Page 7 of I Know She Was There
The name that had come to me the first time I’d glimpsed her, watching her float through the air, her arms lifting like gossamer wings. A tune—a waltz—filtered through my mind; accompanying them as they’d shifted seamlessly left, then right. He twirled her around and around, setting her dark hair into motion; her slim body, in tank top and leggings, revolved like a ballet dancer on pointe.
A return to their place the following night after the eleven o’clock news revealed a completely dark house and a mailbox devoid of personal information. I’d shuffled through half a dozen flyers addressed to Occupant, discovering nothing new about them. I wondered if they paid all their bills online like most of us millennials do nowadays.
I hadn’t seen the couple again for a week, when a mechanical whir up ahead made me step quicker through the twilight of a hot August evening. Soon, I was directly in front of Matt’s house, the homeowner himself in the front yard in the day’s dying light. Approaching the hedge he stood beside, I again thought he was probably in his mid- to late thirties. His sandy hair nearly reached the tattered collar of his T-shirt, and a well-defined bicep extended over the privet hedge, his hand clutching the electric clipper like a cavalry sword. He slashed horizontally in sharp, quick motions, like a fencer trying to finesse the offending shrub into submission. His striking light eyes, even in the waning light, caused me to stare. I smiled as I passed, but he was focused on his task. It made me feel dismissed. He was too busy to be friendly.
A window had opened in the top left dormer of the custom Cape Cod behind him. A flash of dark hair through the glass, and a rich, sensual female voice cut through the evening air. “When you’re finished there, wipe down the windows in the shed.”
He grunted, but with acknowledgment or displeasure, I couldn’t tell. I recalled how little success I’d had with Tim whenever I nagged or demanded. He’d often grunted at me.
On this particular night, I stared at the custom Cape, recalling Melanie in the foyer with her arms slung around another man a few weeks earlier. Anger shot upward from my suddenly tight chest until it clouded my vision, fleetingly blotting out the front porch. I blinked, reminding myself that Melanie’s choices were not my business. But poor Matt! Just like Rod Brockton, he was being played.
I took a few deep breaths, counseling myself to calm down. I looked ahead at the small, too-perfect-to-be-natural pond with a large, garishly lit center fountain spewing water heavenward. I shivered; I hated ponds. Especially that one. I let my gaze wander to the right—the Owen family home at 12 Primrose Way, the first house after the pond. Tim had forbidden me to have anything to do with them after what he’d calledthe incident. Yet Tim wasn’t around anymore. I could go where I pleased. I could go to Muzzy’s, climb her porch steps, and knock on her door. But I wouldn’t.
I swallowed. Would I ever have the courage to confront Muzzy and restore our friendship? It was a shame, it really was. Muzzy and I were just becoming close when everything happened. When I began my field trips to Deer Crossing last March—and that’s how I’d thought of them: fun outings rife with educational moments—I’d study the families on each block. The Owen family was the first to capture my attention. A research project of sorts. Each time I’d pass by their house, the dazzle of children perpetually running and squealing within their picketed perimeter enthralled me. Tiny mittened hands erected feeble snow creatures out of the late-winter slush stubbornly clinging to the warming earth; delighted squeals emanated from what appeared to be animated winter wear, jumping on the trampoline, white puffs projecting off its bouncing surface inside the netted space. A real-life snow globe. And Muzzy, bless her, always in the middle of her four-kid tribe, no matter the temperature outdoors. Her gloved hands distributing cookies or trail-mix packets.
When the thermometer climbed to the midsixties in early April, she helped the children set up a lemonade stand at the end of their driveway. I purchased their watery concoction, pressing a Dixie cup of lemon-yellow fluid against my lips and chatting with Muzzy, discovering her real name was Helene. Yet her kids’ nickname suited both her generous proportions and capable demeanor: soft but as substantial as a weighted blanket.
Soon I was strolling past her house every afternoon. It was only a matter of weeks until she invited me into the yard. Accepting her bite-sized cheesecake tarts and scooting after toddling eighteen-month-old Brandon, trying to look as though I enjoyed pressing his squirming body and sour, sweat-soaked scalp close. Pretending for Muzzy, who adored cuddling Emmy. She’d reach for my wailing infant as soon as I clicked her front gate behind me.
