She had stark white hair, cut short so it circled her face like a cap, with a head and face that clearly had once been classically beautiful and probably, for her age, still was. The eyes were bright blue, the nose still what used to be called “ski slide,” and you could tell by the way she walked, the way she carried herself, that she was used to not only being noticed, but being “in charge.”
They had entered the Giant Food store at the same time, she a little ahead of him. She immediately became engrossed in the job of filling her grocery cart, studying every item, reading each label before keeping it or putting it back.
She was well built and casually dressed, gray slacks, light blue sweater set, a gold chain with a diamond stud around her neck, big, pear-shaped diamond solitaire on her left hand…married. He wasn’t sure why he followed her on her slow, winding trek through the store, picking up a few things himself as they went. Something about her had caught his eye, his mind shimmering into vacant irritations as he watched her, the edges of his mind flickering around some vague memory he couldn’t quite bring into focus. Nothing new for him so he just let it be as he continued along behind her like an old dog habitually performing, watching.
Ordinarily he wouldn’t have been in a grocery store this far from home but he’d picked up some tools at Sears in nearby Montgomery Mall for a project he had decided to pursue, a wall of shelves and cubicles at the far end of his garage,
something he’d been thinking about doing for a long time. Now, suddenly, he had focused on it, deciding he would first have to purchase some tools before purchasing the wood and hardware to frame the whole thing with.
After buying a good electric saw, a plane and a kit of different sized screw drivers, plus an odd assortment of other tools that struck his fancy, some of which he already had but decided to buy anyway, he had headed over to the county liquor store in the nearby Cabin John Mall. He’d stopped there a number of times with his uncle after a job, so he knew it well.
As he circled around to the front of the mall, he noticed the Giant grocery store and decided to stop and pick up a few things. He liked their doughnuts and cookies and was in the mood for something sweet and comforting.
He’d bought Bourbon in the liquor store to boost him through the beginning stages of his project, but first he would fortify himself with something sweet, and doughnuts and cookies had always served that purpose. He knew that once fortified with this fuel (he always ate a half dozen at least) the bubbling feelings of something he never tried to define or understand would recede. These pulsing feelings were stronger then usual today and the distraction of following the white-haired woman with the aura of confidence about her that irritated him felt somehow relieving.
“I thought this was on sale,” the woman said to the meat counter man who had come out after she’d punched the button for help four or five times.
“It is,” the man in the blood-spattered, heavy white apron said. “Just got missed in the marking I guess. Sorry.”
“I guess so,” she said, thrusting the package at him to re-mark.
Finally she made her way to a check-out line, waiting with obvious impatience as the woman ahead of her asked for a price check.
He glanced at his own few items, a dozen glazed doughnuts, half a pound cake, a container of chocolate chip cookies, milk, a piece of sharp cheddar cheese and a loaf of white bread.
When it was finally her turn, the white-haired woman pulled out a bulging wallet from which she extracted a wad of coupons, some of which were good, some not, and proceeded to argue about every one the clerk said was expired.
She had a lyrical, pleasant voice, but everything she said was spoken with authority, the belief in her own “rightness.” Finally, after a third argument about one of the coupons, the clerk called for her supervisor, which sent such a lightening flash of rage through him that he had to move away from the woman for fear of physically reacting to what he perceived as her thoughtlessness, her arrogance.
So once again he left his shopping cart in line and in a red-tinged fog of rage exited the store, slowly making his way to his old green Dodge. He fell into the driver’s seat with no sense of doing so, no sense of putting his keys in the ignition and starting the car even as his eyes focused on the white-haired woman leaving the store. He watched her push her cart into the parking area and laboriously load her grocery bags into the back of a late model silver Jaguar.
• • •
He was barely aware of following her swift departure from the parking area. They turned right on Tuckerman Lane, then left on Seven Locks Road, full speed to the Bradley Boulevard crossing, one block and then left again into the rolling Bethesda community directly across Bradley Boulevard from the Bethesda Country Club.
