'm sorry," Tim said, without knowing why, suddenly needing to say something, anything, to soften whatever it was—anger? hatred?—that had tightened her face, transformed it. "I'm sorry," he repeated, putting the car in gear, his hands shaking, his eyes still on her, disbelieving, uncertain.

  "No," she said, "I like the house. Can we go inside?" Tim couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  It looks just right, doesn't it, Tim? Not too big or too small. It's not expensive, I imagine."

  "Three hundred."

  "Is that all?"

  And it struck Tim that what he was seeing was an impossibility, that Christine couldn't speak so enthusiastically, so hopefully, without showing it around the lips and eyes, that only venom could some f
rom that face. "It's beyond repair, darling," he said.

  She laughed. Lightly. Pleasantly. Laughter that had, so many times before, made him reply spontaneously—without reason—with his own laughter. But now it stopped his breathing momentarily. "Nothing is beyond repair, Tim. It's always just a matter of time. And money."

  "Money we don't have, Christine. Money we'd have to borrow. And I don't even know if I have the expertise to—"

  "Buy it for me, Tim. I really do like it. I'd like to live in it." Tim said nothing. He stared incredulously at her. Her face was a mask of pleading and insistence. And then, at once, he knew what his answer would be, and why: Because he loved her. And because she had asked.

  "Yes," he said. He took his foot off the brake, touched the accelerator. "For you, Christine."

  "You will? Oh, thank you, Tim. Thank you!"

  He turned onto Briar Street, then onto Selbourne Avenue. Within minutes, they were on the expressway and heading for their apartment.

  Chapter 2

  Six months later

  Marilyn Courtney pushed at her husband's chest. "Okay," she said, "are you finished?"

  Brett Courtney rolled off her and onto his back. "Yes," he sighed, "I'm finished." He inhaled deeply, let it out slowly, and sat up on the twin bed. "It's cold in here, Marilyn." He leaned over, picked his pajama bottoms up from the floor, stood, put them on. "What have you got the thermostat set at, anyway?"

  "Sixty-eight."

  "I've told you time and again, Marilyn—seventy-two."

  She pushed herself up to a sitting position. "You want me to go downstairs and change it? Is that what YOU want?"

  "No. Forget it." He went to his bed. "It can wait." He lay down. "Turn the light off, would you?"

  She turned the light off. "I will change it if you want, Brett."

  "I said forget it; it's all right."

  "I mean, if you're cold. . . ."

  "Oh, luck." A sigh. "If you want to change it, change it. I don't care."

  "Jesus, aren't you in a good mood!"

  Brett said nothing.

  "Did you know we got some new neighbors today?" Silence.

  "Right next door, number twenty-six."

  "That shit hole?" Brett grunted.

  "Oh, it's not so bad now. The husband's been working on it since June."

  "I hadn't noticed."

  "Uh-huh," Marilyn said. "Anyway, this young couple moved in today. And the wife—very pretty little thing; you know the type: blonde hair, blue eyes, looks like a Breck girl—well, it turns out she's a cripple."

  "A cripple?"

  "Uh-huh, wheelchair and everything. Really a pity. I mean, can you imagine—?"

  "No, I can't," Brett cut in, "and I'd prefer not to."

  "I was just going to say, can you imagine what a burden she must be on her husband?"

  She waited. Brett said nothing.

  "I knew something was up when I saw him building that ramp," she said.

  "Ramp?"

  "Next to their front porch. Haven't you seen it? My God, Brett, don't you care what goes on in this neighborhood?"

  Not really."

  "I thought so. Anyway, I saw him building that ramp and I said to myself, 'Now, what's he building that for? That looks like hell.' And then it occurred to me that the handicapped use ramps like that, and I just knew that somebody in his family was handicapped, and who does it turn out to be but his wife. Can you imagine it, Brett? I'm sure you've seen this man—"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Well, he was working on that house every chance he got. God knows it needed it. I don't see how you could have missed him. Great big guy, must be six-five if he's an inch, and not bad-looking, either, in a Neanderthal sort of way. And when I saw that poor wife of his, I said to myself, 'What a pity that he got hooked up with her,' because it really did look like she'd been in the wheelchair a long, long time, if you know what I mean."

  "No." Then, resignedly: "Tell me."

  "Well, it looked like it was part of her, like she was comfortable with it, and he looked like he'd been pushing it a long time, too."

  "That's crap, Marilyn."

  "Brett, I know these things, these subtle little things. If you'd take more of an interest in people, you'd know what I'm talking about."

  "I suppose." He was tired.

  "And I've seen her before, too."

  "Seen who?" He knew who; it was his way of telling her to be quiet.

  "That crippled woman. I don't remember where, exactly, but I have seen her before."

  "Of course you have, Marilyn. You said her husband's been working on that house for six months."

