Chapter 30 - The Woman of the House

“Which tie do you like?” Brian asks with a striped blue tie in his right hand and a dotted green one in his left.

“The green,” I say. “No, blue.” He wraps the blue tie around his neck as he turns toward the mirror to concentrate. I pull at the bottom of my black dress. The polyester scratches against my skin, making it red and splotchy. Underneath my right sleeve, I feel the nail marks along my forearm from the other night. For the first time, I don’t picture the woman emerging from the shadows, gripping my arm, and drawing blood with her clawlike nails. I picture Frances. I run my finger along the red, irritated skin, feeling her desperation. Desperation for what, I’m not sure.

It’s been four days since Vick’s call, but so far the town, and more important, the police, have been quiet. Given Helen’s state before she died, lung cancer is the obvious cause of death. Things with Brian have been better too. In a strange way, Helen’s death has brought us closer together, making us realize just how important we are to each other.

I adjust my long hair over my right shoulder to hide the nail marks on my neck. I’m ready to forget about Angela, ready to put my issues with the house behind me. I’m ready to be the wife I know I can be, the wife Brian deserves. Hell, maybe I’m even ready for a baby. After Helen’s funeral, all of this will be behind us. After today, everything will be different.

I open the closet to pick out a pair of heels. When I reach down to grab them, that’s when I see it. The box with Mother’s ashes. I feel my face redden with fear. Between breaking into Jonathan’s house to look for Angela’s diary and Helen’s death, I’d forgotten the box was here. I’d intended to hide it or throw it out but never got around to it. I turn back to look at Brian. He’s undoing his tie again, unaware of my emotional turmoil. I take a deep breath before I readjust the hanging clothes that hide the box and grab the black kitten heels reserved for weddings and funerals.

“Vick will be happy we’re going,” Brian says, tightening his tie for the final time. If it were any tighter, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

“You’re right,” I say, though I’m hoping Vick won’t even notice us.

I follow Brian out of our room, down the stairs, and into the car.

—

The small church has only twelve or so pews on either side of the aisle. Three men are huddled in the back, talking. The people sitting are scattered and silent, listening obediently to Vick sobbing from the first pew. He’s surrounded by several adults and a couple small children. Above the altar, a painted Jesus looks down at the scene below with outstretched arms. The expression on his face is meant to be sympathetic, but the eyes have an air of judgment, like he wants you to be here, but he doesn’t want you to feel good about it.

Brian takes my hand, squeezing it in a way that isn’t gentle or loving. It’s a warning. I had hoped we’d turned a corner, but I was wrong. Now that we’re in public, Brian is treating me like a liability instead of his wife. He’s scared I’ll make another scene.

Together, we make our way down the aisle to pay our respects. Helen’s open casket is positioned directly in front of Vick. I want to turn back and run down the aisle, but Brian is holding on to my hand too tightly. Once we make it to the casket, Brian lowers himself onto the kneeler and motions for me to do the same. I try to divert my eyes from Helen’s dead body as long as I can: I count the candlesticks on the altar, the pipes on the organ, and the number of naked baby angels in the Jesus painting hanging on the wall. But eventually, my gaze is drawn to the corpse in front of me.

Helen’s skin is creased with wrinkles. Her cheeks are over-blushed to make her look alive. A rosary is intertwined between her stiff fingers. Inside the wooden box, mementos from her life surround her. There’s a framed picture of her and Vick from their wedding, a teddy bear, and a large seashell. She’s wearing a different head wrap than the one she had on the other day. Instead of bright rainbow colors, this one is more muted, a deep blue to match her shirt. I search her face in an effort to recognize her, but I don’t. She’s as unfamiliar to me in death as she was in life.

I picture her sitting at the window, watching my unconscious body walk between her house and Jonathan’s night after night. Did she know I was sleepwalking? Did she care? I close my eyes and try to remember being there, but my mind is blank. Somehow, the house must have pulled me back into its orbit whenever I tried to escape.

When I open my eyes, Helen’s eyes are open too. Black pupils fill the space where color should be. Her mouth parts, just like it did on the day she died. Her fingers, long and pale, untangle themselves from the rosary. A gasping noise is coming from somewhere deep in the back of her throat. Her hands reach for her neck as the gasping gets louder and louder. I stand and stumble a few steps backward. When I catch my balance, Helen’s eyes are closed again. I don’t have to turn around to know everyone in the church is looking at me. Brian is at my side.

“Rose, what’s going on?” Brian hisses at me as his eyes dart around the church. He’s more concerned about who saw me stumble than why it happened in the first place.

“Nothing, nothing,” I say, smoothing out my dress, ignoring the wave of terror settling over me. “Just clumsy.”

