The Woman Next Door (17 page)

His lungs ached from the cold. The air seemed slightly rarified here. He glanced about. The driveway was on a steep incline; the house—which he couldn't yet see—was apparently near the top of a high ridge that overlooked the lake.

He wondered, suddenly, if his cowardice doomed him.

The snow, he noticed, was harder and crustier halfway down. He decided that meant something; and wondered what it meant. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets—his soft leather gloves offered no warmth at all. A moment later his foot caught on a particularly hard crust and he fell slowly, almost in the pantomime of a fall, face forward into the snow. He thrust his hands through the several, successively harder layers of snow until he found the surface of the driveway itself, then pushed himself to his feet. "For Christ's sake!" he muttered. He brushed himself off. He saw that a wind-driven snowfall had begun.

Am I doomed to living my life out as a coward, a prisoner? Do I value my security so highly that I'm willing to give my life up to it?
He found that he despised his thoughts; they were painful. They could so easily and quickly lead to change, upheaval. And was that fair?

The snowflakes were tiny, pellet-like, and when they hit the exposed area at the back of his neck, they stung. He tried to hitch his coat up so that his neck was protected, but found that it made him lose some of his balance in the layers of snow. He stopped, scanned the hillside. Nothing. Just where was this house?

Was it fair to Greg, whom he hardly knew? And even to Marilyn? His mind reeled at that. Did he still have some feeling for her? Was he actually concerned that she might be hurt if he left her? Was his presence in her life required? Did she—

"
Goddamnit
!" A violent chill went through him as the strong wind bit through his coat. He felt suddenly naked, exposed, mortal.

He looked back at the car. It was barely visible through the gathering storm, and it was at a greater distance than he'd supposed. That comforted him a little; it also frightened him, because it meant that he was beginning to lose track of himself, was letting his thoughts overwhelm him. And now—at this moment, in this place—that was a stupid and dangerous thing to do.

He plodded forward.

Moments later he saw the house.

C
hristine sighed and put the brush on the palette. She studied the beginnings of her new painting critically, decisively. At best, she told herself, it was pleasant and amateurish. Most importantly, it did absolutely nothing for her. God, how it annoyed her when she was unable to do truly good work, when the best she could do was this . . . pleasantness. But she was tired. And that was as good an excuse as any.

Tim came up behind her. "Very nice," he said. "I don't think it'll set the art world on fire, but it is nice."

She turned a little, took a mock swipe at him with the brush. "You can't tell me," she said, "that there haven't been days when all your camera could focus on was flowers and dirty children and blind beggars."

"Some people make quite a handsome living with that kind of photography, Christine. Don't knock it."

"I'm sure they do."

"In fact, some very eminent—"

"Tim, I'm not up to another artistic discussion. I'd just like to relax and finish this . . . this thing as quickly as possible. Okay?"

"Okay." He made a show of sounding hurt. "I've got some work to do upstairs, anyway." He turned, started for his studio. "Oh," he called, "don't cut off your ear while I'm gone."

"Bastard," she said playfully. She glanced out the window. She felt thankful that the "record-breaking winter storm" had made it necessary for Tim to come home early.

B
rett pressed his thumb hard against the doorbell. He listened. He could hear nothing above the sounds of the storm. He stepped back from the door, "Andrea!" he screamed, and noted that his voice sounded weak, ineffectual. "Andrea!" He looked right, then left. The storm obliterated everything ten feet to either side. He could see only that the house was a faded blue in color, two stories tall, a frame house much like what the
Hausers
had lived in. And something about it—he couldn't quite determine what—disturbed him. Something in the slant of the wall, in the color of the paint.

He stepped back to the door, put his face to it, felt the cold, scarred wood scrape against his cheek. "Andrea," he said, his tone merely conversational. "Andrea, it's me. I need you, Andrea."
You're losing touch, Brett
.

"Andrea, please. . . ."

And the door, swung open.

T
im picked the brush up from Christine's lap. He cringed a little at the blob of yellow paint on her jeans. She'd be angry with herself for that. She'd say what a stupid and clumsy thing it was to do, that from now on he'd have to keep a close watch over her.

"Tim?" Her eyes fluttered open. She saw the paint smear. "Damn it!"

"It's nothing," Tim said. "If we wash it right away—"

"No. Forget it. Just get me a wet paper towel." He started for the kitchen.

"Tim," she called, "how long was I asleep?"

"Not long. A half-hour, I guess." And he wondered why he'd lied. What difference was there, really, between a half-hour and an hour? So, she'd fallen asleep for an hour. Her work tired her.

He wet the paper towel, went back to the living room. "Here you go," he said. Christine said nothing.

"Christine?" Still nothing. He went around to the front of the chair. "Honey?"

She was asleep.

B
rett lay face down on the faded linoleum. He had caught glimpses, as he fell, of an old refrigerator, and a small stove (the name
Welbilt
flashed through his memory, and he remembered thinking that it was not the inspiration of genius).

"Andrea?" he whispered.

He focused on a worn pattern of random blue and green flecks in the linoleum.
God, that's tacky
, he thought.

"Andrea?" he said again.

He became aware of numbness in his hands and feet. He moved his head a little. His right hand was palm down on the linoleum under his shoulder. That surprised him. He had supposed that his arm was extended, the back of his hand against the floor near the top of his thigh.

He saw the snow piling up around him, felt the wind against the back of his neck, against his cheek. "Hello?" he said, and wondered immediately if he had actually said it. "Hello? Help me, please." He listened to himself. Suddenly pitied himself.

And then it all came together for him: This house had been abandoned. Nothing but spiders and birds and mice lived in it. It waited for the wreckers or time to deliver it.

