Chapter 6 - The Woman of the House

Shattered glass glitters on the ground at my feet. A sulky teenager with a blue vest at the end of aisle three rolls his eyes, as if he is silently cursing his parents for making him get a part-time job. He disappears behind the tortilla chip display while I bend down and pick up the largest shard of glass. Its edges are sharp. I run my finger along the side—a little bit more pressure and the golden-brown honey caked along the inside of it would turn red.

“I’ll take that,” the teenager says. He’s back with a mop, a bucket, and an outstretched, gloved hand. I hand over the evidence and he disposes of it in a black garbage bag.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I was standing here holding the honey, and the next thing I know…” I motion to the floor.

The teenager doesn’t even nod his head. He’s more bored listening to me than he was stacking graham cracker boxes a few minutes ago. He takes out the wet mop from the bucket and splashes it onto the floor. Chlorine-filled water splatters on my legs.

“Anyway, sorry,” I say as I back away with my cart before reaching for another jar of honey with both hands.

I walk down aisle four, passing a variety of bagels and buns, before turning into aisle five. When I get there, I remember I need something for sandwiches, so I backtrack until I’m standing in front of a dozen different kinds of multigrain bread. They all look the same. I put the most expensive one in my cart.

Another wave of sleep washes over me. I swallow a yawn and try to wake myself up by clenching my fist and digging my nails into my palm.

Last night, I was up late looking at more landscaping pictures to send to Vick for inspiration. While I scrolled through tree-lined properties, backyards with lavish fire pits, and front porches surrounded by an assortment of flowers, Brian slept soundly next to me. I turned off my tablet and felt my way through the unfamiliar darkness. I blinked, trying to adjust my eyes to the night, but since the surrounding trees prevented any moonlight from seeping in through the windows, everything was black. My hands moved across the still-unfamiliar wall of the closet, over the dresser opposite the bed, and toward the door to the bathroom. One of the floorboards winced under my right foot. I froze, hoping I didn’t wake Brian. I adjusted my step and slowly put my weight down. Nothing. I took another step. My fingertips glided against the wall. Then, another noise. This time it wasn’t the floorboards. It was a scratching sound, high-pitched and unnerving, coming from the window. I stood against the wall, paralyzed. Then, it stopped. Once again, the room was silent. I told myself it was nothing, but my heart hung low in my stomach and my breath stuck in my chest. I took a step forward, determined to make it to the safety of the bathroom when I heard it again. Nails on glass. The sound wormed its way into my ears and made the hair on my arms stand up.

Against my better judgment, I left my place on the wall and went to the window. Still unfamiliar with the house in the dark, I walked with my arms out in front of me. Four slow steps later, my fingers felt the fabric of the curtains. With one swift motion I pulled them back and saw the long arm of the oak tree in the backyard scratching against the glass window. I let out a sigh of relief, not knowing what I was expecting to see. Before I could turn around and make my way to the bathroom, one of the floorboards creaked behind me. My breath caught in my throat. The muscles in my shoulders tensed. A feeling not too dissimilar from fear gathered in the base of my stomach.

Even though the house was remodeled, it had old bones. The rooms were freshly painted, but the wood floors were original. I told myself the house was just settling in the wind. Then, the gentle hum of Brian’s breathing was disrupted by the long groan of a floorboard by the door. I squinted in the dark, but didn’t see anyone there. A moment later, the floorboard in the hallway whined. Now I was certain I was hearing footsteps. I didn’t know who was there, but I had the distinct feeling that they wanted to be followed. I took a careful step forward.

In the hallway, the floorboards moaned about ten or so steps in front of me as if they were responding to the shifting weight of invisible feet.

“Who’s there?” I whispered into the darkness.

The footsteps stopped, as if pondering my question. I held my breath, but there was no response.

The footsteps continued, and I followed until eventually I was standing at the top of the stairs. Below me, I heard a rhythmic thud as the footsteps descended the stairs one by one. Whoever it was seemed like they were heading for the front door. My right foot hovered in the air, searching for the safety of the step below.

“Rose?” Brian asked from the doorway of our bedroom.

“Brian!” I gasped. My foot recoiled.

“What are you doing?”

“I—I thought I heard something.”

“What do you mean?” Brian was next to me at the top of the stairs now.

“I thought I heard footsteps.”

“Footsteps? Why didn’t you wake me?”

Before I could answer, Brian was downstairs searching the house. From my spot at the top of the stairs I heard him move through the foyer. Five long strides later, he was in the living room. Then I heard him checking the lock on the back door off the kitchen. He came back upstairs to where I stood.

“There’s no one here. You’re sure it was footsteps and not just the old floors creaking?”

“I thought it was, but I guess it could have been—”

“We’ll just have to get used to hearing these sorts of things.” He put his arm around me and led me back to the bedroom.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry I woke you.” I leaned into his embrace, wanting to feel comforted by the warmth of his skin, but still feeling cold inside.

“It’s okay, babe. Let’s go back to sleep.”

