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“Come on, Dear, come over for some tea,” Mrs. Heards shouts from across the street. Her filthy gardening gloves cover her hands. She whips the trowel in her hand wildly. I smile back, the sun beaming down and lifting my spirits. I don’t know if I want to hear all of her medical stories this morning, but decide I have nothing better to do. John is at work and Margot has been good today. The days can be long sometimes, so I decide a cup of tea isn’t the worst idea—even if it is accompanied by too many details about colon cleanses and suspicious moles.
I look both ways on our desolate street and then look again before wheeling Margot across the way to Mrs. Heards’ one-story brick home. The landscaping puts ours to shame. How couldn’t it, though? She spends hours out in her front lawn with Muffin. I think it’s probably just an excuse to spy on the neighborhood and gather her gossip, but her roses and bushes certainly reap the benefits of her prying. I glance back at the dilapidated tree out in front of our house, the bags of garbage I stowed on the porch this morning because I was too tired to walk them to the back. I am home all the time now—maybe gardening wouldn’t be such a terrible hobby.
I laugh to myself. Oh, if twenty-two-year-old me could hear these thoughts now. Pathetic and sad, she would say from the corner booth at McLeighty’s Tavern after six, no seven rounds. Times change, though. I’m not that person anymore. Gardening might suit me just fine.
Mrs. Heards ushers me, Margot, and her cat into her home after taking her gloves off and throwing the trowel down. She kindly helps me with the stroller at the front door as she slips off her shoes. I follow suit, eyeing the place that looks like it’s straight out of 1950 but in a charming way. I tiptoe in, afraid to put any strand of carpet out of place. The sofas are covered in plastic, and a clear plastic-wrap carpet runner is placed strategically to minimize dirt. It looks more like a mausoleum than a home. It makes me sort of sad for her, but I shove the thoughts aside and paint on a smile. She leads me into the kitchen and orders me to sit down and rest my feet. She pulls out the straight-back chair for me, and I ease myself down.
“How are you doing, hon? We haven’t chatted for a while. Any new gossip?” I settle in, ascertain Margot is content, and then return my attention to our conversation. Gossip is Mrs. Heards’ favorite topic. I shake my head no and apologize. It’s wise to keep your mouth shut around her. Telling Mrs. Heards your gossip is like buying a billboard for the neighborhood. She does not keep secrets well. Still, even if I wanted to partake in her gossip, I don’t have any to share other than what diapers leak and what’s happening on my soap opera.
Mrs. Heards more than makes up for my lack of excitement. She puts on a kettle as she chats animatedly about Lila Horton’s new man three houses down and how Mrs. Otter scandalously didn’t leave a tip at her last hair appointment. She talks about the family down the street who just adopted a black Great Dane named Edmund that poops everywhere in the neighborhood and how Mr. Tilson called to report them for not cleaning it up. On and on she goes, giving me the neighborhood scoop. It’s like my own, real-life soap opera I’m a part of. My mind whirls trying to keep up with it all. I don’t mind, though. It’s nice in a way to hear about other people living, even if the details are trivial. When the tea kettle boils, she prepares a cup for me and slides it my way across the smooth oak table.
“So how about you, Dear. Are you doing okay?”
I warm my hands on my cup and look across at her. Even if I did want to confide in someone, she would be the last woman I could pick. The whole neighborhood would know every detail. I might as well grab a megaphone and stand on the sidewalk telling the world my troubles. Still, I don’t begrudge her for telling everyone’s dirt. The woman lost her husband three years ago and has never been the same. She’s lived a crazy full life—apparently, she learned to fly planes when she was young because her dad was a pilot. She was a flight attendant for decades and traveled the world. When Herbert, her husband, died, though, in the front lawn, things were never the same. She hasn’t left this little town since then, spending her days gardening and watching.
Plus, it isn’t just pity that makes me like her. She was one of the only people to still come around after Margot. Everyone else faded out of my life—some after rumors of the work incident spread, some after the delivery. I read about this in so many women’s magazines, about how people disappear when you have a baby. I would’ve never believed it if I hadn’t seen it happen. Weird how life is.
Mrs. Heards, though, was the first over to bring some tea and magazines. I know her motives are probably less than pure; the town gossip always must seek out juicy content. I know I am certainly the topic of conversation over cups of tea she shares with others. Still, the fact she takes the time to get to know me, to check in—no matter what her intentions are, it is appreciated. Nevertheless, I’m not a fool. I feel grateful for her, but not grateful enough to divulge what’s really been going on or my deepest fears.
“I’m okay. Tired is all,” I admit.
“I know, Dear. It’s not easy, is it? And it has to be hard, what, going from the job you had to being home all the time. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing bad about what you’re doing. I just know how being cooped up in the house a lot can get to a person.”
I take a sip of my tea, feeling relaxed, like someone gets it. I look over at Margot, thinking about the last few days, weeks. Thinking about what a relief it would be to confide in someone. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. She could be a great ally. Who better than Mrs. Heards to keep an eye on things, to tell me if something seems amiss?
But I look back at her and know to open my mouth now would be sealing it as a statement of fact. And I don’t want my family to suffer for that. I don’t want John to find out I’m suspicious. What if he isn’t doing anything wrong? Then I’ll have ruined us, and for what? And also, if he is up to no good, I don’t want him knowing I’m on the case. Better to hide in the shadows, keep everything status quo, until I have a plan. You always need a plan. I’ve learned that from the crime shows and experience. I learned that from Mama’s mistakes.
“Well, I also wanted to make sure John is okay, to tell you the truth. It’s part of the reason I asked you over. Other than the fact I enjoy your company.” She takes a long sip of tea, blinking at me. I study her, waiting for her to go on. She doesn’t say anymore, just sits and looks at me expectantly.