The homes were sprawling ramblers and two- and three-story colonials set back on large lots. She wound her way quickly through the community and then, in what seemed like a sudden move because she was driving so fast, she swung into a long, winding driveway leading to a white-painted, long brick rambler with a double car port.
He slowly continued past the house, quickly turned around at the next block, finally stopping at a wooded lot siding a three-story colonial almost directly across the street from her house. She had parked under the car port at the far end of the rambler and climbed out of her car, scrabbling in her huge, light blue purse for something, oblivious to him and his car…finally finding what apparently were her house keys. Then she opened the side door of the Jag, grabbed two grocery bags from the back seat, leaving the car door open as she opened and disappeared into the side door to her house, also leaving that door open.
He waited a while to see if anyone else appeared to help her, but hers was the only car in the driveway, so he finally climbed out of his car and strolled up the long driveway to her car. Pausing at the open door to her car, he saw there were still two more grocery bags on the seat and when she reappeared in the open doorway to her house, she stopped abruptly when she saw him.
“Looked like you could use some help,” he murmured in his friendliest voice as he picked up the two grocery bags and moved around the car door toward her. Kicking it shut behind him, he quickly approached her.
She looked, for a moment, like a deer caught in a car’s headlights, but then her confident self kicked in and she shook her white-haired head vigorously.
“Sorry, I don’t need any help at all, thank you very much, and I would appreciate you leaving my property right now. Just leave! Go away!” she said, her voice breaking as he continued to move toward her, grocery bags in hand.
“No, I must do this,” he said, voice low and gruff, realizing in passing that he had never spoken to any of the women before, a realization that somehow frightened him. As he reached her, his mind went blank, fogged over. He jammed both grocery bags into one hand and he grabbed her arm so hard she cried out, then tried to lunge away from him, but couldn’t.
“What are you doing? Stop it right now or I’ll scream. Get away from me or you’ll regret it,” she said, but was unable to loose her arm from his viselike grip even as he shoved her into her house.
“I will do this,” he muttered in a low voice, as if talking to himself, roughly
pushing her farther into the house, ignoring her attempts to pull away from him. She tried to stop him by planting her feet in place, still pulling at his grip, an expression of panic falling over her face, blue eyes darting around as if in search of some means of escape, her white hair disheveled, but it was useless.
“Let’s just get inside quietly. We can put your groceries down and then you can show me your peculiar house. I enjoy looking at strange houses,” he said, not looking at her directly as he forced her to move deeper into the house, his grip tightening as she struggled against his shoving movements,. She was strong but he was stronger and all his juices were humming, more so as she continued to struggle, punching uselessly at him with her free arm.
“No,” he said, as they entered the spacious kitchen where he threw the grocery bags he was carrying on a counter, their contents spilling across the surface like something living, small yogurt containers, milk, cheese, lunch meat, potatoes, butter…
“What do you want?” she screamed at him now, pausing in her struggle to free herself, looking at him with fear, heart-shaped mouth contorted.
“Want?” he echoed, eyes quickly taking in the room, stopping at what was obviously a door to the dining room. Nothing unique or unusual here he thought, disappointed.
“I want nothing,” he said, pushing her toward the dining room door. “Just here to see the house. Need to see the house.”
And even as he spoke, slightly distracted by his need to move into the next room, she finally managed to pull away from his grip, running toward the dining room because he was blocking her way to the back door.
But he was quick, after her in a flash, grabbing her arm again, pleased with his own speed and beginning to be seriously annoyed with her continuing resistance, viewing it as a determination to win, to beat him, which he found stupid because he had no intention of allowing her to have her way.
The only problem was that he hadn’t come prepared as he had before, so he would have to improvise.
“What do you want? You know my husband will be home any time now, so you’d better get out while you can,” she said, in a high, shrill voice as they entered the beautifully appointed, white-draped, white-carpeted dining room, living room sprawling out beyond, running the entire length of the house like a snowy long, wide beach. There was off-white furniture in the living room, all of it interrupted by splashes of colorful floral upholstery. It was like nothing he had ever seen before, which pleased him since the layout of the house itself was otherwise so ordinary. The heavy, mahogany dining room table and chairs seemed disruptive, jarring even, although the seats of the chairs were also covered with gaily colored floral upholstery.
