Woman in the Woods

Jane leaned against the sink, washing the supper dishes. With her hands in the hot soapy suds, she looked out the window, absently thinking that the dahlias needed watering.  An hour or so left of daylight, maybe she'd get to the flowers before turning in. There were still boxes to unpack, and things to put away, they could wait. She listened over the sound of the running taps, grateful to hear Bill's sputtering snoring, and the TV blaring the baseball scores, and, guiltily, felt relief to have a few moments to herself. She allowed herself to relax for the first time tonight since he came home from work. Let him sleep. Again, she wondered what kind of curtains to get for the kitchen, she'd seen some nice fabric she liked in the village.

A fleeting cloud darkened the approaching evening, and Jane felt a quiver, a sensation of being watched. 

Then she saw her. From out of the woods, about 500 feet from the house, an old woman was just standing there, looking straight at Jane with pale milky blue eyes, eyes that seemed familiar, kind, sisterly--but there was something about her fixed gaze that nettled, as though the woman could really seeJane, see into the very working springs of her mind, into the ticking clockwork that made her run. A cold finger of anxiety tickled her insides. The woman wore a red sweater over a faded housedress, and bedroom slippers. She looked half-crazy, with wild, starkly white hair that fell long down her shoulders. She must be lost, she may have wandered from somewhere, she could be hurt or scared. Jane started to call out the window, but quickly stifled herself, afraid to wake Bill. 

She watched as the woman walked into the dilapidated toolshed at the edge of the property-

it must have been a trick of the light, the angle of the sun as it dipped behind the trees, but the stranger seemed to dissolve into the old wood door, and disappeared-

Jane shut off the faucet, hastily dried her hands, and was out the back door. "Hello?" she called. The yard was big, overgrown, neglected for years, her bare feet felt the soft suppleness of dandelions, the dryness of sunburnt crabgrass. Her gait slowed as she neared the shed. It was shut tight. She tried the handle, pulled at the rusted lock. No go. "Hello?"

She put her ear to the door. Nothing. It was dead quiet. All she could hear was the brook that ran along incessantly, and the birds chattering. There wasn't a neighbor for miles. Jane suddenly missed the noise of crowded Somerville, at least there were people around. They bought this place out in the boonies for the quiet, at least that's what Bill had wanted. It was just the two of them, alone, buried here in the country.  She pushed an unpleasant thought away as she rubbed at a small smut-covered window with her hand, peered inside. Nothing.  A banged-up push mower and some gardening tools, a network of spider webs embedded with dead insects, rodent droppings. 

The woman was gone. Gone where?She looked again inside, almost expecting her to be there, knowing she couldn't be. Just then she noticed the implements that hung on the walls, the bow saws, the shears, spades, and a broken rake--- there, where an axe or hatchet used to be, the barest outline of it, an empty spot--it must have been a good-sized one, given the ghostly negative space on the grimy wall, the kind you'd use for chopping wood. 

But it was gone, too--

"What are you doing out here for Chrissake?" It was Bill. He was up from his nap, standing there on the porch, his pants half zipped.  A can of Narragansett in his hand. The fourth since he got home from work, the mid-point of his nightly consumption. 

"Nothing." 

Don't tell him. Tell him what? That she'd seen a strange lady go into their shed, a woman who came from out of the woods and who seemed to have disappeared? That there also seemed to be an axe missing? She'd never hear the end of it. She could hear him razzing her already. She wouldn't say anything. No need to give him more reasons to pick on her. 

"Get the hell back inside, Plain Jane. Get your ugly ass in the house," he said. "I''m ready for dessert." She knew what that meant. With leaden feet she walked toward him, her skin already flinching at the memory of the buckle of his belt

It was a rough night. Afterwards, while he slept, Jane sat out on the porch swing, and looked out into the dark woods, her tears bright in the moonlight. Every bone in her body cried in pain. She smoked cigarettes from the stale pack she still held onto for emergencies, and rocked mechanically, listening to the rusty chains creak and groan. She smoked and waited. Waited for what? She didn't know. But nothing happened. 

At dawn, she crept back into the house, quietly not to wake him too soon, to start his breakfast. She unpacked the percolator, and got it going. In one box, she found the new kitchen things she had bought for the move. The price stickers were still on them, these she cut off and shoved to the bottom of the trash barrel, so he couldn't grouse over the cost. He was always angry over money she spent on any little thing, as if she was ever able to spend much, but she wanted something cheerful, bright colors, sunny florals- maybe this would be a new chapter for them, she had hoped.

Jane whisked eggs and watched them bubble in the skillet, feeling something bubble up inside her, too, something she didn't know how to describe, something deeper than simple loneliness, something simmering and a little frightening that she tried to shoo away, but it was as pesky as a fly. She found herself glancing out the window, to the line of trees, half-hoping--

It was time to get him up.

She winced pulling herself up the backstairs, still aching from last night. She’d hoped the country would calm his demons, but he just got drunker and meaner. Nothing she could do was ever enough for him. Still, she hurried, lest he get up late and on the wrong side of the bed. There would be a long Saturday for her if he woke up mad.

A chill passed through her as she made her way to their room, like something passed through her.  On the nightstand table next to her side of the bed, on top of the book she was supposed to be reading, was something she'd never seen before but instantly recognized. Its handle, well-worn and smooth, felt warm to the touch. She ran a finger along the wedged blade.  She lifted it, appreciated the heft, the weight of it. Instinctively, she turned to the door where she knew the stranger stood. Their eyes met. A silent communication passed between them, an understanding of one woman to another.

The old lady put a finger to her own lips. 

Shhhh. 

And then she was gone.

  

Just then Jane’s husband grunted, stirred in the bed. 

Jane held the hatchet ready, her heart pounding in her ears-

"Bill," she said, softly – no need to startle him, her voice has as gentle, as docile as always. Her hand clenched the weapon. “Bill,” she said, "it's time."