"Christ . . . oh, Christ!"

COUPLE FOUND DEAD OF EXPOSURE.

He made a weak fist, lifted it, let it drop. "Damn it to hell!"

COUPLE FOUND DEAD OF EXPOSURE.

It had happened nine or ten years earlier—the scandal of the winter. He remembered discussing it with Marilyn, remembered editorializing angrily about the awful insensitivity of the fuel-oil supplier in shutting the old couple off during the coldest month of the year, remembered thinking that Marilyn hadn't seemed to fare very much: "It's not really any of our concern, is it, Brett?"

"
Goddamnit
!
Goddamnit
!"

And the old couple's name had been Ferraro. Joseph and Marie Ferraro. In their eighties.

Dead of exposure.

In this house.

Ten years ago.

"Andrea?"

Get the fuck hold of yourself, Brett!

With great effort, he pushed himself up on all fours. He turned his head, saw white beyond the kitchen door, nothing else.

"The worst storm of the decade," they'd say. "Came at us right out of Canada." And the news story would read: "Brett Courtney, prosperous 39-year-old insulation contractor, was found dead early yesterday, the victim of exposure. . . ."

He scrambled to his feet and lunged against the door. It slammed shut, and he crumpled with his back to it, his feet and legs alive with pain. He closed his eyes. "Help me," he murmured. "Help me."

"I'm here, Brett."

He opened his eyes, saw the snow piled around him, the stove, the refrigerator.

"In the living room, darling."

He saw a wisp of dark hair appear in the kitchen doorway. "Andrea?" he said.

"In the living room, darling. It's cold. Come get a fire started."

He put his hands on his thighs; he could feel nothing. "Andrea, I can't."

"But you can, my darling. Believe me. You can. I'm cold, too. Come get a fire started."

He squeezed his thighs; some feeling had returned to them. He reached up, grabbed the doorknob. "Yes," he said. He pulled himself to a standing position, gasped at the pain, and, like a drunk, stumbled across the kitchen, through an adjoining hallway, and into what had once been the living room. He stopped, leaned against the archway. "Andrea?"

"I'm here, darling."

He looked toward the source of her voice.

She sat half in darkness in an old overstuffed chair in a far corner of the room. He could see the bottom of her suede coat, her green dress, her calves and feet, the backs of her hands where they rested on the arms of the chair.

"Andrea, darling—"

"The fireplace, Brett."

She pointed. He looked. The fireplace was large and functional; there were beer cans strewn around it, some pieces of waxed paper, a discarded paperback novel.

"Andrea, I don't understand—"

"Hunters use this house from time to time, Brett. They make sure the fireplace is in working order." "But the firewood—"

"You can use this chair." She stood, stepped away from the chair. "It won't be hard to break apart, Brett. It's very old, and the stuffing will catch easily."

"But—"

He saw her point again. He looked.

"There," she said, "near that book."

He took a deep breath. The numbness was returning. A long sleep seemed quite appealing.

"Near that book," he heard, and was aware that the voice was insistent.

He lurched toward the fireplace, stopped, stood unsteadily over the book, stared at it a moment without comprehension. And saw the box of kitchen matches.

Seconds later he was face down on the floor.

T
he movements of Christine's hand and arm were quick, almost furious.

"What's that?" Tim asked.

The white paint she was using now had obliterated the still life she'd been working on. The not-yet-dry greens and yellows of the still life blended with the long, slanting strokes of white to produce an effect of vast and frenzied confusion.

"It's a snowstorm, of course," Christine told him. "Any fool can see that."

"Then, I must be a fool," Tim said (
She's just tired
), "because I can see that it's a snowstorm."

"Don't patronize me, Tim."

She put the brush down, picked up another, dipped it into some brown paint. She transferred it to the canvas, worked at it a moment.

"Who's that?"

"It's a man."

"Oh?"

"Yes. He's lost in the storm."

"Will he find his way out of it?"

"I asked you not to patronize me, Tim. I don't know if he'll find his way out of it. It's up to him."

Tim nodded out the window. "Is that the storm you're painting?"

Tim studied the painting a moment longer. "It looks good," he told her. "It looks very good."

"I can
feel
it," she said. "You've got to feel it to paint it."

Tim said nothing. The painting wasn't merely good; it was a kind of cold and harsh reality all its own. It disturbed him. It made his pulse quicken, made him dizzy. And afraid.

B
rett's first awareness was of warmth against his closed lids—a slightly pulsating, prickly warmth. "Andrea. . . ." He barely heard his own voice. "Andrea?"

He opened his eyes. The chair had been sacrificed. The fire was dazzling.

At the periphery of his vision, he saw a pile of clothes. He turned his head slightly; they were his clothes—his coat, his shoes, his pants, even his underwear. "What the—?"

"It's okay,
fella
." A man's voice. "You're gonna be okay. Good thing I spotted your car down there."

Brett turned his head further, saw the old lined face, the friendly gray eyes. "Who are you?"

"Name's Peters, Matt Peters. I'm the deputy sheriff round here, Mr. Courtney."

"How'd you—?"

"Had to take those wet clothes off
ya
, so I checked your ID while I was at it. Few more minutes, you
woulda
bought the farm for sure, so I figured if there was anyone to notify. I'd have to know who you was." He nodded toward the window. "
Musta
been all of twenty degrees in here; it's about zero out there. Never seen a blizzard like this, not in all my sixty-three years. Got my jeep stuck halfway up that accursed driveway." He paused briefly, then said, "
Ya
mind
tellin
' me what you was
doin
' here?"