A few more people trickle in. Heather and Krisha walk down the aisle together, their arms intertwined, holding each other up. They embrace Vick. Krisha pulls a handkerchief from her purse and offers it to him. Chatter rises from the church as it fills up. I remember what Brian told me when we first moved here about everyone in town calling Vick the mayor. That would make Helen the first lady.

I feel someone other than Jesus watching me. I look back and see one of the men huddled in the corner is Paul. He nods toward me as Frances walks in, looking straight ahead at Helen’s casket. My sweat runs cold. I swallow a lump in my throat just as the pastor taps the microphone with his finger three times. When I turn toward the front, Jesus and I lock eyes. His stare seems narrower now, more menacing.

When Mother died there were no cards, flowers, or handkerchiefs drying teary eyes. No one sent me a casserole or put an arm around me. The kind of company Mother kept before she was in the facility didn’t even know her last name. Her death was a burden I bore alone.

Something shiny glints in the light to my right. Jonathan, Teddy, and Sara are sitting across the aisle. Teddy waves one of his toy cars in the air. The plastic windshield finds the light, reflecting it. I turn back quickly so Jonathan doesn’t see me, but it’s too late. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him leaning over the pew, looking at me. I do my best to pretend I’m paying attention to the old woman at the altar talking about Helen and the good old days, but my mind is racing. Maybe Jonathan saw me running away from his house the other day. Or worse, maybe he spotted me running out of Helen and Vick’s house, breathless. Would he tell the police I looked suspicious? What if he already has?

My armpits are damp. The air seems thinner. Suddenly, everyone is standing. The family follows the casket as the processional exits the church. I want to dart in front of it, go outside, and take big, gasping gulps of air. Instead, I wipe my sweaty palm on the side of my itchy dress just in time for Brian to grab my hand and lead me out of the pew behind the crowd.

Someone steps on the back of my heel. “Sorry,” a small voice whispers from behind me. It’s Teddy. Jonathan pulls him in close as I take several awkward steps to try and get my shoe back on. I search the crowd for Frances, but I don’t see her. She’s disappeared into the crowd.

Outside, everyone disperses to their cars.

“Maybe we can just leave?” I ask Brian as he follows a line of cars on their way to the graveyard. “The church is the important part anyway, right?”

“We can’t skip the burial,” Brian says like it’s obvious. “Besides, everyone will notice if we leave now.”

After a short drive from the church to the cemetery, my kitten heels sink into the damp grass as a semicircle forms around the casket. Frances isn’t here. She must have escaped after the church. I can barely hear the pastor over Vick’s sobs. A man and a woman are standing on either side of him, holding him up. Krisha and Heather stand across from me, huddled together in the cold. Their eyes scan the crowd, as if taking mental notes of what they want to discuss later.

Two men in jeans and muddy boots hoist the casket over the hole in the dirt. Vick wails. His body convulses as his cries echo through the trees above us. His face scrunches up in pain as he doubles over. He takes a deep breath just so he can let out another piercing cry that sounds more animal than human. His children try to comfort him, but he’s inconsolable. The casket hovers over its place in the ground before it’s lowered an inch at a time. I can feel the back of my neck stiffen with impatience. Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, Helen’s casket is in the mud.

On the way back to the car, Heather and Krisha walk in front of us, arm in arm.

“Jonathan looks tired,” Krisha says.

“I know. Can you imagine? Knowing that she’s out there…” Heather trails off.

I strain my neck so I can hear them better.

“Think he’ll go to Chicago and look for her again?” Krisha says.

“I don’t know. He’s already been down to Chicago at least a dozen times, but now that someone says they’ve seen her, who knows.”

My breath catches in my throat.

“Yeah, if it even was her,” Krisha says.

“Well, exactly,” Heather says.

Despite the cool breeze in the air, heat rises up from my chest and onto my neck. Angela was spotted in Chicago. It takes everything in me not to sprint to the car and drive the hour and a half into the city, but one look at Brian brings me back to reality. Even if I could go to Chicago, I’d have no idea where to begin looking for Angela. All I know is that she was seen.

When we get back to the car, my body feels heavy and limp with exhaustion. Between Helen’s funeral and the news that Angela could be alive and well in Chicago, my nerves feel like bells that won’t stop ringing.

While Brian drives, I see glimpses of the lake, which is a deep shade of blue today. At a quick glance it looks calm, but when I look closer I see that waves are piling on top of each other, causing havoc on the surface. Whitecaps shoot up from the water in quick bursts of anger. They swell, four or five feet into the windless air, as if they’re trying to escape the confines of the lake. The branches above us are still, so I know that the lake’s turmoil isn’t caused by weather. No, this is the result of something simmering down below.

“I wonder what they want,” Brian says as he puts the car in park.

Before I can ask who, I see a police car waiting for us in the driveway.