The Coach House (26 page)
The pot was too big for her to get her small hand around. She fumbled with it until it dropped. The noise of it shattering on the porch floor sounded like a gunshot, but the silence that followed was just as unnerving.
Ready to run, Marie waited for a light to come on, someone to yell at her or a dog to bark. But nothing happened. She closed her eyes for a few seconds while she mustered up more courage. From where it came, she didn’t know.
She looked down at the broken pot and then scanned the porch for some other makeshift burglary tool, but she found nothing. Driven by a combination of fear and desperation, she picked up the largest piece of broken pot and hit the window as hard as possible. She hit the glass again and again and again, the frustration mounting inside her chest like rolling waves. When it finally burst, the noise hung in the air like a well-struck church bell.
A shard of glass ripped through her wrist with the strike, the warmth of the blood dripping down her arm chilling her.
Marie broke off the jagged pieces of glass still stuck in the window frame and carefully placed them in the sink that was directly below. With both hands gripping the bottom of the sill, she lifted one leg up and wedged her foot into the corner of the window, giving her the necessary leverage to boost the rest of her body up.
As she crouched on the window sill, she thought for an instant she heard her own pulse. She waited. Time had become abstract. She stayed in the hideously awkward position for several minutes while she took it all in.
Scared and exhausted, Marie stepped into the sink and lowered herself to the floor into the eerie silence of the house.
Marie stood in the middle of the deserted kitchen, its mustiness overwhelming. The likely once white curtains with red cherry and gingham checked borders were a sure sign it had been a cheerful room at one time. She studied each inch of wall, the glass-knobbed cupboards, and the black and white checkerboard linoleum floor as if they held the answers she so desperately wanted to know.
The crusty scab from the gash on her forehead pulled at the tangled hairs around it. The cut on her wrist from breaking the window was deep, and the throbbing radiated well into her fingers, making them tingle. She took the towel hanging over the faucet and crudely wrapped it around her wrist in an effort to stop the bleeding.
Marie turned toward the broken window, filled her lungs with fresh air, and then hung her head down and closed her eyes, slowly shaking her head from side to side while trying to rationalize her next moves. Terrified that someone may be in the house but desperate enough to take that chance, she concentrated on taking steps forward to check things out. But other thoughts kept getting in the way.
Where is he right now? I should have stayed to help at Field’s. I want my belongings. What am I doing here? This is not how I planned it!
Her trance-like state lasted another full minute. The queasiness in her stomach rising upward, she closed her eyes again, trying to deal with her swimming thoughts one by one.
I have to make the best of this situation.
It was a difficult affirmation to behold.
She rubbed her sweaty palms on her dirt-smudged coat while she walked through the kitchen and then into the long hallway. A closed door was on her left. She placed her hand on the doorknob and waited several seconds before she turned it. She pushed it open, just a crack, and peered in at the stairs leading down to the basement. She shut the door.
The second door she came upon was also on her left, but this one was ajar. She stared into the room until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and were able to decipher the white claw foot of a bathtub. The toilet bowl was empty, exposing blackened porcelain. She glanced in the mirror over the sink but couldn’t see much more than an obscure shadow of herself in the reflection. Hoping to find some sort of medical supplies, she tugged at the cabinet door under the sink, but it was stuck shut.
Marie continued to grope her way down hall toward the front of the house. She kept listening for noises, any noise that would indicate she wasn’t alone. But all she heard were her own tenuous footsteps on the hardwood floor.
The front door had no window or sidelights, keeping the foyer as dark as the rest of the house. A short wooden bench was its only furnishing. She opened the door next to the bench, which she assumed was a closet, but saw nothing but blackness inside. Too scared to check it out more thoroughly, she shut the door.
Someone entering the house through the front door would have been greeted by a natural wood-carved staircase leading to the second story. Marie looked up but couldn’t see past the first several steps.
An expansive archway gave way to the living room. Heavy floor-to-ceiling flowered draperies were tightly drawn over all the windows. She slowly crept into the center of the room. All she could see were obscure forms of furniture.
The same heavy drapes covered the windows in the dining room. Her eyes now fully adjusted to the lack of light, she saw two primitive-looking candlesticks placed on a lace runner on the dining room table. A large sideboard occupied the inside wall opposite the windows. Two portraits, obviously painted many years earlier, hung above it. Their somber faces suited the rest of the room, dark and dreary.
Marie scrunched up her nose and made a sour face at the smell, a smell that reminded her of antique shops; that “old” smell permeating wood and fabric after having been in inadequate ventilation for a while.
She retreated to the stairs leading to the second floor. The first step creaked uncomfortably loud. On the next step, she placed her foot on the outside perimeter of the stair, close to the wall, so as to not create another noise. She continued to clumsily climb the stairs, left foot on the left edge of the stair, right foot on the right edge of the next stair until she reached a landing. She made a quarter turn to her left to continue up the rest of the stairs, but before her foot could locate the next stair, she bumped into an unexpected wall. The second floor had been crudely blocked off with several rough planks of wood. Relieved, she quickly descended the stairs. She sat on the bottom stair for a minute, rubbing her tight thighs, before moving on.