  "No, I mean before that. And today's the first time she's come to that house, anyway. I know that."

  "I'm sure you do. Other women watch soap operas; you stand at the windows."

  "That's unkind, Brett."

  He sighed. "I know it. I'm sorry. Now, please, can we go to sleep?"

  "And another thing: He wouldn't have built that ramp unless that wheelchair was a long-term thing. So, you see, she isn't in it temporarily because of some accident; she's in it for good. Poor thing."

  "Marilyn, I'm tired. Can we please go to sleep?"

  She rolled over suddenly and faced the window. The drapes were parted slightly; she could see the Bonnets' house. "They're still up," she said.

  Silence.

  "They've got a light on, Brett. They're still up. Real night owls, aren't they?"

  Silence. She lifted her head a little, listened. Brett began to snore—lightly, rhythmically.

  She lowered her bead. "They're still up," she repeated, in a whisper. "Why are they still up?"

  Brett was right, she thought: It was cold. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders, brought her knees up.

  Real night owls.

  She considered turning over and checking the alarm clock on the table between Brett's bed and hers, but decided not to: She was comfortable in this position.

  She saw the light in the Bennet house dim briefly. Someone had passed in front of the window. Probably the husband, unpacking, doing some more work on the house, while she—the wife—slept. Probably a very fragile little thing. Probably had to be on a special diet.

  Damn, but it was cold! The house had never been this cold before.

  She pulled the blanket to halfway over her head. Soon she became aware that she was shivering. She sat up, leaned forward, unfolded the bedspread, pulled it over her. She felt her teeth chattering and thought how ridiculous that was: Her teeth never chattered. No one's teeth ever chattered, for God's sake.

  She looked at the Bennet house again, realized there were no curtains on that window. She squinted, but saw little—a white wall with a painting on it, a lampshade.

  She sighed—it warmed her—and became aware that the bedroom door had swung open. She jerked her head to the right. "What—?"

  Her son. He had a blanket wrapped tightly around bun. "Mommy, I'm cold. I can't sleep."

  Marilyn sat up and switched the light on. She looked at her husband. "Brett?" She looked at her son. "Come here, Greg."

  He went to her, crawled into bed beside her. "Brett?" Louder now, but he continued snoring. "Brett!"

  He stirred, stopped snoring, opened his eyes, looked at her, saw his son. "Greg?" he said. "What are you doing in here?"

  "He's cold," Marilyn said. "And so am I. Something's wrong, Brett. Go and check."

  Reluctantly, Brett swung his feet to the floor. "I told you it was cold," he said. "Where's my fucking bathrobe?"

  "Where it always is," Marilyn said. "In the closet. And I wish you'd watch your language, Brett." She nodded at Greg snuggled up next to her.

  Brett closed his eyes briefly. "Sorry," he murmured. He got his bathrobe, put it on, and left the room.

  Marilyn switched the lamp off. She turned her head, looked out the window. The Bennet house was dark now.

  It was incredible, the whole six months. Incredible. And now, just yesterday. . . .
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br />   Was he seeing her, really seeing her, another facet of her, for the first time? And what was he seeing? He wanted to ask her. He wanted to know; he needed to know.

  "Christine?" he whispered. He studied the pale oval that was her face. "Christine?" he repeated, no louder.

  He decided to let her sleep: It would take an effort to wake her. And it would be cruel; she would lead him to believe that it was cruel, even though she had gone to bed shortly after dinner, a good six or seven hours ago. Usually, that much sleep would have been enough—too much, in fact. She had always awakened before him, always seemed to regard sleep as a waste of time, a necessary evil, always had the kind of driving energy he envied and was also a little afraid of, for her sake.

  But it had all changed. Her energy, her passion for living. Changed. Altered.

  He thought at first that it was related to her handicap, but (partially out of fear that it was true) quickly discarded the idea.

  Now, their first night in their first house, that fear nagged at him. Because, beyond the mandatory, "It's nice, Tim, you've done a good job, I like it," she had had absolutely no reaction to the house—as if it were some hotel they would be staying in for a couple weeks, a stopover, and no reaction was required.

  It hurt him deeply. A lot of hard work, to say nothing of the money, had gone into this house. And, in most respects, it was hers, had been designed for her comfort. What had been the second floor—consisting of two small bedrooms and a closet-sized bathroom—was now an open loft, his studio. For her convenience, it was connected to the ground floor by a small elevator. But when he'd shown her the elevator and explained how it worked, she had merely smiled in a patronizing way—a smile she had never before used on him.

  And it was the same throughout the rest of the house: The floor-standing cupboards in the kitchen—each with its own lazy Susan—sparked nothing but a patronizing smile; the one large bedroom and bathroom on the first floor—a patronizing smile; the wide doorways, the ramp leading to the front door, the swing-in front windows—a patronizing smile.