The Woman Next Door (12 page)

She reached for the doorknob, grasped it.
Who would lock the door? And why?

She felt the room changing around her, felt the air grow heavy and hot and humid. Midsummer air.

She turned the doorknob; it turned partway and stopped.

The air was
unbreathable
now. Marilyn could hear herself wheezing. "Brett?" she managed. "Greg?"

She leaned heavily against the door, barely able to support her own weight. And tried the knob. It wouldn't turn.

"Marilyn?" she heard.

She felt her knees buckle, felt them hit the floor hard. "Marilyn, get away from the door!"

M
arilyn's accusation had been on Christine's mind ever since Becky's arrival. Christine had pushed it to a far corner of her consciousness, because even if it was true, it was hardly on a level with "She's a murderer" or "She beats her kids." But, much as she disliked the fact, it was an accusation that intrigued her. If it was true—and she believed this—it would have no bearing on their new friendship.

"Becky . . ." she began, and fell silent: She couldn't ask her outright. It wasn't the same as asking, "Do you dye your hair?" There was an implicit judgment in this question, like asking a stranger on the telephone, "Are you black or white?"

Some things just didn't matter.

Obviously, Christine realized, this did matter.
Damned hypocrite!

"Something's on your mind," Becky observed. "Want to share it with me?"

Very sensitive
, Christine thought.
Very perceptive
. "It's something I was told."

"May I ask by whom?" Becky's tone grew noticeably stiffer. "Can you tell me that?"

"I wish I could, Becky, but—"

"Was it by Marilyn Courtney?"

Christine hesitated briefly then: "Yes, to be honest."

"She told you I was a lesbian?"

"Yes." Christine was sorry she'd broached the subject.

"And if I were?"

"Are you?" Sorrier still for those two harshly judgmental words.

"No. Does it matter?"

Christine was taken aback by the question.
Does it matter?
It sounded so much like a left-handed accusation:
Did you want me to be what Marilyn Courtney says I am, Christine?

"Does it matter, Christine?" Becky repeated.

And Christine understood. Some things just didn't matter. If the friendship was genuine if the possibilities were genuine, some things just didn't matter. Christine smiled, relieved.

"Accept my apology, Becky. Sometimes my mouth makes up for my other shortcomings."

"I can't accept your apology, Christine, because it isn't necessary. And I can't see that you have any shortcomings to make up for."

Simply stated
, Christine thought—
affectionate and honest
. She was glad she had a friend in Cornhill.

M
arilyn Courtney felt her hands hit the floor. She was on all fours now, trying hard to breathe, wheezing with the effort.

"Marilyn, get away from the door."

"
Bre
. . . Brett?"

She found herself being pushed across the floor as Brett freed the door from the jamb. Then she was on her side; the bottom of the door caught the tips of the fingers of her outstretched left hand. "Brett," she screeched, "stop it!"

"Marilyn, move away from the door."

"You're pinching my fingers, Brett!"

Brett released pressure on the door. Marilyn pulled her hand from beneath it.

And found that she could breathe.

"T
hat was pretty stupid, Marilyn. You know that door sticks."

"Don't call me stupid, Brett. I thought you'd fixed the damned door."

"I thought I had, too. But that's not the point, Marilyn. The point is, you panicked."

"I didn't panic. I . . . I lost control for a moment."

"You panicked, Marilyn. How many times have I asked you to see someone about your claustrophobia? What does it take to convince you?"

"Brett, I do not have claustrophobia. We've talked about this before. I thought we'd settled it."

Brett sighed. "Have it your own way, Marilyn. Have it your own way. But next time I might not be there."

"There won't be a next time, Brett. And of course you will."

S
onny Norton stopped and looked hard at the big house. He didn't like to think that it scared him, because then he would remember why it scared him, and remembering that would scare him all over again.

"Hi, Sonny."

The boy was pulling what looked like a brand new sled loaded with bags of groceries. Sonny said, "Hi," smiled a big, friendly smile—the only kind of smile he knew—and watched the boy pass. When he was several yards down the street, the boy waved once, without looking back. Sonny waved. Then his gaze returned, automatically, to Marilyn Courtney's house.

Fear settled over him. He closed his eyes tightly, as if that would stop the pictures that always came.

He groaned, loud enough to make the boy turn and look back questioningly.

Then, despite his closed eyes, Sonny saw the pictures start.

M
arilyn Courtney scowled.
What
was that retard doing now? She rapped sharply on her living-room window—as she had when the neighborhood kids cut across her lawn, before the fence went up—trying to get Sonny's attention. His eyes remained tightly closed, as if he were in unbearable pain.

Marilyn stared disbelievingly at him. God, he had a nerve! It was like he was putting a curse on her and on her house.

She rapped on the window again, harder; she winced, thinking the window might break. There was no reaction from Sonny Norton. She muttered "
Goddamnit
to hell!" and started for the door.

S
onny did not understand what he was seeing, though he tried. He did not understand who the scarred, ugly woman was, or why she sat smiling—like a snake smiles—in the big golden throne, or why he smelled things burning. Living things.

He had never seen the woman before. He wanted to yell to her, "Stop it! Stop it!"

She was merely smiling, and commanding the living things around her to burn. But he could not see the flames, only inhale the smoke.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

And the woman's gaze fell on him. Her smile widened. He felt the burning start, deep inside his head. He screamed.

