Marleen Clifford is a swift and practical woman. She’s either a young-looking fifty or a hard-life thirty, it’s difficult to tell. I don’t ask her age, that would be rude. She appears in the mornings and without fanfare prepares my breakfast. She does my laundry, manages my appointments, reminds me of my schedule, and does everyday chores like vacuuming and dusting. She cooks and cleans, though the meals are not elaborate and the house seems to maintain itself.
I have no complaints but for this one peculiar habit of hers: she seems to think she’s in charge of certain aspects of my life. She moves things around the house—vases, figurines, and glass bowls—puts them away altogether—mind you, I have observed this myself—and I’m convinced she was a clumsy child and had her fair share of scolding. Her disposition is one of anticipating the worst. I discovered my Meissen figurines in a box in the storage room. Marleen never told me she found them though I had specifically asked for them to be displayed. I have yet to mention that to her.
It took weeks to get settled and now there’s that storage room left to tackle. Boxes pile up to the ceiling, leaving barely room to move. The peculiar thing is that the number of boxes never seem to lessen regardless how much linen we stack in closets or how many books we put on shelves. They multiply and when I comment on it, Marleen seems uneasy. I don’t mention it anymore.
* * *
• • •
I’ve come a long way with my injury considering I was in excruciating pain when I began walking again. But I pushed through. Though my hip gives me problems on certain days, I have taken up running again. I’ve been hiding my recovery from everyone—Marleen, the doctors, even my friend Vera.
I check my running shoes for the proper tie and I head past a cluster of cast-iron chairs and a table tucked away underneath the silver maples where leaves have left unsightly stains on the ground. The courtyard has changed into its fall clothes and is no longer in bloom with colors of ferns, pears, and lime peels, has months to go before nature will emerge triumphantly.
I head down a walkway, past a fountain covered in algae, its copper spigot a pale green, and take the steps up to the walking trails where cast-iron poles indicate color-coded routes.
A trail of blood leads from the path onto the lawn. A grackle struggles within the green lush blades, one wing spread, the other tucked underneath its body. It wobbles and tips to the side, the long keel-shaped tail unable to keep it upright.
Around me, numerous grackles croak as if in protest, followed by a high-pitched whistle like a rusty gate swinging open. The calls of the birds are interrupted by a sound of scraping metal, which sends dozens of them bursting from surrounding trees.
A man in Dickies shovels what looks like a heap of black iridescent feathers into a metal bucket, repeatedly grating the shovel against the stones. There are countless dead birds scattered all around him but the man—I recognize him as one of the handymen but I don’t know his name—moves his large frame as if to conceal their scrawny legs sticking up into the air.
From the corner of my eye I see a shadow. I brace for impact and instinctively raise my arms. An owl—face round like a disc, head pulled back, and talons spread wide open—pounces on the struggling bird and then thrusts upward, spreading its wings, carrying the fidgeting grackle with it. The man and I stare at each other, then we gaze up at the sky. The owl has disappeared.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says and the shovel lands with a clunk on the walkway.
Tipped-over rat bait stations and green chunks lie scattered about. Didn’t they mention something about the sanctity of wildlife in that brochure?
Neither one of us mentions the dead birds.
* * *
• • •
Marleen told me there was a mix-up. That’s not what she said, her words were quite harsh and there were lots of tears, more a stern lecture to not mess with the bills, those were her words. Mess with.
A month ago I came upon a contractor’s estimate for the kitchen renovation at Hawthorne Court. Some oversight while packing, the paperwork must have ended up with my bank statements. I would have discarded the papers altogether if it hadn’t been for the rather silly logo that jogged my memory: two gnomes with red pointy hats, Kitchen Magic, Inc. The cheapest estimate by far, yet it took two months for the kitchen renovation and delayed our move to Hawthorne Court by weeks. I feel anger when I’m reminded of Edward’s constant miser mode. Before I knew it, I tore at the papers, shredding them, wanting to gnarl at them like a wild animal.
I must have ripped up other paperwork in the process and thrown out bills that subsequently didn’t get paid and then the phone rang, one call after the other, and Marleen was upset, so much more so than anyone should be over paperwork, and I remember thinking why doesn’t she just put someone in charge of the bills? But she is the one in charge.
Marleen made me promise not to go through the drawers again but the incident also opened a floodgate of emotions: finances, bank statements, insurance policies, legal contracts, everything pertaining to my financial situation is unknown to me. Edward takes care of all the financial affairs though I’m not aware of any settlement or if he has filed for divorce. No one’s served me with papers, I’ve never signed any kind of documents relating to anything financial, nor have I been contacted by a lawyer. There’s no prenuptial agreement—neither one of us brought anything into the marriage but our good intentions—and I have signed neither a lease nor anything related to utilities. I’m not aware of a health or life insurance policy, of investments, annuities. Was there a settlement? Is there alimony? Or is Edward paying for Shadow Garden as long as he sees fit? Until . . . until? No contract I can hold Edward to, no agreement of support. What would I do, where would I go?
I’m hardly prepared to support myself and what happens if Edward decides to abandon me completely? And mostly, why would he not? I’m not worth anything to him, the smidgeon of loyalty he has left for me will eventually fade.
I get angry, mostly at myself. For not knowing. The scenarios I imagine create a panic I can hardly contain, not a hypothetical panic, not some made-up situation, no, I’ve seen some Donna Pryors around here. I’ve seen them on the trails, well off, just look at their clothes and shoes, and those handbags they carry, their nails immaculate, not a wrinkle in their clothes, not a scuff mark on their shoes. I’ve also seen husbands trade in wives for younger women, I’ve seen how easily alliances shift and money gets tight, I’ve seen men live it up with the new woman and call destitution in front of a judge. I’ve known court cases to drag on for years.
I open the drawer where Marleen keeps all the files, but they are gone. She must have moved them because all they contain is a bare minimum of flatware and kitchen utensils where the files used to be. In the drawer below that, underneath a tray of sterling tea strainers, bouillon scoops, cheese picks, cake servers, and caviar forks, I find a folder but all it contains are medical bills. There’s not a scrap of paper relating to a divorce or a settlement.