Her words startle me because I didn’t expect to hear John’s name come out of her mouth. I set my cup back down. “Why wouldn’t he be okay?”
“Well, his condition, of course.” Her words have a lilt.
I blink a few times, wondering if I’ve heard her correctly. “What condition?”
She eyes me suspiciously. Her chin juts out and upward, her nose slightly higher as if she is appalled I would entertain this lie with her. “I just assumed—I’m sorry, Dear. I thought he had a health ailment.” She waves her hand dismissively, but I am hooked now on her pole.
“Why would you think that?” My heart starts to race, my mind clinging to new speculations.
“I’m sure it’s nothing at all. It’s just, well, yesterday morning. Around ten. I was going to my doctor’s for a routine checkup down in the medical complex. You know the one, right near the fast-food joints? Anyway, as I was driving home, I stopped my car in the middle of the road to get a closer look at a car. Behind the one building in the alley, a car was just idling there. I thought maybe someone needed help.”
I wasn’t sure what this had to do with John. I also wasn’t fooled; it wasn’t her altruism speaking when she stopped her car. It was her ever-present nosiness waiting to butt into someone else’s business that made her gawk in the alleyway.
“Anyway, I realized the car looked familiar. And sure enough, I saw John get out. I put my window down, but dang-it, I couldn’t make out everything. I ushered him in through the back door super quickly. It just seemed like it was really urgent.”
I stared at the woman as if to question whether or not she was telling the truth. She studied me intently but sweetly before averting her eyes. I exhaled audibly, and she continued speaking.
“I thought since it was at the medical complex, he was dealing with some kind of health issue. I was worried, to tell you the truth. But I saw he came home normal time yesterday, so I assumed all was okay. Still, I wanted to make sure you two didn’t need something.”
My mind swirls over the information. Urgent. Condition. A creepy alleyway in the middle of the day I had texted him at 10:30. He told me he had a real estate meeting with the VP yesterday that would take up most of his day. Then what was he doing in the alley?
What are you up to, John? Damnit, what are you up to?
My hands cling to the warmth of the teacup again as I paint a smile on my face and wave a hand. “Oh, I think he mentioned something about a client being in that complex yesterday. Hard to tell. But no, nothing medical to worry about. Thank you for asking.” I smile a little wider, hating how I’m covering for a man I’m suspicious of but knowing I can’t let Mrs. Heards know I’m wary. I don’t need the whole town, John, keeping me under a watchful eye. Not yet. Keep the status quo, I tell myself. That’s the best plan for now. Mama would say it was the best way. Don’t show all your cards, ever.
Mrs. Heards changes the subject to her own medical conditions, of course. I zone out for the rest of the conversation, nodding at specific intervals to appear attentive. Eventually, Margot gets fussy, which gives me an excuse to head home and let Mrs. Heards return to her gardening. She kisses both of my cheeks when I’m leaving, ordering me to come back anytime I want.
When I’m home later, though, and John comes home from work, I can’t resist. I just can’t resist. I’m not a woman who sits and waits around if she can help it. So after dinner, when I am doing dishes, I turn to John, drying my hands on a dish towel as I try my plan.
“Honey, can I use your phone super quick? I need to double-check on my appointment for Margot.”
John stares at me, wordless. His eyes dart about as he straightens his body, hands tucked in his pockets. I watch him squirm.
“Where’s your phone?” he asks pointedly.
I stare defiantly back but soften the look with a smile. “Oh, it’s back in the bedroom.” I wave a strategically dismissive hand in the air. “I’m just so tired, and Margot is napping back there in her bassinet. Wouldn’t want to wake her.”
He reciprocates the smile a bit, too. He’s covering, as well, but he forgets I know him. I glance down to catch his left foot drumming out the beat of anxiety on the ceramic floor.
Busted. Done. Caught. The words ricochet in my mouth, but I don’t let them escape.
“I’ve got to make some calls. Sorry. Just creep back and get your phone.” He exits to his office as quickly as he can.
I am convinced now I’m right to be suspicious, but the realization brings little comfort. It doesn’t feel good to be correct about your worst fears. The evidence piles each day—but evidence for what? How bad is it? And which would be the worst thing possible? Which secret could we move past, if any?
I lean on the counter, looking out into the empty yard. The world keeps spinning, and so does my head. I am lost once more in a house that no longer feels like home.
***
When the house is quiet and John is snoring later, I decide I need answers. I creep out into the hallway and pause at the bathroom. It’s a risk but one I have to take. I can’t wait until morning to figure it out. There are too many horror stories running wild in my head, and I don’t think I’ll make it until dawn without losing it completely. I listen closely for any sign of stirring, which would cause me to abort the plan. John is still snoring, though, undisturbed by my exit from the room. I am for once glad for his loud snoring and tendency to be a deep sleeper. I push forward, tiptoeing so as not to wake Margot or the stranger I’m sleeping next to.
My hands gingerly touch the doorknob of the office once I’m there. I take a deep breath. If he wakes up, I will have no excuse, and all of my doubts will be out there. I exhale and decide to take the risk. I turn my hand on the knob, prepared for entry to John’s inner sanctuary, but my stomach falls.
Locked. It’s fucking locked. It never used to be locked. Ever.
Oh, John. Oh, John, what have you done? What are you doing to us?
I imagine the secrets swirling in a fantastic display behind the closed door. He’s kept them all reined in, closed off from my prying eyes. But the truth always comes out. Doesn’t it?
And if it does, I have bigger things to worry about. Much bigger things. We both do.