“I don’t think there’s a husband,” he said, smiling. “You were shopping for one if my observations are correct.”
“You don’t know that,” she snapped angrily, as he shoved her toward a long hallway running off the living room, clearly leading to the house’s bedrooms.
He was beginning to feel the highness in his head that came over him whenever something disturbed him, angered or even annoyed him, and her resistance was beginning to roil the earlier rage that had been distracted for a while by the house.
“Move along, stupid woman, move along,” he snarled, letting go of her arm and shoving her so hard, she stumbled, catching herself by grabbing the wall.
““Get away from me, you can’t do this. Take what you want and leave,” she said, but this time the defiance was tempered with fear that was oozing out of her like a bad body odor, something he disliked almost as much as the defiance.
“Shut up,” he said, and abruptly kicked her, then added, “Insipid bitch.” Insipid was the word his grandmother liked to throw at him, as well as “derelict,” never mind “ignoramus,” and the more common “stupid.” So he used “insipid” now with relish, adding “bitch” because it seemed appropriate.
“You are making a terrible mistake,” she said, straightening herself, a haughty look on her face, but he just shoved her again, through the first door on the right, and was pleased to find it was the Master bedroom. It was all peaches and cream, the king-sized bed covered in a rich, gleaming, silky fabric of some kind with numerous semi-matching pillows thrown all over the head of the bed, the sight of which spread a wave of nausea through him like a cold chill even as she lunged away from him, obviously intent on escaping into another room, probably the bathroom. But once again he caught her, this time encircling her neck from behind, unconsciously putting all the pressure he could into twisting it so sharply he heard it snap.
The sound surprised him at first, then pleased him even as he let her drop to the floor like a limp sack of potatoes or a balloon that had lost its air. Grimacing, he proceeded to kick her, first in the head, then worked his way down her body, kicking harder each time, until he realized she wasn’t feeling anything because she was obviously dead.
He stared at her for a moment, surprised, but then he experienced a rush that was like nothing he had ever felt before.
• • •
She loved her house. Harry had built it for them in the late sixties, four bedrooms, three baths, a huge living room, spacious dining room, and a sparkling up-to-date kitchen which, at the time, was a home to die for. They’d wanted to have a large family but it wasn’t to be. After three miscarriages she’d finally carried one to term…Fiona Maureen…named after her Irish grandmother on her father’s side and Maureen after Harry’s Scottish mother. She had never particularly liked her own name, Ardis, and her middle name, Louise, wasn’t much better. But, she liked to laugh, “There are some things you just have to live with. My mother’s best friends were named Ardis and Louise and they were both very generous to me over the years. Especially Ardis…she was an heiress who had no children. So I lucked out with her. But Louise was no slouch either when it came to gifts. I always thought she was more in love with my mother then she was with her husband.”
“Sometimes I feel like this house is my second child,” she was fond of saying.
“Hopp’s Castle,” Harry called it, always quick with a witty remark or response, and that’s what they called it. “And you’re the queen,” he usually added.
“Which makes you who?” she teased.
“Never wanted to be a king of anything. You can just call me Sir Harry,” he quipped, so she did, making a point of saying it to him when he was dying, which brought a brief smile to his emaciated face.
In fact, she could never believe he was gone. Dead at the age of sixty-five, leaving her a widow at sixty, too young, too soon. But she had never been interested in finding someone to take his place, in fact the idea was repugnant to her. Not that their marriage had been without it’s bad patches. She, after all, had been a favored child and expected to also be favored in the marriage, which she was, but Harry had a temper and a good-sized ego too, so there were some loud and vicious fights, even the occasional shove. But, after a cooling off period, they always found their way back to their early love, admiration and affection for each other.
Fiona, their pride and joy, hated their fights, which caused a few problems for her growing up. Also, their high expectations of her gave rise to anxiety attacks eventually leading to anorexia in college. But, with some help their beautiful daughter overcame her fears, got into medical school and became a pediatrician. She eventually married a lawyer with whom she had three children. So things had worked out better then she and Harry could have imagined, though they always believed anything with Fiona was possible. Anything.
