The Woman Next Door Page 7

  "Mr. Courtney, your wife's on the line."

  Brett grimaced. "Okay, Sharon"—his grimace became a look of resignation—"I'll take the call."

  Marilyn came on the line immediately. "Brett? It's me."

  "What is it, Marilyn?"

  "You don't have to sound so testy."

  "I'm not testy, Marilyn; I'm busy."

  "Too busy to talk to your wife, I suppose."

  He sighed. "No, Marilyn."

  "I just wanted to talk with you, Brett. I just wanted to have a nice conversation. I won't take up too much of your time."

  "Uh-huh."

  "I thought you should know: There's some kind of . . . I don't know, some kind of draft in the house, and I can't seem to find out where it's coming from. I've checked everywhere—"

  "Did you check the attic? The top half of the window that faces the street falls open sometimes. I guess I should fix it one of these days."

  "No, Brett, I didn't check the attic, but I don't think—"

  "Check it first, then let me know."

  "I'm sure you're wrong, but I'll check it if you want." A pause, then: "Oh, and that little crippled girl came over again today."

  "Little crippled girl?"

  "Christine Bennet. She lives in that ugly little house next door. I've told you about her."

  "Oh, yes."

  "Quite a nice girl, too. A little shy, perhaps a bit too introspective for my tastes, but—"

  "Marilyn, I have to go now. There's a client coming in shortly and—"

  "Okay, Brett, I get the message."

  "Check that window, like I said."

  "Okay, Brett."

  "Good-bye, Marilyn."

  It would have to be done, Marilyn realized. And she'd have to do it, much as she disliked the idea. It was possible that the attic window had fallen open, as Brett said, and that the winter air was moving into the house.

  It was no big thing, she told herself. She could run to the top of the stairs, run to the window, close it—if it was open—and then run back downstairs. No big thing.

  Why, then, was the idea so terrifying? Why, she asked herself, was she convinced that something was in the attic waiting for her?

  "Because I'm a stupid shit!" she said aloud. Because things waited in attics, just like things waited in cellars and in locked rooms and in old, abandoned houses.

  She glanced at the phone. Maybe she could call Brett back and say, "The attic door's locked, Brett, and I can't find the key." Then she'd go lock the door and hide the key. But it was no good. Every lock inside the house worked with one skeleton key, and there were at least a half-dozen doors in the house with skeleton keys in their locks. Brett knew that.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" Marilyn was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there was no way out of it, that she'd have to put aside her fears. That she'd have to go into that damned attic.

  She took a deep breath. "Stupid shit," she repeated.

  No, the house isn't at all drafty; it's just my imagination, just my imagination. But that didn't work, either. The flow of cool air was obvious, even here on the first floor.

  She left the living room, took the stairs quickly, nearly at a run, walked briskly to the attic door.

  And found it open. Wide open.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!"

  All this anxiety, this apprehension, just because the goddamned attic door was open. "You really are a stupid shit, Marilyn."

  She peered up the stairs, thinking that with what courage she had she might be able to check that window after all. It was obviously open; the draft here, in front of the attic door, was like a stiff wind.

  Marilyn shivered.

  She mounted the attic stairs slowly at first, then, halfway up, more quickly. She paused on the top step and studied the window across what looked like an acre of attic floor. Christ, all that junk we put up here and it still looks like an auditorium!

  The window, she saw, was open. Brett would be so smug about that, about being right.

  She started across the attic floor to the window. She wished, suddenly, that she'd brought a coat up with her; it was so cold here, so chilling.

  She winced as a bead of perspiration trickled from her forehead into her eye. She rubbed the eye angrily. "Goddamnit!" she hissed. "Goddamnit!"

  She closed the window with effort and cursed Brett's laziness. The window had probably needed fixing ever since they moved into the house. Well, she'd certainly see to it that it was fixed now, even if it meant calling a damned repairman.

  She started back.

