Oh, I would like to see the inside of her house, though I’m not sure what I think it would tell me. Perhaps I’m imagining Bluebeard’s castle or the house in Psycho, with its taxidermied animals auguring no good. But I know from my many detective novels that a person in possession of a secret is as likely as anyone to own a television, a coffee table, a couch.
Still—and perhaps I read too many of those novels and should, at this late date, give them up for something more sensible and edifying—still, I keep imagining myself as a detective, and what does a detective want but to be admitted into the house of the suspect? Think of all the little old ladies of mystery land—Miss Marple, and the one played by Angela Lansbury on TV. We look sweet and doddering, but we are wily and clever, and everything you assume about us we use to our advantage. If she would just invite me over. We’ll have a nice chat and then she’ll excuse herself for one reason or another and I’ll notice something—a glint of metal or a corner of a letter peeking out from under the bookcase—and I’ll go investigate. I’ll be drawn into some dark room where there may be clues. But she’ll catch me. She’ll come in and I won’t know it, so engrossed in my clues, and she’ll say, “What are you doing?” or “Lose your way?” in the eerily calm voice of the possible murderer. I’ll stammer out some excuse—oh my! Just an old lady! Confused! I’m too old to flee so I’ll have to rely on my wits to escape her.
I have been exposed. And still she doesn’t see me. She doesn’t even recognize me.
I ran into her at the Piggly Wiggly first thing this morning, Jennifer and her little boy, let loose in the aisles though he’s a hazard. It terrifies me to watch him run. He contains infinite possible collisions. I picture him in my house and shudder—everything there is fragile, including me. He was begging his mother for this and that. I watched for a moment without her noticing: he wanted cookies and where she should have said an outright no she was negotiating. Him the world cares about. His needs, his wants, his feelings.
She looked up at last and saw me, but she didn’t really see me. She gave me a polite vague smile. There I was a few feet from her, a woman whose naked skin she has touched with her hands, and she didn’t recognize me.
Jennifer, I think about you every day.
She was saying my name. She was saying, “I didn’t recognize you for a second. Out of context.” She was pushing her cart closer to mine, telling the little boy over her shoulder to put down the cookies and come on. She said something about having forgotten she was supposed to take snacks to his school. I wasn’t really listening. I was still in the moment when she looked at me and had no idea who I was. What more do I need, to convince me how little I matter?
The rest of the morning I was teary eyed, the world filmy, the pages of my book hard to see. I sit in my armchair and reread Agatha Christie. Behind me the clock ticktocks. It’s a grandfather clock that belonged to my parents, ponderous and loud. Its low and solemn voice counts each hour that passes; how else would I know to mark them off?
After a while I called Lucy. Lucy is a doctor, which gives us plenty to talk about. She’s in general practice. She could’ve gone into a luxury-car specialty, but she was already married by then, and knew she wanted a family, and so that is what she chose. Her husband is a decent man, I guess. He does something with computers. I don’t know what exactly, but truthfully I don’t really care. He matters to me chiefly as he advances or impedes my access to her.
“What if I buy you a ticket?” I said to Lucy when she answered the phone. “Will you come see me then?”
There was a slight pause. “That’s sweet of you,” she said. She sounded a little stiff, and it occurs to me now that perhaps I offended her, assuming her hesitation was financial.
“I’ll spring for first class,” I said, and she laughed.
“It’s not really an issue of money,” she said. “It’s an issue of time.”
“You could come for a weekend.”
“I could. But the kids are in all kinds of activities now, so leaving Austin alone with them really complicates his life, and you know I often have to round on Saturdays, so being away takes some planning.”
“Maybe you’d just rather not come,” I said. “Your life is very important.” This time I knew I’d offended her. Even if I hadn’t heard it in the silence, or the careful control in her voice when she spoke again, I knew because I’d done it on purpose.
“That’s not the case,” she said.
“Those children won’t thank you for dancing attendance on them, you know,” I said. “Applauding everything they do. What are you teaching them?”
“Margaret,” she said, and then she seemed at a loss.
“Life is not soccer games and trophies,” I said. “Life is an uphill battle against idiocy and despair.”
“Margaret,” she said. “I will look at my schedule and get back to you.”