The cool air hitting my face was without a doubt the most delicious sensation I had ever experienced. My body sagged, weary from being bombarded for hours with one adrenaline rush after the other. My shoulders were tense and achy. I sat on the front step and breathed. It was getting cold out. Goosebumps broke out on the surface of my skin. The sky was clear and I could make out Orion just coming into view in the fall sky. It was a winter constellation that was visible from about November until March. I put two fingers to my forehead and saluted him. It was a habit from childhood.
My father taught me to do it when I was no more than four. He sat me on his lap in the back yard and pointed out the constellations. Orion was the easiest to spot. He told me that Orion was once a mighty hunter who lived on earth. He was loved by the moon goddess, Artemis. She loved him so much that she forgot to let the moonlight shine at night. One day Artemis accidentally killed Orion with an arrow when he was swimming in the ocean. She was so heartbroken that she put him way up in the sky with his two dogs where everyone could see him, and he would remain the mightiest hunter ever. It was silly and it made me laugh.
Whenever the stars were out I would beg him to tell me the story over and over. I think some of the facts changed with each telling but it didn’t matter. He would tell me the story and then we would salute Orion together. What my father didn’t know was that I kept up the tradition long after my relationship with him had withered. No matter where I was in the world or what I was doing, whenever I spotted Orion in the sky, I saluted. Today was no different.
I stood up and walked to the fountain. It was so pretty against the trees. I sat on the edge and dipped my hand in the water and watched the moonlight reflect off the surface. Over my shoulder I saw the room that I thought was Cora’s. I couldn’t really be sure. The house was so damned big. Did Nick ever feel as trapped up there as I did tonight? The unmistakable sound of the front gate opening broke the silence. I stared not able to comprehend. Cora’s black car pulled slowly up the driveway. I hid in the trees and watched. The car passed in front of the house only slowing at the turn then disappearing around the back towards the old carriage house. If Cora was out driving around, then who had been upstairs? My heart started pounding again. I ran all the way around the perimeter of the house without stopping, my emotions spent.
My room was such a sweet sight. A soft inviting bed with cool clean sheets. All I needed was a shower. The sweat had dried on my skin and I stunk. I peeled off my clothes and threw them in a heap in the corner of the bathroom. I let the warm water run over me as I scrubbed myself clean with soap.
I had been curious, repulsed, scared, intrigued, scared again, petrified and then curious again, in that order tonight. Now I just felt relieved. I didn’t mention guilty, mostly because my guilt was covered in snowy bitter cold anger. And that anger was nowhere near close to melting, in fact everyday that I stayed here, it built layer upon layer into a rock sold mini glacier that was changing the climate of the rest of my life.
* * *
I was awakened by Cora at eight o’clock the next morning. She knocked and entered my room before I could get out of bed.
“Didn’t mean to wake you. It’s laundry day.”
I stared at her. In my sleepy state, she looked huge, her craggy face carved from granite. The deep creases at the corners of her mouth pulled her lips down contorting her mouth into a frown.
“It’s Sunday,” she continued, “Every Sunday is laundry day. We want to be clean for the rest of the week.”
Her hands were on her hips. My eyes were drawn to them and I couldn’t look away. What the hell had happened to them? They were a fiery crimson red; the skin looked like it had been scarred over and over again. There were deep scabs around the cuticles where she’d picked them. A laundry bag hung from one arm. She wore a navy blue dress, similar to all her other dresses, falling loosely around the top of her thick calves. Only the color was different. Did she summon a tailor to the house and say “Bring only one pattern and twenty bolts of fabric?”
“Do you want to get your clothes for me or shall I do it?” she asked.
“I can do my laundry, Cora.” I said. “I’ll take it to a Laundromat tomorrow.” Laundry was a somewhat intimate thing.
She shook her head. “No. It has to be done this morning and it has to be done right. It won’t take me long. I’ll have it back to you this afternoon.”
I stood and faced her and took the bag from her hand. “Where is the laundry room in this house?” I hadn’t seen one.
“On the other side of the kitchen near the pantry,” she responded.
She watched as I gathered up all my dirty clothes and shoved them into the bag. She looked into the bathroom. My clothes from yesterday lay where I’d thrown them.
“Is this how you take care of your things?” she asked.
Well, in truth, it sometimes was. “No, no. no.” she muttered to herself. She picked up my clothes from the bathroom floor and took the laundry bag from my hand. “Cleanthliness is next to Godliness. Especially on Sunday. Weren’t you raised that way? Today we clean.”
“Cora, you have it backwards. On the Sabbath, you rest.”
She ignored me. “You’ll find supplies under the sink. I’ll be back later.” She exited the room through the door to the tunnels. She reappeared only seconds later. “Oh, and since you are concerned with observing the Sabbath, later on we can have a Bible study.”
Bible study? I’d done my Bible study last night. I ran my hands over my forehead. I watched her chunky form disappear down the steps and this time she closed the door behind her.
I showered and dressed quickly. I cleaned the bathroom, folded my clothes and placed them neatly in the dresser. I made the bed and plumped the pillows. I stood back and looked. Everything seemed to be in order. I wanted to get out of the house. I had noticed a sitting area in the woods farther down the fence line from the Cooper’s house on one of my walks. It wasn’t much, just a bench near a small creek that ran through the woods. I needed some peace. I left the house with a few books under my arm. I was starting to feel achy like I was getting sick. I planned to sit and read for a couple of hours. With any luck I’d miss Bible class.
The bench was long and made of weathered teak. It had a cushion on it that made it ideal to stretch out on. I leaned back and listened to the sound of the water going by. I didn’t have the energy to pick up my books. I lay on my back and looked up. The sun dappled the trees with light. The water, the breeze, the smell of pine, crimson and orange leaves. I was at peace for that moment. I was just starting to let my mind and body relax a little. Just a bit, and then I saw it.
The white paper was caught by a stick; the edges fluttered in the air. There was writing on it that I recognized even in a state of half-meditation. My writing. The little loop that I made on my “L”s when I was writing fast. The slant to the right that I could never learn to compensate for. Writing with a left hand in a right handed world had been hard enough. The paper stuck to that stick for dear life and tore when I pulled it. It was ripped and dirty. I dropped to the ground and read the words I’d written months ago.
Blood is all over me. It is stuck in my pores. It’s under my fingernails. I killed my husband yesterday. He fought for his life, but not long or hard enough. You don’t know what it feels like to kill someone until it happens. I dream about him. He wakes me up at night, calling my name. He doesn’t seem angry but I know he is seeking revenge because I was driving the car. He is trying to break through, capture my mind. A carefully detailed plan was laid out for me. What I have to do now. I have no choice but to go through with it. She is a force to be reckoned with. A nice glass of wine, and a clean soft bed and things will…..be the same in the morning. Will dream tonight about blood on my hands and James.
My words edged off the paper. It looked like someone had ripped this paper from my journal and crumpled it in their fist. My first thought was that I wanted to kill Cora for taking my book, for invading my privacy. I looked at it, my eyes squinting in concentration. I remembered that day, writing that passage in my journal after Nick’s death. I’d been crying nonstop, my eyes nearly swollen shut. I’d had plenty of wine and was beside myself. Samantha had laid out a plan for me to help me get from moment to moment because I couldn’t think for myself. That was the “she” I had been referring to. She was a force to be reckoned with. A disjointed mishmash of thoughts in a drunken grief stricken moment. Now Cora had rubbed her big fat dirty fingerprints over the entire ordeal, inserting herself into something that was intensely private.
I needed to get out of these woods, maybe go see Dylan, before I went completely insane.