Feeling a bit more confident, Marie took a closer look at the contents of the living room. The few pieces of furniture inside were old and heavy, the fabrics dull and uninviting. A kerosene lamp that had been allowed to go bone dry was the only sign of possible lighting for the room. There were no personal things in sight that one would expect. No pictures, knickknacks, books, or reading glasses.
Back in the kitchen, Marie opened the last closed door. As with every other room in the house, it was completely devoid of light. She stared into the room long enough to ascertain its contents.
“Oh!” She didn’t expect a bedroom to be right off the kitchen. Her mind raced in several directions. She wanted to turn around and run, but raw fear kept her from moving.
What do I do if someone is in here? Someone sick? Someone irate that a stranger is in their house? A strong man? A weak woman?
Her eyes bore into the bedspread until she was convinced no one was in or on the bed. She did the same with the chair beside it. It was a simple room with an unassuming dresser and chest of drawers completing the entire décor.
She approached the closet, her unsteady hand grasping the doorknob and giving it a quick turn. She pulled the door open and peeked inside the black cavity. Too dark to see anything and not wanting to walk all the way in, she quickly shut the door.
Marie made her way back into the kitchen where a sudden gust of wind brought in cold damp air through the broken window. She returned to the bedroom to get the bedspread. In addition, she found a card table leaning up against the wall next to the bed. It was made of heavy solid wood, but she was able to drag it across the kitchen floor to the window. After struggling to lift it up onto the counter, she positioned it in front of the window and draped the bedspread over the table, tucking it in as best she could, hoping that was enough to keep the night air out.
Resembling a relinquished marionette, Marie slowly collapsed on the bed, trying to ignore the repulsive smell of the linens. Now completely depleted of physical and emotional strength, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about the events that led her to this place.
At first, all she saw on the inside of her eyelids was blackness, then the infiltration of streams of red. And then whole images appeared.
The cop from across the street stood there with his gun drawn. Richard grabbed her and pulled her into the kitchen, his grip hurting her arm. He pushed her down the stairs. She didn’t stop tumbling for the longest time. “Hey Med Man,” one man shouted. “Whack the bitch!” “I’ll take care of it,” Richard said. “Trust me.”
She fought to pry open her eyes and feared she might be losing her grasp on reality, but she was too exhausted to do anything about it.
Convinced there was no one else in the house, Marie surrendered to much needed sleep. Her last thought was a pinprick memory of something Richard had said to her during their courtship. “The moment I first saw you, I knew my life was about to change.”
And so was mine, my cunning husband, so was mine.
* * *
The sound of the crash caused Marie to bolt upright in bed. Completely disoriented, she blinked several times, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Was that real, or did I dream it?
She waited to see what was going to happen next. But nothing did.
The pains shot back and forth through her legs like darts as she eased herself off the bed. She felt her way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where she was greeted by a gust of air from the cool clear night. A wave of relief quivered through her when she realized it was the table falling down off the counter that had caused the loud noise. She hoisted it back into place, this time positioning it tighter against the window.
She fumbled her way to the dining room in search of a candle. After stubbing her big toe on the sideboard, she sat down on one of the dining room chairs, kicked off her shoe, and bent over to rub it. The dizziness she felt on her way up to a sitting position made her pause.
Marie found a candle in the sideboard, stuck it in one of the candlesticks, and felt her way back to the kitchen in search of matches. The kitchen drawer next to the stove produced a box of them. After several failed attempts, she got one to ignite.
The candle cast a ghoulish glow as it flickered on the kitchen table. Captivated by its movement, Marie mindlessly watched the fire beams scamper aimlessly around the room. She looked at her watch. It was eleven at night.
Without warning, Marie’s stomach cramped, enough to make her bend over in pain. Candle in hand, she headed toward the bathroom and sat down on the toilet to relieve herself.
No wonder my stomach hurt.
She hoped it was a working toilet. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
She met her reflection in the mirror, the candle casting an uncanny shadow on her face. Her hair, now a mass of snarly tangles, framed her battered face. She touched the cut on her swollen lip and winced.
She unbuttoned her blouse and let it drop to the floor, shivering from the cold while she examined the rest of her body. The bruise on her upper right arm stood out from the rest, the one where Richard’s fingers had gripped her. She turned around, looked at the hideous bruises on her back, and then quickly looked away.
The nasty cut on her wrist, caused by her own hand when she broke the window, was now encased with a crimson gel-like protective scab. She tugged on the cabinet door below the sink until it popped open, one of the hinges giving way, sending her backward against the bathroom door. She rummaged through the cabinet until she found a Red Cross First-Aid kit. She removed the bloodied towel from her wrist, cleaned the cut, and bandaged it.
Back in the kitchen she opened the cabinet doors, one by one, where she found a few plates, glasses and cups, flour, sugar, a variety of spices, coffee and tea. She peaked in the canister labeled FLOUR. Dozens of tiny black bugs franticly scurried about with no place to go but in circles. She quickly closed it and put it back in the cupboard. She looked in the dingy white Kelvinator refrigerator. Except for warm stale air, it was completely empty.
The broken glass on the counter and in the sink caught her attention. She searched for something to sweep it up. Finding nothing but a butcher knife and some stray silverware, she carefully picked up the larger pieces of glass and stacked them in the corner of the counter. She used the knife to push the smaller ones into the sink.
