The Woman Next Door (14 page)

She took off her coat.

"H
as he come back yet, Miss Diehl?"

"No, Mrs. Courtney, but I'll have him call you when—"

"Just tell him I've been trying to reach him. If he wants to call me, he'll call me."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Courtney."

"That's right, Miss Diehl."

A
winter fog—chilling and beautiful—and Sonny Norton thought it was sad that only he would see it.

It was one of those mornings, a Sunday morning, that he woke early, just before sunrise, when he could leave the house without his sister knowing and go out and enjoy how the morning air felt inside his chest, how the houses looked in that light—all that sandblasted brick and shiny roofing tile and polished stained glass flattened out—one-dimensional, as in a painting, a painting that shifted its colors slightly while he watched.

It was simpler, easier then to feel that Cornhill was his, and when the people started waking (he thought he could hear them waking, each of them turning to a husband or a wife or a teddy bear or a doll and saying, "Good morning, I love you"), it was because he was there to see it. Without him, Cornhill would go on sleeping. It was a game; he knew it was a game.

Now, with the ankle-high winter fog standing motionless on it, Cornhill had changed again. The brick roads and sidewalks were gone. Getting from one place to another was just a matter of wishing.

A converted Victorian gas lamp nearby winked out. Though he couldn't yet see it, Sonny knew that the sun was about to rise. Soon his people would begin waking up.

April 24, 196
1

I
t was a silly concept—
boyfriends
. A waste of time. Sluts had boyfriends. Joanne
Vanderburg
was a slut and she had a dozen boyfriends. It was obvious why: Christ, she looked like a
freakin
' whore! Only assholes would want to have anything to do with her. Bill Williams was an asshole and he had a lot to do with her. And who was he, anyway? He was nobody. If you thought about it, his real name was William Williams, and that was just plain stupid. Who in the fuck would give their kid a name like William Williams? Maybe if they knew beforehand that he was going to be an asshole they would. If the doctor said, "Mrs. Williams, your son is going to be an asshole, no doubt about it," they would name him William Williams.

Well, William Williams would get his, and not just from Joanne
Shinebag
Vanderburg
, either. He'd get his so he'd never forget it. She wished—what was a good disease?—
scurvy
on him. And . . . and
syphilis
. Yeah, syphilis was good. Lots of pain. Lots of . . . agony.

"
Mith
King?"

"Why aren't you in bed?" Maybe his cock would fall off.

"Thirsty,
Mith
King."

"I don't care if you're
freakin
' dried up! Get back to bed!"

"
Thirsty!
" The child was whining now.

The babysitter jumped to her feet, pointed stiffly, tremblingly, toward the child's bedroom. "Get back in there! Go on! And if you ever whine like that again . . . ." But the child had turned and fled to her room moments before.

Yeah, his cock would fall off, like he had leprosy or something.

T
he words were almost precisely in the center of the sheet of memo paper, the handwriting small, the letters tight and neat: "The cottage. At four."

Brett picked the note up from his desk. He reread the words several times, as if missing something each time. Finally, he folded the note and put it in the pocket of his suit jacket. He pressed his intercom button. "Sharon were there any visitors while I was out?" He had left the office to have lunch.

"No, Mr. Courtney."

"Thank you, Sharon."

He took the note from his pocket, began unfolding it. And realized, at last, who had written it.

He went to the outer office, stopped at his secretary's desk. "Sharon, I'll be out for the rest of the afternoon."

"Yes, Mr. Courtney. And if someone should call?"

"I'm on a bid, that one in Honeoye, and I can't be reached."

"Yes, sir."

T
he driving was slower this time; the trip seemed interminable. A severe winter storm had been forecast, and the roads were jammed with people trying to make it home before the storm hit. Brett hoped it would hit soon after he got to the cottage. Soon after he and Andrea had settled in. He knew there was a store on the way where he might get the firewood they'd need, and some groceries for dinner (that would be cozy; maybe the store would have candles, too). He'd have to invent some plausible excuse, something Marilyn would believe. But that was for later, much later.

Now he was a man possessed, a man with a purpose, and with happiness in view—short-lived though it might be. The feeling was magnificent.

It struck him that he couldn't remember what Andrea looked like. The word
beautiful
came to him, and he knew that it fell pitifully short of describing her, but the contours and lines of her face (were her eyes round or oval, were her cheekbones high, was her nose slightly upturned?) would not come together in his mind.

He let his mind, relax. Perhaps that would unlock his memory. It didn't, and he felt suddenly troubled, somehow inadequate, as if, in not being able to remember Andrea's face, he had insulted her.

"Damn!" It seemed imperative that he remember; otherwise this impulsive drive would be for nothing. He'd get to the cottage and find it empty.

Except for the other memories. The ones he would never lose. The ones that involved Marilyn. (For him, it had been the start of a small adventure—the gravel road leading to the cabin impassable because of the torrential rains, the summer storm whipping into an insane frenzy all around. Brett knew there was little real danger: The area's drainage systems were good, and the cottage was high enough above lake level that the possibility of flooding was remote. And so he had worked himself into a genuine good humor. The storm was bad, yes, he told Marilyn, but the cabin was solidly built. Why not just enjoy being away from the rat race for a few days? It was what they had planned, anyway.

