Frightened, Leila dropped the shovel and started to run toward the house, but the skating Marietta was faster. Leila was amazed at the other woman’s agility. Marietta caught hold of Leila’s hair and yanked hard. Leila came to a halt and Marietta slammed into her. Leila toppled to the ground, landing facedown in the dirt. Marietta fell on top of her. In no time flat, she had her hands around Leila’s throat, choking her.
“Sam is mine! I won’t let you have him!”
Leila couldn’t breathe. Her head pounded as she tried to pry Marietta’s fingers from her throat. But Marietta was strong, and her fingers didn’t budge.
“Let her go,” Leila heard a voice say, but everything around her was swimming out of focus.
“No! I’m younger, I’m prettier, I’m stronger-”
“You’re dead,” the voice said, and Leila heard the shovel ring out once again. She fell into darkness.
Sam and Leila were sitting on the loveseat. Two rosebushes grew on one side, a third on the other.
“Marietta still hasn’t come back,” Sam said. “I think she’s left me for good.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you never see her again,” Leila said.
“I suppose you’re right. She went absolutely insane when I told her that I had decided to beg you to take me back. The language she used! Called me things I never imagined anyone would ever call me. And when Miss Grayson called that evening to tell me that Marietta had come by to attack you like that-” He looked at the bruises on her throat and winced. “I’m so sorry, Leila. You should have called me sooner.”
“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m fine now, really.”
“Anyway, I’m glad Miss Grayson called me. I guess it was while I was over here with you that Marietta cleared all of her things out of our old apartment.”
“Alice was a great help that day,” Leila said, thinking of the apartment key that was now in a jar of buttons. She leaned back against Sam, who put his arms around her. “I’m glad you came over to see me.”
“Of course! You needed me.”
They sat in silence for a while, Sam holding Leila close, amazed by how strongly he had felt about her lately. Oh, he had thought of her often during the few months he had spent with Marietta, but somehow, something had changed in Leila since she had lived in this old house. He looked at the riot of colors around him. Amazing, he thought. And this loveseat. That seemed so sentimental, so unlike the old Leila.
“You planted this garden yourself?” he asked in wonder.
“Yes, all except this corner. Alice Grayson helped me with this one.”
“Ah, that explains the loveseat.”
Leila merely smiled.
It seemed to Sam that he had never desired her more.
GHOST OF A CHANCE
It wasn’t hard for the ghost to awaken me.
It was the second night after David died, and my grief was still so great as to thin my sleep to gossamer. Just about anything would cause me to wake up suddenly, reach for his side of the bed, feel the emptiness there, and then the emptiness within myself; next would come a tightness in my chest, the pressing weight of the sudden loss of my husband.
Some might believe I saw the ghost because I so wanted David to be alive, I imagined he had come back to me. The only problem with that theory is, it wasn’t my husband’s ghost.
I had awakened from my fitful sleep that night because the room felt cold; I opened my eyes to see a man standing at the foot of the bed. Until I was fully awake, I almost thought it was David. Like David, he was about six feet tall, with dark brown hair and big, brown eyes. He was handsome, but I discovered that even handsome men who suddenly show up uninvited at the foot of my bed can scare me. This one did. I opened my mouth to scream, and he vanished.
I was more than a little upset, but I convinced myself that I had dreamed the whole thing, and fell back into a restless slumber, full of dreams of David dying. The next morning I felt grumpy and ill-at-ease. It was the day of David’s funeral, and there wasn’t anything on earth that was going to make me feel good about that day. As I looked in the mirror, I became even more certain of that. I looked like a blouse someone had left to wrinkle in the dryer. My blond hair framed a colorless face and I had dark shadows under my blue eyes.
“You’ll be just fine, Anna,” I said to myself. At forty-two, I wasn’t in bad shape. The lines that had appeared on my face weren’t etched too deeply. Gave it character, my father said. I was getting more character every year, but I’m not the type to fret over it. At least, I hadn’t been until she came along.
I wondered if she would have the nerve to show up at the funeral. I wouldn’t know her if she did. When he made his confession, David never told me her name, and I never asked for it. As far as I was concerned, it was important not to know the name of the woman David had met at the St. George Hotel every Wednesday for fifteen weeks. For fifteen weeks, on the night I taught a class in-of all things-ethics, Ms. X had taught David that he could still lure a woman to bed. I wondered if they had laughed about that. He wasn’t laughing when it ended. “A temporary madness,” he had told me, weeping as he did. “Forgive me,” he pleaded.
To this day, I’m not able to be very precise about why I did forgive him. At the time I was outraged, hurt, angry, humiliated. The pain of betrayal remained; whatever trust was between us had taken a torpedo broadside. But the ship didn’t sink, it just listed.
Maybe the reason I stayed with him wasn’t really so complex. David and I had been together for twenty years; and in that twenty years I had come to love him more than anyone else on earth. He was a habit I couldn’t break. Fate broke it for me.
David had made his confession six months ago, and strove to be the ideal husband in the time since. Together we tried to renew our marriage, and somehow, we were making it. On the morning of the day he died, he told me that he was working on something that would really make me proud of him. I had no idea what it was. “I’m proud of you all the same, David,” I said to the haggard reflection in the mirror. Ten minutes later I was still sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing.
I pulled myself together, hoping I wouldn’t shame myself at his funeral. As I put on a plain black dress that David had always liked, I held on to the anger I felt toward his killer. David had come to the college to pick me up that night. I was on my way to the car when I heard the shots. The college is in a part of town that has become rougher over the years, and I didn’t think much about hearing gunfire. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence, but it wasn’t that rare. When I saw the crumpled form on the steps that lead up from the parking lot, I didn’t know it was David until I was only a few feet from him. He was unconscious, and bleeding to death. Nothing, not even a ghost in my bedroom, will ever terrify me the way those moments did, when I held David as he died.
No one saw the actual shooting, but several witnesses saw a blue Chevy speeding away from the scene. No one knew anything else. No model, no license plate, no description of the driver, no mention of how many people were in the car. No motive, just someone who got their kicks by driving around firing guns at people. There was some speculation that David had been hit by gunfire aimed at someone else, since other bullets were found lodged in a nearby tree, a wall, another car. “Random violence” seemed to be the theory of the newspapers.
I was one of the believers in the theory. No one would want to kill David Blackburn. The man had cheated on me, and I didn’t want to kill him. I didn’t know anyone with a stronger motive.
The funeral was well-attended, with or without David’s former lover. The priest didn’t know David, but did the best he could to say generically comforting words. My family tried to brace me up, and succeeded in large degree. David’s parents were long dead, but his sister sent a wreath; she had wanted to come to the funeral but couldn’t manage the airfare from Maine to California, and refused my offer to buy the ticket.