“I do so love a baby,” she’d exclaim every time we came over, regardless of Emmy’s screeching. “I want another one.”
“Brandon’s still a baby,” I said during the first visit, my eyes growing wide as Emmy settled and quieted in Muzzy’s expert embrace.
“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “Brandon’s big and bad already. Mimicking the monsters.” She angled her head to indicate three-year-old Amber, five-year-old Alexander, and Christopher, nearly seven, intent upon chasing his siblings around the swing set. Her voice held such fondness I wondered whether Muzzy’s desire for another child was altruistic or addled. Subsequent visits ensured she was neither. She simply loved children. Especially babies. Yet, she’d relayed with a frown, her husband, Johnny, had decided for them both that four children was enough.
I shared my cell phone number with Muzzy, but she never called me. When I’d stop by, she’d always lament the fact she hadn’t a spare moment to phone, but she invariably invited me into her yard.
“I keep the little buggers outside as much as possible,” she confided one afternoon as she shepherded Alex and Christopher off the school bus and through her front gate, holding it wide for me to stroll Emmy through. “In the yard, I can keep my eye on them. Inside, they hide in closets and under furniture.” She laughed uproariously as though she’d made a hilarious joke. “I swear, they do it just to drive me crazy. They gang up.”
I marveled at Muzzy’s demeanor. No matter what she claimed, she never seemed outnumbered or overwhelmed. One afternoon, as we sat on the picnic bench bouncing the babies on our knees, I asked Muzzy if I could use her bathroom. I didn’t have to go, but I could no longer contain my curiosity about her house. What was it like inside? I’d often pictured toys scattered around the floors, half-empty juice boxes gracing the dining table, and children’s clothes strewn across the living-room sofa.
What greeted me when I stepped inside made my jaw drop. Muzzy’s rooms had the continuity, decor, and forced neatness of the featured houses inBetter Homes and Gardensspreads. Coats hung from largest to smallest on pegs in the mudroom. Beneath them, shoes were lined up—also by size—in copper trays.
I took a few steps forward, hovering near the guest bathroom, my gaze taking in the kitchen in front of me and a great room beyond. The granite countertops looked like polished coal. I reached forward and pulled open the nearest drawer. Flatware gleamed within the confines of a built-in compartment. Every utensil was perfectly aligned. I closed the drawer, my fingers itching to open another drawer. To open all of them. Taking a resolute breath, I stepped back, dropping my hands to my sides.
The smell of bleach crept into my nose as I gazed at glistening white cabinetry and stainless-steel appliances, searching for fingerprints. There were none, not even on the lower cabinets, the fridge, or around the dishwasher handle. How was that possible with all those kids? Maybe that was why Muzzy kept them perpetually outside. I looked at the perfectly plumped pillows on the oversized sofa in the great room, my eyes searching for stray stuffed animals or a dropped toy. To no avail. The space was showroom perfect.
Seeing my dazed expression when I rejoined her at the picnic table, Muzzy didn’t wait for me to speak.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, a red hue suffusing her face. “I like to keep things tidy. I really have no choice. With Johnny gone so much, it’s just me holding down the fort, and I can’t let the little beasts get ahead of me.” She grinned. “Idohave Edith, who comes in for deep cleaning twice a week.”
“Of course.” I nodded, recalling Muzzy telling me her husband was an airline pilot. She’d have plenty of money to hire cleaning help. But even so...
“I can’t help it.” She looked away from me, as though she couldn’t quite meet my eyes. “I don’t want Johnny to come home to chaos... and I like things orderly.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said quickly, thinking of my house’s messy, disorganized rooms. “I just don’t know how you manage it.”
“They’re all in bed by seven thirty. Gives me three hours to clean. I flip onThe Bacheloror some other inane show and go to town with Clorox.” She looked at me then. “And when I’m done, I’ll go just as hard with an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Doesn’t matter what flavor, I love them all. If only I could train myself to drop that last little routine, I’d be twenty pounds lighter.” She sighed. “Guess we all have our vices.”
“I suppose so.”
She tilted her head, her eyes scanning the length of me.
“What’s yours?”
“What?” I felt my own face redden.
“What’s your guilty pleasure?”