  How long was it since she'd been up here? she wondered. Five years? Ten? Of course, there had never been a reason to come up here. Brett had seen to it that whatever needed storing got stored either here or in the cellar. Or got thrown out. Most of this stuff—the lamps that needed rewiring, the baby furniture, the worn-out chairs, the boxes of letters and postcards could be thrown out. It was all junk. Some women would call it memorabilia; that was just another word for junk. The past is the past. Why leave its props lying around cluttering things up?

  Several seconds before she could see it, she knew that the attic door was closed. She had heard it close.

  She stared at it a long while. Perhaps it would open suddenly through the force of her will. That would spare her a lot of agony, because, of course—she knew it, there was no doubt of it—the door was not just closed; it was locked.

  "My God," she murmured.

  She took the first step, paused. "Please . . . ." And the second. "Please. . . ." Of course it's locked. Something's locked it. Something wants me locked in here.

  She listened to her thoughts, and that portion of her consciousness told her she was being an ass.

  She found that she was halfway to the door, and so drenched with sweat that drops of it were falling to the stairs, making small, dark circles on the old, dry wood. A firetrap. . . . This place is a firetrap.

  She reached for the knob, saw that her hand was trembling, felt certain now, as she had guessed all the way down, that something was behind her, at the top of the stairs, that it was biding its time, waiting for her to discover that, yes, the door was locked before it started down the stairs—very slowly, very casually, while she cringed in a heap. Waiting.

  She turned the knob, pushed.

  The door swung open. She stared at it disbelievingly. It was an illusion; it had to be.

  The door started to close again; its hinges made little rasping noises.

  She ran through. Down the stairs to the first floor.

  Brett, she knew, would tell her the answer. "Simple," he'd say. "The draft from the open window was keeping the door open. When you closed the window, there was no more draft, so the door closed." And she would agree, reluctantly; otherwise he'd gloat.

  And keep the truth to herself.

  "Brett, would you do me a favor?"

  "If I can."

  "Would you take that stuff in the attic—it's all junk —and put it on the curb? Or give it to the Salvation Army? It's just cluttering the house up, and we're never going to do anything with any of it."

  "That's a big job, Marilyn. Maybe we could have a garage sale."

  "Peasants have garage sales, Brett. Besides, it's all junk—every box, every scrap of clothing, every piece of furniture. Unless we plan on using it, it's junk."

  Brett sighed. "Okay, I'll go through it one of these weekends. I'll see what can be thrown out and what can't."

  "Besides . . . rats could hide in that stuff."

  Brett laughed. "I doubt that the Cornhill Neighborhood Association would let any rats in, Marilyn."

  "Does that mean you're going to put it off, like you put off fixing that window?"

  "I'll fix the window, Marilyn. This Saturday. And while I'm up there, I'll have a look around."

  "Can I consider that a promise?"

  "Yes, it's a promise."

  Chapter 11

  Greg Courtney thought of pretending he hadn't heard his mother call to him
. If all she wanted was to ask if he had put his boots, gloves, hat, and coat away, then maybe he could just go up to his room and be by himself for a while. He could listen to some music or read a little. Maybe he could lock the door and read again the note he'd gotten yesterday from Coni Weeker.

  "Greg, I am talking to you."

  Greg hung up his coat, made sure everything else was in its proper place, and went into the living room.

  Marilyn was in the big wing chair near the front windows. The curtains were drawn; one dim lamp had been turned on. She smiled. "Sit down, Greg. There." She nodded at a settee near the entranceway.

  Greg sat and folded his hands over his knees.

  After a full minute, Marilyn said, "Do you love me, Greg?"

  Greg answered the question immediately: "Yes, Mommy."

  Marilyn smiled more broadly, as if amused. "That was too quick, my Gregory. I want you to think about it. I want you to ask yourself what love really is, what it means to you, and then decide if that is what you feel for me. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Mommy."

  Marilyn sighed. "Greg, you mustn't be afraid of me. I'm not going to hurt you. Now, are you afraid of me? Answer truthfully." Another smile, one intended to put him at ease.

  "Did I do something wrong?" Greg asked.