I got back in bed and pulled the sheets up to my chin like I did when I was a child. Brian and I said our good nights for the second time, and soon his breathing was steady and deep. The rest of the night I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening.

—

On my way home from the grocery store my phone buzzes in the cup holder. I pick it up, assuming it’s Brian, but there’s a woman’s voice on the other end.

“Hello, Rose, we’ve been trying to reach you. This is—” I hang up and throw the phone in the passenger seat like it’s on fire. My brain feels like it’s being pinched. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel as I think of what to do. These calls have to stop. I can’t take it.

Just then, my phone starts buzzing again.

Answer it.

I pick it up without looking at the number. “Leave me alone!”

“Oh, I’m sorry to bother you, dear,” my mother-in-law says on the other end. I slam my fist against the steering wheel and it sends a fuzzy feeling across my hand.

“Deborah, I’m so sorry. I thought it was one of those scammers calling. I’ve been getting them nonstop.” I hold my breath, hoping she’ll buy my excuse. Silence.

“They’re just getting worse and worse these days, aren’t they?”

I sigh with relief. “Yes, yes they are.”

“Well, I was just calling because you know Richard and I are leaving for our Alaskan cruise tomorrow.” I didn’t know. “And we were wondering if we could come see the house when we get back in two weeks? You should be all settled in by then, right?”

“Yes, that would be great.” I try to match Deborah’s feigned excitement.

“Wonderful.”

After I get off the phone with Deborah, I make a right turn, then a left, before pulling up the driveway. Constantly trying to win my mother-in-law’s approval feels like a race without a finish line. Exhausted from our brief conversation, I rest my head on the steering wheel. That wasn’t my best performance.

I wrestle the groceries out of the trunk, haul them into the house, and start unloading them into the cream-colored cabinets and drawers that surround the large island in the middle of the kitchen. The afternoon sun bleeds in from the windows along the wall, highlighting the state-of-the-art appliances I barely know how to use and the built-in bar that I’m eager to dig into.

When I’m done putting the groceries away, I look at the clock on the oven. It’s four o’clock. If I was still living in Chicago working for Mr. Balboa, I’d be making him his fourth cup of coffee. He used to say that life insurance wasn’t going to sell itself, and if he was going to be the one to sell it, he was going to need another cup. Even with a half-bald head and a gut that hung over his too-tight belt, I found his predictability charming.

Mr. Balboa hired me right after my eighteenth birthday. Mother had kicked me out of the apartment again, and when I went to the women and children’s shelter where I usually stayed, they turned me away. Not enough beds. The woman working the front desk asked me if I had a job. When I told her no, she handed me a printout for a secretary position at the insurance office down the street. No prior experience required.

Mother let me back into the apartment, but I still decided to interview for the job. I studied myself in the bathroom mirror. I was wearing an oversized blazer I’d found at the Salvation Army that made me look like a child playing dress-up. “Even if you do manage to trick someone into hiring you, you’ll be stuck there for the rest of your life. Just like me,” Mother said from the lone folding chair in the kitchen with a bottle of vodka wedged between her thighs.

Mother was right, Mr. Balboa didn’t want to hire me. Not at first, anyway.

“So, tell me about yourself,” he asked. I could tell his mind was made up about me after I failed to produce a printed-out copy of my résumé, but he wanted to be polite.

“I just graduated from Marshall High School at the top of my class,” I said.

His eyebrow twitched. “Top of your class, huh? That’s certainly impressive.” He seemed to believe me, so I kept going.

“And last summer I had an internship with USAA.”

“No kidding,” he said as I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t ask for references. “I didn’t know they took high school students.”

“An exception was made,” I said with a small smile. “While I was there I learned all about Excel.”

“Spreadsheets?”

“Yeah, I’m really good at them.”

“Huh,” he said as he scratched what was left of his hair. “I do hate those tiny rows and columns.”

“I can help you with that.”

While he contemplated this, my eyes flickered toward the Purdue poster hanging on the wall above the water cooler. “Did you go to Purdue?”

“Sure did. Class of ’81.”

“What a coincidence, that’s where my dad went.” At the time, all I knew about my father was what Mother had told me: He was a no-good, deadbeat son of a bitch. But graduating from a fancy place like Purdue sounded better.

“Well, I gotta say, you’re a little younger than who I was expecting to hire, but I’m always happy to help out fellow alumni.” I smiled and let out a sigh of relief. “Now, it won’t be all numbers stuff, you know. You’ll have to help out around the office. Make coffee, that sort of thing.”

“I can make coffee.”

Before I knew it, ten years had passed. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but I made enough money to move out of Mother’s apartment and get my own place. Despite the fact that he barely gave me a raise in the decade I worked there, I always felt like I owed Mr. Balboa for giving me the job in the first place.

I’m about to pour myself a drink from the bar when a tingling sensation on the back of my neck tells me to turn around.

Feeling like I’m being watched, I take a cautious glance over my shoulder. To my relief, the kitchen is empty. My eyes scan the backyard. Between our property and the water there’s a small footpath that wraps around the whole lake. Occasionally, tourists will walk along it, admiring the houses and the view, but today, thanks to the cooler weather, it’s empty.

