© Sauce*Box, Spring 1996.
All rights revert to author.
The Window
by Margaret Morgan
To your left, your friend Mary pours herself
another glass of red. To your right, your husband James chops chives on
a stained plastic board. Mary laughs at James's joke. She laughs loudly.
The door in front of you, beyond the cluttered table, is open. It is dark
outside. The flowers in the aged polystyrene trough are lit by the kitchen
globe. They are impatiens, red, and drooping from straggly stems. A snail
climbs towards the flowers up the side of the trough. The flowers are wet.
It was raining earlier, but the rain has stopped now. The wooden fence is
streaked with water and covered by a nest of dormant branches, some sort
of vine. You don't know what the vine is called, but sometimes you think
you should prune it. You can't get to the clothes line any more, the vine
has grown so dense. But you never do prune the vine. Nor do you sweep up
the leaves on the path. They are matted and rotting against the concrete.
That's where the snails live.
The air is still. The smoke from Mary's cigarette draws a straight line
upwards, until it gets confused, and begins to waver and eddy. She laughs
again, her breath disturbing the smoke. James smiles, then speaks some more.
His voice is quiet, soft. The knife hits the chopping board, with a dull,
regular beat.
Mary asks you if she can put some music on. You say yes. She chooses some
Tracy Chapman. She keeps the volume low.
Beyond the fence is the back of another house. The roof of the house is
rusted iron. The roof of your house is also rusted iron. Earlier, when it
was raining, the sound of the water on the roof was so loud that you couldn't
hear what James was saying. He speaks softly. You had to close the door.
But now that the rain has stopped, the door is open again. You look at the
other house.
There is a man sitting at a desk by the window upstairs. He looks young,
but you can't see his face well, even though his lamp shines on it. The
twisted branches of the vine slightly obscure your view. The branches look
dead, but they're not. It is winter.
James scrapes the chopped chives into a bowl. There is lettuce in the bowl,
shredded by hand. And cherry tomatoes. James is making a salad.
James and Mary are talking about music. They are talking about a disc you
and James lent Mary, a recording of Mozart on original instruments. Mary
tells James that she likes the freshness of the sound. She says that it
has an edge. You hear the words "original" and "edge",
but you don't hear the other words.
Soon the vine will begin sprouting new green shoots. The shoots will darken
into thick leaves. The vine will grow bigger.
Mary asks if she can open another bottle of wine. You say yes. She gets
up and goes to the wine rack. She asks if she can open the Cabernet. James
says yes. He says, "Sure." She sits down again, and attaches the
corkscrew to the top of the bottle. She has no difficulty in opening the
bottle. She fills up your glass, then James's, then her own. You don't take
a sip, not yet.
James asks you something, but you don't catch what he says and you have
to ask him to repeat it. He wants you to pass the vinegar. You pass it to
him. James is making salad dressing. You didn't hear him the first time
he asked you to pass the vinegar because you were looking out the door,
at the window, at the man sitting working.
The man at the window is working hard. He is writing, and referring to something
on the desk, to one side. He is concentrating. You can tell that by the
tilt of his head.
Mary lights another cigarette.
The snail has reached the rim of the flower trough.
James pours virgin olive oil into the jar with the vinegar. He screws the
pepper mill over the mixture. He is talking again. You look up at the window.
The man is looking back.
You turn your head towards him, so he can see that you are looking at him.
You can't be sure whether he can see, though, because of the vine. You smile.
Mary and James are talking again. Now they are talking about politics. They
don't notice you smiling.
The man smiles back. You turn away and take a sip of your wine.
James says that the salad is ready. Mary asks if she can get the plates.
She knows where they are, because she visits often. Sometimes she does the
dishes. James says yes.
James pours the salad dressing into the bowl. He uses tongs to toss the
salad. Then he puts the salad onto the plates that Mary has brought from
the cupboard. Mary and James eat.
Mary and James are not talking now. They are eating. You take another sip
of wine, and as you do so, you see that the man in the window is looking
at you again. Or maybe he is still looking at you. You don't know which,
because you turned away. The glass is in your hand. You raise your glass,
while you look at the man. You toast him. He smiles. He waves. You look
at James and Mary, but they have not seen. They are talking now. Mary is
complimenting James on his salad dressing. They talk about salad dressings.
You think about what the man can see from his window. Perhaps he can see
other windows. Perhaps the only view is of your door, and the people sitting
in the kitchen, drinking red wine and eating salad.
You pick up your fork, and try to puncture a cherry tomato. The tomato is
slippery, because of the oil in the salad dressing. The tomato slides out
from under the fork, and lands on the table. It rolls towards the edge,
and you don't move quickly enough to stop it from falling off onto the floor.
James glances at you. You bend over to pick up the tomato. There is a trail
of salad dressing along the lino. A snail trail.
As you take the tomato in your hand you see that Mary has taken off her
shoes. She is wearing panty hose. They are blue, a deep navy colour. They
have reinforced toes, so the blue is stronger there. One of her feet is
against James's ankle. A blue toe is moving, slowly rubbing itself against
the hairs on his leg. The foot quickly moves away from him, and plunges
back into her shoe.
You sit up, and put the tomato onto the edge of your plate. The music is
still playing.
You look across to the window. The light has gone out. The man isn't there
any longer.
Rain is beginning to fall again. The red impatiens flowers are bobbing as
the droplets hit them. Mary asks if she should close the door.
You say yes.
* * * * *
Your critique of this work is appreciated.
Please e-mail the author.