  "We all do wrong things from time to time, Greg. But that doesn't answer my question, does it?"

  "No."

  "So answer it."

  "I'm not afraid."

  "You're not afraid of me, Greg?"

  "No, Mommy."

  "Good." She leaned forward, and, in a tone that Greg had never heard from her before—an objective observer would have called it insistent, pleading; it merely confused Greg—said, "Now, do you love me, Greg?" She held up her hand, palm out. "Think first, and think hard." She waited.

  After what seemed the proper interval, Greg said, "Yes, Mommy."

  Marilyn's face tightened. For a moment, Greg thought she had wanted him to say no, he didn't love her.

  "And what does that mean, Greg? What does love mean?"

  Greg was confused. He said nothing.

  "Greg, I asked you a question. What does love mean to you?"

  "I don't . . . know," Greg said haltingly. "I guess . . . I don't know."

  "I guess it means shit, doesn't it, Greg!" Marilyn was screeching now. "Shit, that's all! Just shit!"

  Greg could say nothing.

  Marilyn stood so abruptly that she pushed her chair back several inches along the bare floor. Greg jumped at the harsh scraping sound it made.

  "You'd better jump," Marilyn hissed. "You'd better jump!"

  "I'm . . . I'm,sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" She was breathing hard.

  "Up . . . to your room!" She pointed stiffly toward the hallway. "Up to your room! And you know when to come down, don't you!"

  "Yes, Mommy."

  "When I say to come down, isn't that right?"

  "Yes . . . yes, Mommy."

  "Now, go!"

  Greg left hurriedly, awkwardly; he stumbled several times on the way.

  March 13, 1961

  Mrs. Winter had noticed it before but ascribed it to her imagination: Just before the babysitter was due to arrive, her child grew very quiet and moody. Attempts to find out why had been unsuccessful. Mrs. Winter decided to question the babysitter:

  "I'm not suggesting anything, you understand. It just seems strange. . . . Well, she's normally such a happy child. Everyone, even strangers, comment on what a happy child she is."

  The babysitter looked startled. "Do you mean she's been . . . complaining about me, saying things?"

  "No, of course not, that's not it at all. It's just that—"

  "I do love her, Mrs. Winter. She's a beautiful little kid. I actually look forward to coming here so I can be near her. That probably sounds kind of silly from a teenager, but it really is true."

  Mrs. Winter sighed. "Yes, well, maybe she doesn't like to see us leave; maybe that's it."

  "Sure it is. I mean, I'm just the babysitter, but you're her mommy and daddy."

  "Uh-huh." Mrs. Winter frowned a little. Something about this girl troubled her; she couldn't pinpoint what it was, exactly. If she were an older girl, a young woman, Mrs. Winter thought, it would be her subtle pretentiousness; but, in a girl so young, it was hard to accept. This girl couldn't possibly possess that sort of sophistication. She was just a teenager, for God's sake —someone concerned with giggling at boys. and with the disasters of acne, and with her just starting menstrual periods. She couldn't possibly have already acquired the guile and the anger and the hostility to be guilty of what, deep in her heart, Mrs. Winter suspected. "Uh-huh. You're probably right." She opened the door. "We'll be back at the usual time."

  "Enjoy yourselves," said the babysitter.

  The child backed up a step, obviously frightened.

  "I think you and I had better have a little talk," the babysitter snarled.

  The child backed up another step, and another. "Come here!" the babysitter demanded.

  The child stayed where she was.

  "I said come here! Now!"

  The child stepped forward.

  The babysitter snatched the Raggedy Ann doll from her.

  "My doll!" the child protested.

  The babysitter grinned. "No, it's mine, for now. And what you're going to do is go to your room and stay there alone until I'm certain. . . ." Her grin softened. "You love your dolly, don't you? But you love your babysitter more, isn't that right? You wouldn't want to see her go away." Damn! she thought. If only she didn't so desperately need the lousy dollar fifty this freakin' job got her, she'd tell Mrs. Winter to shove it!