“There’s no one there,” I whisper to myself. As I reach for a glass, something outside catches my eye. There’s movement just to the right of the backyard, where the house meets a small forest.

There’s a stranger standing on the path. A woman. Her face is obscured by a branch, but from the way she’s facing, it seems like she’s looking right into the kitchen.

I set the glass down and go to the back door. Even after I descend the steps of the porch, she doesn’t move. She’s wearing dark jeans and an oversized coat that looks too warm, even for the weather.

“Hello?” I yell in her direction. She’s a statue. “Excuse me?” I say, walking onto the path. Once I reach her, I can tell her face is angled upward as if she’s looking right into our bedroom window. “Can I help you?”

Finally, she turns to face me. She puts her pointer finger to her mouth, signaling for me to be quiet. I’m too stunned to say anything. Then, she uses the same finger to point up toward one of the nearby tree branches. When I take a step closer and follow her gaze, I see a yellow bird perched on a limb.

“American goldfinch,” the woman whispers just loud enough for me to hear. “It should be on its way to Mexico by now for the winter.”

“Oh,” I say as my face flushes red.

Just then the bird flies away. “Ah,” she says. “There it goes. Have a safe trip.” She turns toward me. Her height is intimidating. She’s the kind of tall that I’m sure makes men uncomfortable and insecure about their own stature. Dirty blonde hair frames her head in a frizzy halo, while a sharp nose sits in the middle of her face. Small lines surround her eyes, making her look a little older than me, but not by much.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were looking—” I say, motioning up to my house.

“That’s okay,” the woman says with a shrug that’s barely visible underneath her winter coat. “It happens all the time.”

We stand there for a moment. The sound of the waves hitting the shore fills the awkward silence between us.

“I’m Rose,” I say, remembering what Brian said to me the other night about making friends.

She nods, and I wonder if she already knew this. “Frances,” she says. A burly hand appears from under the sleeve of her coat. It’s cold in mine. “You’re new in town,” she adds.

“Yes, yes we are,” I say, trying to hide a shiver working its way from my spine into my teeth. “Do you live in the area?”

Frances nods but doesn’t add anything more. The muscles at the top of my shoulders tense. What would Rose, the wife of a successful engineer, say next? I wasn’t sure. Playing the role of the perfect wife, the perfect daughter-in-law, and now, the perfect neighbor, was exhausting.

“I hear you’re from Chicago,” Frances says at last. Her dark blue eyes look right at me, unblinking.

“Word must travel fast around here. My husband, Brian, and I moved in a couple weeks ago.”

“I’ve been to Chicago before,” Frances says. “Didn’t like it.”

“That’s okay. Cities aren’t for everyone.” Silence again. I ask her how long she’s lived on the lake.

“A while,” Frances says, offering up the bare minimum.

“And you like it around here?”

“Not particularly, but it’s fine for now,” Frances says. She looks up at the trees above us while her arms hang at her sides, unmoving.

I’m taken by her honesty. It’s like she took the words right out of my head and said them out loud for me. Most people would lie and say they love it, sharing some sort of anecdote that hints at why I should love it too. But I can tell Frances isn’t like most people. She’s refreshing. For the first time all day, I feel my shoulders relax.

“It’s quiet, though. That’s for sure,” she adds.

“My husband thinks the quiet will be good for us.”

Frances nods like she understands, and for some reason, I feel like she does.

“What about you? You like it here?” she asks.

Normally, when someone asks me a personal question, a spotlight turns on above my head; sweat forms at the corners of my temples and pressure builds inside me like a balloon ready to pop. My brain goes into overdrive as I try to craft the narrative I think they’re looking for. But I don’t feel any of that now. I weigh the question in my mind. Let’s see: The ever-moving lake makes me nauseous, the hovering trees feel claustrophobic, and the undisrupted quiet sounds like a ringing in my ears. Unlike other people, whose gaze I seem to shrivel under, Frances looks at me without expectation. Despite this, the answer in my head and the answer in my mouth aren’t the same.

“I love it here,” I say with a smile.

Frances’s dark eyes narrow. “You’re lying,” she says.

“What? No, I’m not.” I take a half step back, her words nearly knocking me off-balance.

“I can tell you’re lying,” Frances says with a shrug. “You don’t like it here.”

“Well, I—I—”

“That’s okay. Lakes aren’t for everyone.”

We smile at each other and I wonder if this is what’s it’s like having an inside joke.

“Plus,” she continues, “the people here don’t seem to like us outsiders.”

“That’s for sure,” I say, thinking back to Vick, his condescending tone when he talked about the people who lived here part-time.

She looks back toward the house. A cloud has moved over the sun, making the siding look black instead of dark blue. “Well, I better get going,” she says, pointing back toward the lake path.

“Right,” I say stepping aside to let her pass.

She walks only about ten steps when I call after her, asking if she wants to come over for lunch tomorrow.

To my surprise, she says yes.