The Woman Next Door (10 page)

"Definitely
not
when my husband's home, but any other time, please feel free."

"Good. I will."

Becky Foster left, and Christine thought she was the kind of person who was easy to talk to, and very easy to like.

"M
r. 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."

I
t 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
!"

S
he 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.

"B
rett, 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."

G
reg 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

M
rs. 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—"