The Woman Next Door (20 page)

"I'm afraid, Mrs.
Vanderburg
, that the outlook for your daughter is not good. Could you come to the hospital right away?"

There was no reply. Had the woman caught on? Had she—the babysitter—betrayed herself somehow? Had her professional tone slipped just enough?

"
Noooooo
!" she heard. Then the receiver being slammed onto its rest. A dial tone.

The babysitter giggled. There was no mistaking that last wail: The woman was convinced. At that very moment she was probably bustling about, tripping over things, babbling, looking for her coat and boots. Crying, too. Lots of great big tears for poor baby Joanne.

And when she found out that her precious daughter was okay, that the supposed accident had only been a joke, she would remember the pain she was feeling now. Remember it and realize that, yes, it could happen, because Bill Williams was a maniac, everyone knew it, and
Joanne, you little brat, if you ever see him again
. . . It was absolutely, positively perfect.

She looked up a number in the phone book, dialed it. A woman answered.

"Is this the Williams residence?" the babysitter said.

"Yes."

"Is this Mrs. Williams?"

"This is Ida Williams."

Ida
, for Christ's sake.
Ida!
"Mrs. Williams, this is Mrs. Seaton at St. Mary's Hospital."

"Yes?"

The babysitter stiffened. No anxiety? Just a simple, Yes? Joanne
Vanderburg
and Bill Williams had gone out together tonight, she was sure; she had overheard them planning it. Besides, they'd been going out every Friday night, now, for a month.

"Mrs. Seaton?" coaxed Ida Williams.

"Has something happened, Mrs. Seaton?"

The babysitter nearly sighed in relief. It wasn't that they hadn't gone out tonight; it was just that Bill's mother was one of those calm, cool, collected types.

"I'm afraid there's been an accident, Mrs. Williams."

"An accident?" Still calm, still collected.
Not for long, lady
.

"An automobile accident. Your son's been—"

"
Mith
Kiiinnngggl
"

The babysitter turned her head sharply toward the child's room.

Ida Williams insisted, "Who
is
this?"

"
Mith
Kiiinnngggl
"

The babysitter threw the receiver down. "Stop it!" she screamed, and felt the pain again in her throat. She ran to the child's room, to the crib, raised her arm, opened her hand. And heard, very, very faintly, from the living room, "Who
is
this? Who
is
this?"

The child was whimpering in a corner of the crib. "
Mith
King," she managed, "I'm
thorry
."

The babysitter turned, started out of the room.

"Hello? Miss King, Mrs. Seaton, whoever you are! What kind of prank is this?"

The bedroom door slammed shut. The babysitter found herself in darkness.

"What the—?" She felt a clammy sweat starting. "Oh, Jesus!" She knew immediately that the walls were only inches from her hands.

And the door was open. Instantly. "I'm
thorry
,
Mith
King." As if it had not been shut at all.

The babysitter stared for a moment, uncomprehending.

She hurried to the phone, picked up the receiver—"This is really stupid, Miss King; it's cruel, unforgivably cruel"—and put it gently on its rest.

GREG

G
reg remembered something about this room, something from years before, and the memory—still amorphous, still only a nebulous, bad feeling—had to do with his father and mother.

He disliked the room. It was too big, and it smelled of dust and age. (His grandmother smelled that way, he remembered, but hers was really a different smell, a nicer smell.) And the
bedsheets
and blankets were stiff and cool, which, he supposed, would have been all right if the room hadn't been so cold. But it was cold. It faced the wind and its radiator was on the fritz, so it was cold. He was glad his mother had brought him his coat and gloves.

He wondered when she'd come back. And why, exactly, she'd locked the door. She hadn't told him she was going to lock it. She'd delivered the coat and gloves, said "I'll see you later," and left. Then she'd locked the door.

("It's either this, Brett, or. . . .")

The memory made Greg wince. It had to do with that other night his mother had put him in here, that night so long ago that he remembered looking up at her from just above the level of her waist. The image frightened him. He fought it down and busied himself with an examination of the room.

Because it faced north, the room never got any direct sunlight. He thought about putting his little Norfolk Island pine in here and decided it would die in no time. He thought about listening to his record player in here and decided the music would sound hollow, because the room was so big.

"You're selfish, Brett. You're greedy!"

"Why? Because we may have to move out of this monstrosity you call a house and into something a little more reasonable?"

"It's your damned ego that's going to make us move out of here!"

Greg listened to the words playing back; he thought how clear they were, as if they'd been said only minutes before.

And he hated them. They wrapped up something nasty, something that hurt. Which was why, he knew, be hated this room. Because this is where he had listened to those words.

He sat dolefully in a big brown leather chair. Why had she locked the door? he wondered again. When would she unlock it? He glanced about. He felt tears starting and fought them back. He was getting a little too old for tears.

B
ecky Foster stepped back as Christine pushed the door open. "Morning, neighbor," Becky said. "Nice morning, wouldn't you say?"

"Good morning," Christine said.

Becky noticed something—impatience?—in her tone. Undaunted, she went on: "I was hoping you could do a little shopping with me. Window-shopping, actually. Who has money to shop with, right? But it's a way to get you out of the house. What do you say?"

"Thanks, Becky, but I can't. Marilyn called a little while ago."

Stiffly: "Marilyn Courtney?"

"Yes. She said she needed to talk to someone."

"You're pretty tight with her, huh?" Becky regretted the words immediately. "No, I'm sorry, Christine. Forgive me."