“Three miracles,” Ardis called the grandchildren. “My angels,” she cooed, but her friends were important too, especially after Harry died when she often said, “I don’t know what I would have done without my bridge and golf friends. They just saved my life…but it took some doing, some getting used to, living alone. I’d never lived alone in my life.”
Harry had his own building business so wasn’t home as much as she would have liked, which was probably why he encouraged her to have “hobbies” to keep her busy, occupied, but they also had an active social life they shared.
They had season tickets to Arena Stage and the Redskins games which he somehow always managed to attend with her and friends, feeding both their love of the theatre and competition.
“I miss Harry but I’ve got a good life, plenty of money, good friends, a wonderful daughter and grandchildren, and I couldn’t ask for a better son-in-law. He even shovels my driveway now when it snows,” she told her bridge friends over their monthly bridge luncheons and regular golf sessions.
• • •
He moved slowly through the house now, his victim forgotten. But he was disappointed. It was, as he’d heard his uncle’s secretary now fiancé, Rhonda Sullivan say once, “beautifully appointed,” but ordinary as far as he was concerned. He preferred old and unusual, like the house in Garrett Park, and even the one in Chevy Chase had some character. This one didn’t have anything. It was simply plain and ordinary in an expensive, well-kept way.
The house in Edgemoor was okay, enhanced by its surroundings, its location, but this one was just sort of picture perfect magazine stuff. He couldn’t find anything that appealed to him…until he saw the paperweight, blue, green and red crystal in the shape of a coiled snake.
• • •
“I hate that thing,” Ardis said to Harry every time she noticed it. “Let’s get rid of it.”
“Can’t do that, Buzz, it’s an antique and worth my soul in history.”
“I never understand what you mean by that,” she always whined, but he never explained, just shrugged and smiled at her. “And don’t call me Buzz. I am not a saw,” she said.
“Best damn buzz saw I ever invested in, except maybe for that,” he said playfully, gesturing at the colorful crystal snake which he periodically washed to a shine.
• • •
He stared at the glistening colorful crystal coiled snake now, absorbing it with his eyes. Then he made a face, shrugged and abruptly picked it up, rolling it around in his hands as if testing its weight, smooth and silky, it’s glistening colors fading into each other like a rainbow. Finally he carefully pocketed it and headed back out the way he’d come in, pausing just long enough when he got outside to look around. All was quiet, silent except for the soft sound of rustling leaves in the huge old trees shadowing the house and neighborhood.
After a moment, he casually strolled down her long driveway, back to the street and his car, drove home, then just as casually walked into his house where he paused in the middle of his small living room, scanning it, looking for nothing in particular. His mother had furnished the place for him and as he slowly spun around now, eyes roaming from one piece of furniture to another, his gaze finally came to rest on the once wide and tall, antique chest of drawers made of rich walnut. He had chopped the top off and fashioned it into a wide, long and finished desk.
After removing the top section, he had carefully sanded it down, stained and shellacked it to a gleaming hue, forming a handsome desk surface out of the beautiful wood, his only personal addition to his living space. It was one of the few things he’d actually finished because he hadn’t gotten bored with it. The piece had belonged to his grandmother and it pleased him to think how offended she would have been with his decimating an antique she had treasured.
He wasn’t sure why his mother had allowed him to have it, and perhaps wouldn’t have if she’d known what he was going to do with it. But she said once that it was just too big for the master bedroom where it stood for years. It dominated the space that was now hers and she didn’t want it there anymore.
Frowning thoughtfully, he finally walked over to the desk and deposited the heavy crystal paperweight on it next to the antique knife letter opener he’d taken from the first house he’d visited in Chevy Chase. He studied the two objects for a moment, then half-smiled, finding them a nice combination. The two together pleased him, made him feel good, gave him a sense of personal satisfaction he rarely experienced.
After a while he returned to his car, retrieved the purchases he’d bought at Sears and retreated to his garage and his always in-progress Mustang, pleased with himself and the day’s events, the woman forgotten.