The Housewife(33)

“Of course. That’s no problem. Can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

“I know you were the one to find Deborah…”

Her face goes pale. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

I pretend not to hear her. I rest my chin in my hand. “I was wondering, what was she like? When you found her, I mean?”

Her lips start to tremble. “What was she like?”

“What position? Was she cross-legged on the floor? Did she have shoes on? The reason I ask is that, unless her arms were very long, I don’t see how—”

“What is wrong with you?” A tear has sprung and is rolling down her cheek. She brushes it off angrily.

“I don’t mean to upset you.”

“Does it excite you? Is that it? Thinking about Mrs. Deborah dead like that?”

“Not at all. Had she been dead long when you found her?”

“My God, Mrs. Davies, I am speechless. Why on earth would you ask me that?”

“Well, I can’t help but think you must have been in a terrible position. Being the one who found her and all… The police must have asked you a lot of questions. Roy must have been dumbfounded. If you were here when—”

Her face has turned white as a sheet. She’s shaking, like a bird. “I wasn’t here, Mrs. Davies,” she says, her lips tight. “I was visiting my brother. By the time I came home, she’d been dead for over an hour, maybe even longer.” She’s fully shaking now, pointing her finger toward the hall. “She was there, right there. At the bottom of those stairs. There was blood everywhere. Do you know what it’s like to have to walk every day right past where she lay, sprawled on the floor, dead? It’s horrible, Mrs. Davies. Horrible. Do you know what it’s like to know that if I’d come home an hour earlier, I might have been able to talk her out of it?”

She is white-knuckling the back of the chair, and I get a sense that if she let go, she would collapse on herself like an articulated puppet.

“But was she sitting cross-legged?” I ask, leaning forward slightly.

She gasps, one hand on her chest. “I don’t know what kind of sick mind you have to ask questions like that, whether she was wearing shoes, how she was sitting. I don’t know if you are trying to picture her in a ridiculous, comical position, I don’t know if that brings you joy, Mrs. Davies, but you can stop right now. Mrs. Deborah was elegance personified, always. She was very well dressed, as always. And yes, she was wearing shoes. And she wasn’t sitting cross-legged or whatever ridiculous scenario you imagine. She was lying on her back.”

She brushes more tears away. “And I never want to relive that day. I didn’t even want to ever set foot in this house again. The only reason I stayed is because Mr. Davies begged me to.”

She stands there, shaking, staring at me. She bends down a little so her face is close to mine. Her eyes are like black coals. “And let me tell you something, Mrs. Davies. You will never, ever live up to her. When he was with her, Dr. Davies was happy. He was a different man. With you, he is a shadow of himself. You can never, ever replace her. ”

I shrug. “I’m the better cook,” I say.

She shakes her head, like she can’t, she just can’t. “Now if you don’t mind,” she says, smoothing her hair on the side of her head, “I have work to do.”

She walks out of the room, teetering on wobbly legs.





I asked Roy once how he felt about living in the house where Deborah died. Did he not find it excruciating to have to walk through the pool of blood—now gone, obviously, but still—where she was found?

“I don’t think about that part,” he’d said.

“Ever?”

“I only ever think of her the way she was, vibrant and alive.”

I nodded, like that made total sense. Then I asked him to show me exactly where she lay when she was found, and he looked at me like I’d suggested we get a pet rabbit and microwave it for lunch.

I sit down on the last step now, close to the spot that Marie pointed to. I put my hand down on the stone floor and close my eyes. I try to picture the scene, but all I can think is how scared she must have been when Roy—or someone hired by him—pointed the shotgun at her and shot her, right up close. I sit there a long time, striving to connect with her through space and time. I think about that sometimes, when I touch a random brick, or a tap, or a flower bed, that I’m connecting through time and space with the person who laid down that brick, or installed that tap, or decided how to plant that flower bed. It’s like touching hands with a stranger. You can connect with people all day if you think about things that way.

I do it now, my fingers grazing the floor, my eyes closed, listening intently for her to tell me how he did it.

I’m still there when Roy comes home a couple of hours later.

“What on earth are you doing?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I get up and brush my knees. “Cleaning up dust bunnies.”





20





Today is Monday, and I have my appointment with Dr. Kowalski. Nothing much happened this weekend. Roy was here all the time, so I never got the opportunity to search his office. He did ask me if I’d canceled his appointment with his lawyer on that Friday.