"It's okay, Becky." (Becky could tell that it wasn't.) "No, we're not . . . tight. She just needed someone to talk to and I was elected. Maybe we can go shopping another day."

"Sure, okay," Becky said, backing down the porch. She turned, started for her house, waved back. "Some other day," she called.

Christine closed the door.

"I
thought I knew him." Marilyn leaned forward a little in her chair. "Are you sure you're comfortable, Christine? It must take a long time to get used to that thing." She nodded at the wheelchair.

"Yes," Christine answered. "I'm fine."

Marilyn sat back, held her cup of tea near her mouth as she spoke: "Because, when you live with a person, you assume that you know him, especially after sixteen years." She sipped the tea delicately. "That's how long we were married. Did you know that?"

"No, I didn't."

"Sixteen years," Marilyn repeated. "A long, long time to be deceived, though, of course, I didn't know I was being deceived until yesterday, when he finally confessed his little escapades. It seems he's been whoring around for quite some time. He didn't say exactly how long, but he didn't need to. It's been years, literally years." She set her cup of tea on an end table. "He even said he was going to take Greg away from me." She shook her head slowly, in disbelief. "I told him that it would be impossible, that even if he denied his affairs—which would come down to his word against mine—I've got proof: concrete proof." She paused dramatically. "I was packing a bag for him and I found these." She withdrew several sheets of paper from the pocket of her housedress, waved them around, then put them back in her pocket. Saw the puzzlement on Christine's face. "They're notes, Christine—notes from him to his latest ladylove. Her name's Andrea; he told me that. There are no names on the notes, of course—he's too smart for that—but the handwriting is unmistakably his." She grinned victoriously. "Let the bastard try and take Greg away."

"Y
ou helped make him, so now you owe him. And you owe me!"

"That's fucking pathetic, Marilyn."

"Listen, buddy boy, it wasn't you who went through all that goddamned pain, and it wasn't you who cleaned up his crap when it was all over the crib, and it wasn't you who had to give him his goddamned bottle in the middle of the goddamned night. . . ."

With great effort, Greg shut the memory off. He let the tears come.

"Y
ou know where it all happened, Christine?"

"No. Tell me." Christine heard the eagerness in her voice; it surprised her.

"It happened at our cottage on Canandaigua Lake. Do you know where that is—Canandaigua Lake, I mean?"

"I think so."

"I've got it all right here." She patted the pocket of her housedress. "'The cottage. At four,' one of the notes says. That's all—just 'The cottage. At four.' Why he didn't get rid of these notes, I'll never understand. Maybe he
wanted
to be caught. Do you think that's possible, Christine?" It was a rhetorical question; Christine didn't answer it. Marilyn picked up her cup of tea. "I never really needed him, you know. As long as he makes the proper support payments, Greg and I can be very happy here together."

Christine wheeled her chair forward a few inches and cocked her head to one side. "Is that crying I hear, Marilyn? It sounds like someone's crying."

Marilyn rolled her eyes as if in exasperation. "That boy!" She sipped her tea, dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "He's being punished. He said a word I do not approve of, so I sent him to his room. I've tried to break him of that infantile crying habit again and again, but he persists. He's extremely bullheaded, but then, so was I when I was his age."

G
reg hated his tears as much as he hated the room, as much as he hated the memories that seemed to flow from the walls of the room. He tried hard to quiet his sobbing:
Baby!
he called himself, but it didn't work.

He rolled over, tried to bury his face in the pillow, hoping that would snuff out the tears. He soon found that he couldn't breathe. He lifted his head.

And realized the truth, at last: He would let her do whatever she wanted to do. She was his mother. She had raised him. She fed him, protected him. He would wander blindly into traffic without her. He was helpless without her.

She was his mother! And that was something almost holy. If she wanted to shut him in this room without food or water or warmth, he would let her.

It was her right.

"W
hat word did he say, Marilyn?"

Marilyn looked confused by the question. She thought a moment, remembered. "It's a four-letter word for intercourse. You know the word."

"Yes, I do."

"So, naturally, I had to punish him. I sent him to his room. He'll stay there for a while." She paused. "Brett would have encouraged him in such language, I'm sure. He would have called it manly. Well, he'll no longer be able to exercise his vile, corrupting—"

The scream surprised them both. Marilyn jumped to her feet, a quivering, nervous smile on her lips. "Excuse me, Christine." She started out of the room. "I won't be long."

"Yes," Christine said. "Take your time."

G
reg had heard himself scream and had been disgusted by it, shocked by it, strangely relieved by it—as if something somewhere inside him, some small, self-protective creature that rarely showed itself, had decided that things had gone too far. He would let her shut him up in this awful room, okay—but not without some kind of protest.

But now, the creature had retreated, and Greg's relief was quickly being replaced by a deep and aching embarrassment. Whatever she did to him now, he deserved. If she wanted to whip him with six feet of barbed wire, it would not be too big a punishment for his stupid, stupid scream. . . . But maybe she would think of something else—something not quite so painful as barbed wire.

Marilyn unlocked the door with one quick movement. She pushed it open sharply and glared at Greg sitting on the edge of the bed. "I have company," she said. "Mrs.
Bennet
from next door. And she's a very, very sensitive woman. You've seen her. She's a cripple. In a wheelchair. And when she heard you scream, she started crying from the shock. Do you want to make her cry?"