He hadn't planned on Marilyn's claustrophobia.

At one point—during the peak of the storm—she had even left the cottage. "I'm going home," she announced. "If I have to
walk
the whole forty miles, I'll walk it." And she was out the door. It had taken Brett a full half-hour to get her back inside.

The storm ended the next day. And so, he realized now—eight years later—had their relationship.)

H
e turned, finally, onto the gravel road. Here the traffic was sparse, the road all but empty. There were a few year-round residents, their cottages uniformly small and gray and tired-looking, much like his own. He decided that he enjoyed the lakeside in winter. It was dreary, yes, and cold, but it was also dead quiet. The cacophonous squeals and screeches of summer were months away.

He remembered. Andrea's face was as clear in his mind's eye as his own.

"Andrea," he whispered, because, even in memory, her beauty was breathtaking.

He hit the brake pedal hard; the car came to a jolting stop.

A moment later, Andrea opened the passenger door and got in. "Hello, darling," she said.

Brett stared incredulously at her; words would not come to him.

"I enjoy a winter walk, don't you?"

"Yes," he managed. "I almost . . . hit you."

She smiled reassuringly. "But you didn't. You couldn't." She nodded at the road ahead. "Shall we?" He put the car in gear.

Minutes later, they were at the cottage.

I
t had been the best—by far the best. Nothing even came close. This had been . . . beyond words. Brett smiled at that. He had, on occasion, imagined lovemaking that was beyond words, lovemaking that required not even the grand excuse of an "I love you," however passionately said. This had been (and still was) lovemaking that needed no excuse. And Brett realized that all his lovemaking, all his life, had needed some kind of excuse: It was release; or a child was wanted; or it was to break the monotony (because there was nothing on TV); or because it was Saturday, the night for lovemaking. Always some damned excuse.

Until now.

This past half-hour.

And into this very moment.

Afterglow. . . . He had never before had the time for it, he realized, and he had wondered what it was, precisely. Now he knew.

Then be thought that he was not enjoying it as much as he could, because he was analyzing it.

He squeezed Andrea's shoulder affectionately.

And enjoyed.

"W
e're staying the night, aren't we, Brett?"

It had been a half-hour since their last lovemaking. Were it not for the yellow light of the kerosene lamp on a table across the room, they would be in darkness. Brett picked his watch up from the floor: 7:10. He chuckled. Christ, he had never had any idea how easily time could slip away, how ecstasy could negate it. He thought,
She's the fountain of youth
. And felt her chuckling with him.

"We both are," she said.

He sat up in the small bed, swung his feet to the floor, felt her fingers moving down his spine. He shivered involuntarily, enjoying her touch.

"Yes," he said, "we're staying the night."

He stood, crossed to the lake-facing window, peered out. There were a half-dozen feeble lights burning on the opposite shore, and a pair of lights—headlights, he realized—moving on the frozen surface of the lake. The storm had bypassed them. "Damn," he whispered.

"Is something wrong?" he heard.

"No," he said, his mind suddenly caught up with possible excuses for Marilyn. "It's just that. I forgot to pick up firewood. And we're going to get hungry later

He felt her hands on his buttocks. He had always enjoyed that kind of touching; now it reminded him that he was naked, and cold.

"Let's go get the firewood, Andrea." Something tense in his voice; he hoped she hadn't noticed it.

"I'll stay here, Brett. I'll wait for you." Her hands left his buttocks. "I like it here."

He turned, faced her, saw that she had slipped her black lace panties on and now was stepping into her jeans.

"Okay," he said, surprising himself that he was not giving her an argument. He supposed it was the image that he enjoyed—the image of this remarkable, beautiful, sensuous woman waiting in this tiny cottage for him to return with the firewood and the food. It was such a fantastic, noble image, as if they had both been magically transported to another, less complex time—a time without Marilyn, without excuses. "I won't be long. The store's only a couple miles away. I hope it's still open."

He got into his clothes quickly.

At the door, Andrea kissed him lingeringly.

"Y
ou
livin
' here year round?" asked the store owner. "'Cause if
ya
are, I can arrange to give
ya
some credit—that is, if
ya
got an income.
Ya
got an income?"

"I'm only staying the night. Thanks." He paused, looked around. "Where's Mr. Francis? Did he sell out?"

"
Naw
. He died, 'bout five years ago. A stroke."

"That's too bad. I liked him."

"Didn't know him, myself. Now, what was it
ya
wanted again?"

"Firewood. Mr. Francis used to carry it."

"Sorry, we gave that up. Somethin' else
ya
wanted?" Brett sighed. Without firewood, a stay overnight in the cottage would be close to suicide. "No," he said. "Thanks anyway."

"We got charcoal briquettes. Maybe you can use those.
They's
cheaper than firewood."

"No," Brett repeated. "Thanks again." He left.

H
e sat in the car—the motor off, the headlights on—for several minutes. Something was wrong; he knew it. It was obvious in the way the cottage door hung slightly open, in the memories that flooded back to him—here, now—memories of Marilyn and of Greg, and not of Andrea.

Something was wrong.

He turned the headlights off, got out of the car, moved slowly, resignedly to the door.

He opened the door, stepped in.

The cottage was empty. Andrea had left him. Her offer to stay while he went for the firewood and the food had merely been some kind of excuse.