  The child suddenly started crying—a pleading, desperate cry, and the babysitter realized the precarious position she'd put herself in. She held the doll out to the child. "Take it. You think I'd really keep it from you?"

  The child hesitated, confused.

  "Take it!" the babysitter repeated.

  The child took the doll and smiled as if the babysitter had done her a kindness.

  "See, now," said the babysitter, "I do love you, don't I?"

  Chapter 12

  It was the first time Marilyn had visited, and Christine felt vaguely self-conscious; her little house couldn't possibly measure up to Marilyn's ideas about what was and what was not acceptable in Cornhill, ideas she'd made quite clear the last time Christine visited her:

  "You can see, of course, what we're trying to do here, can't you? It's not that we're trying to recapture the past—that would be stupid, and impossible. We're trying to create . . . I guess you could call it a sanctuary, a place outside what some people refer to as the real world." She laughed derisively—a high-pitched, shrill laugh. It made Christine uncomfortable. "But, of course, the real world is what you create for yourself, isn't it? We have created . . . castles out of the decay of the past. And that is our world."

  And Christine felt sure the woman had cast a deprecatory glance in the direction of her house.

  Marilyn nodded at the small open closet to the back of the foyer. "Can I put my things there?" she said. She slipped out of her sable coat, bent over, started removing her transparent slip-on boots (Old lady's boots, Christine thought).

  "Yes," she replied. "It's nice of you to visit, Mrs. Courtney . . . Marilyn."

  "Well, I don't get out very often, but it's not very often I get a nice new neighbor, is it? I don't mind admitting"—she hung her coat up, set her boots neatly beneath it—"that my house gets a little wearisome from time to time, almost claustrophobic, if you can believe that. So, occasionally, I like to get away from it."

  Christine wheeled her chair into the living room. Marilyn followed, stopped, looked about thoughtfully.

  "You know, dear," she began, "for as long as I can recall, this house has been Cornhill's last eyesore, the . . . pimple on the queen's nose, so to speak. And when your husband—what's his name again?"

  "When Tim started working on it, I said to
myself, and to Brett, 'He'll never do it. He might as well tear it down and start from scratch.'" She paused, looked momentarily ill at ease.

  "Marilyn, is something wrong?"

  "No." She smiled weakly. "It's just very . . . close in here, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Christine answered apologetically. "I'm sorry—"

  Marilyn cut in: "Never mind." Strained cheerfulness. "What was I saying? Oh, yes. But he surprised me—your husband, I mean—he really did, and I'm glad."

  "Thank you, Marilyn, that's very kind."

  Marilyn leaned over and patted Christine's shoulder. "It's not kindness, dear, it's the truth." She straightened, looked around again. Her gaze lingered on Tim's photographs on the living room's west wall. "He's very good, isn't he."

  "I think so."

  "Very good indeed. A little depressing. . . ."

  "It's all in your perception. I think."

  "That's true." And with those words, Christine knew, Marilyn had dropped the subject.

  "Would you like some coffee, Marilyn, or some tea?"

  "Coffee's fine, if you're up to it."

  "I'm up to it." She wheeled herself into the kitchen, became aware that Marilyn was making a show of looking the living room over.

  "Christine," she called, "have you met the woman on the other side of you? Becky Foster. Tall woman . . . pretty, in a burlesque kind of way."

  Christine set the kettle on to boil. She wheeled herself to the kitchen doorway, stopped there. "Yes. She came over a couple days ago. She's nice, very intelligent."

  "Intelligent!" Marilyn seemed, not to understand. "I don't know about that. I imagine she's intelligent." She paused, put her forefinger to her pursed lips, as if in reflection. "But I'll tell you this"—her lips still pursed, her forefinger still up—"I'll tell you this"—she put her hand down—"I'd be very, very careful around her if I were you. I mean, you're an awfully pretty girl, aren't you, and, well, let's face it, essentially helpless in that wheelchair. If you were not impaired. . . ."

  "I prefer the word handicapped, Marilyn." Christine hoped her tone had been instructive, not severe.