The scarred woman vanished.

"Get out of here!" he heard. He opened his eyes. "Get out of here!"

He saw Marilyn Courtney standing before him, a fur coat thrown over her shoulders, spittle on her lower lip. "Get out of here!"

Sonny's mouth fell open. He turned. Ran.

"Creep!" he heard. "Lousy, perverted creep!"

He ran hard. And heard that word repeated over and over again—
Creep! Creep! Creep!
—although Marilyn Courtney had long since turned and gone back into her house.

April 3, 1961

T
he babysitter wished she could cry, then realized that it wouldn't help, that it couldn't erase what had happened, that even ten years from now her memory of what Joanne
Vanderburg
had done today would be as vivid as it was at this moment.

She stared blankly at the TV. She had turned the volume down and the TV was silent, which was what she wanted. Silence. To plan her counterattack. The idea that it would be a counterattack pleased her: It made this thing between her and Joanne
Vanderburg
a small war—so, whatever the bitch got, she deserved.

Joanne
Vanderburg
! After today, the slimy little bitch deserved whatever she got. The "zit" thing three weeks ago had merely been a stupid joke, easily forgotten. But today . . .

Maybe she could turn her in to the police. It was possible. After all, the bitch had—what was the word?—
assaulted
her. No, that wouldn't work: The bitch's father wouldn't let her be put in any "special school." And it probably wouldn't get that far, anyway.

Maybe she could do to Joanne
Vanderburg
what Joanne
Vanderburg
had done to her. She rejected the idea immediately: It would be asking for a lot more trouble than it was worth. The bitch was a year older and twenty pounds heavier and had a whole flock of sleazy friends.

The babysitter lifted her sweater to just below her neck, lifted her bra, and gently probed the dark, silver dollar-size bruise at the side of her right breast. ("My, but aren't they popping up nicely! Look at that, girls. Aren't they popping up nicely?")
Jesus!
It hadn't been so much the pain, she thought—although there had been plenty of that and still was—as the embarrassment, the agony of knowing that her classmates had been watching, some giggling, others—especially the boys—transfixed, while she clutched the breast with one hand and tried in vain to push Joanne
Vanderburg
away with the other.

The bitch's timing had been perfect. First, at the end of the study hall, when people were crowding toward the door, there had been the "knock-the-books-to-the-floor routine—casually, of course, and with a great deal of innocence. Then, at precisely the right moment, when everyone's back was turned, a quick sideways motion, elbow extended. The babysitter remembered screaming abruptly. But the real agony began the moment those who hadn't yet left the room turned to watch. To be amused.

She put the bra back in place, and the sweater. Joanne
Vanderburg
would pay, and pay dearly. Joanne
Vanderburg
was—

The babysitter became aware, suddenly, that the child was crying, had been crying, in fact, for many minutes.

She stood, muttered a recently learned obscenity, went to the child's room, and pushed the door open hard. She switched the light on.

The child was standing up in the crib. Her pink cotton blanket was once again on the floor.

"For Christ's sake!" said the babysitter. Each Friday night for the past three weeks she had had to retrieve the blanket a half-dozen times. It was like a stupid game, the babysitter thought. "Once more," she said, "and that's it! Understand?" The child smiled tentatively. "
Understand?
" the babysitter repeated, harsher, louder. The child's smile vanished.

The babysitter checked the child's diaper. It was only damp; a change could wait. She laid the child down, stooped over to pick up the blanket. The Raggedy Ann doll was beneath it. She cursed again, through her teeth, and kicked the doll. It landed against the wall beneath the back end of the crib.

"Dolly!" the child pleaded. "Dolly!"

"You don't care about it," the babysitter said through clenched teeth, "so we're just going to leave it where it is."

"Dolly!" the child said again.

The babysitter threw the blanket over the child, turned, went to the door, and put her finger on the light switch. "One more time!" She flicked the light off, then on. "One more time!" She flicked it off again, then on, then off. And left the room.

G
reg Courtney heard the sharp pinging noise and immediately remembered the night a week before. He lay still, waiting. Soon he heard the pinging noise again. Somehow it seemed more urgent. louder.

He swung his feet to the floor, sat quietly another minute, considering. This night seemed even colder than the other one. Frost had started on the outer edges of his window; he imagined he could hear tree limbs cracking beyond it, telephone wires snapping, stray dogs and cats dying a quiet, cold death.

"Greg?"

It had been like a whisper, Greg thought—a shouted whisper, as if whoever had said his name was on the bed with him.

He stood, went to the window, looked out.

His first thought was that the boy should have a heavier coat on, and some gloves, boots, a hat. He had to be frozen stiff in that blue jacket and with only sneakers on his feet. But he was smiling.

Greg shivered. He thought about getting his robe. Then he saw the boy wave to him.
Come down here
, he was saying.

"Greg!" Greg heard again.

Suddenly a vertical shaft of white light fell on the window from behind him. He turned his head sharply.

"What are you doing out of bed at this hour?" Marilyn marched across the room, grabbed his arm. Her gaze fell briefly on the side yard. "Who's that?" she said, and decided in the next moment that she had seen nothing, only what her sleepiness and her frustration with Greg and the frosted-over window had shown her. Nothing.