Caught by a Dagger

Lakewood, CA. 1962.

There was something ever so fascinating yet nail-bitingly intrusive about spying on your neighbours. It was a guilty pleasure of mine. An obsession if you will. The drama that unfolds in my neighbourhood has me gripped at the edge of my seat nearly every day. What else would a lonesome housewife do whilst her husband went to work six days of the week? I had baked every kind of pie, knitted every type of scarf and cleaned the house right down to the last polished silver spoon.

It was a Tuesday; Raymond had just graced my cheek with a kiss, shrugged on his jacket and pulled out of the driveway in our duck-egg blue Ford Mustang. I peeked through the burnt orange drapes until Raymond was no longer in sight and pranced to the main room to take up my position on the padded flannelette stool by the window. I brushed the crease out of my shapeless shift dress, adjusted the pearls pierced in my ears and straightened my head band before sitting down. I pulled out my binoculars from the quaint, rustic bedside table – I had bought this from the antique store downtown – Raymond however, bought me the binoculars as Christmas gift almost two years ago now. Our neighbourhood is flooded with greenery and birds, bluebirds. Raymond thought it would bring me some joy, to watch the birds in our front yard, little did he know how enjoyable it was. Of course, Raymond does not know that I use them for another purpose – for spying on our neighbours. I could tell you everything there is to know about their homes and who occupied them. Across the street to the left of our house is the Blackwoods. Paul and Cynthia, the newly-weds, still in the honeymoon phase I suspected. Their lives and marriage almost beheld a seamless and flawless impression. But Cynthia too was a stay at home wife with secrets like me, you see. I caught her leading a mystery man into her house on many occasions whilst Mr. Blackwood was at work. Their relationship is simply a disgrace, a mockery and fakery at best. Oh, how she boasted at our barbecue on the fourth of July about their recent engagement. Mr. Blackwood could do her no wrong, or so he thought. She made sure to flash me her diamond ring; a measly 0.25 carat diamond worth no more than the binoculars I use to stalk them. I mean I am no snob of course, but Cynthia Blackwood is the highest-ranking braggart in my books and I make no effort to conversate with her should we cross paths. Unbeknownst to her, I could ruin her marriage in ten seconds flat so she needn’t make an enemy out of me.

Ahead, to the right is Eric and Gregory, the unannounced gay couple, whom claim to be two friends who merely reside together. My all-seeing and all-knowing binoculars attested to that when I first gazed upon them kissing several months ago. They are terribly kind and friendly, so I have no plans to broadcast their secret to the world any time soon.

And who is in the middle house you ask? Well, I don’t know yet.

The coral pink house stood vacant. Spurts of water scattered over the vibrant green grass from the water sprinkler and the wooden for sale sign was still buried into the lawn, yet the property had sold fourteen days ago to an unknown buyer. I was shopping for groceries at the time and when I returned home, I laid eyes upon the boldly written word "sold" decorated across the sign. I felt disappointed that I hadn’t been home to witness my new neighbour, but I knew the day would come eventually. It was exciting, the prospect of a newcomer. It had been so long since I had any new stalking material and I grew tiresome of my current subjects. I needed a fresh face to evoke some whimsical behaviour for me and my binoculars to indulge upon. I lived for a scandal. The lives of my neighbours became my dirty little secret, you see. Their secrets are my ammunition, ready to plunge into the hearts of those who choose to cross me. Quite naturally, I have my own secrets too, my own scandals to hide. Raymond believes me to be his picture-perfect wife, which in retrospect I am, I have never cheated on him unlike Cynthia, with Mr. Blackwood. Raymond’s dinner is always on the table for five o’clock, his clothes ironed and folded, his bed made and his shoes pristinely polished so that you can see your reflection upon them.

I am Mrs. Belvedere, wife to Raymond Belvedere and I am and always will be the perfect housewife.

Noon arrived and I had taken a break from my binoculars to bake an apple pie, for Raymond of course. I had just finished egg-washing the pastry and I carefully, placed it in the oven and set the chicken-shaped egg timer away for forty minutes time. I wiped my hands on my pinafore before hanging it up on its designated hook, on the kitchen wall. I then hung out the laundry in my backyard. It was a fine summers day; the trees danced in the gentle wind, the leaves swooshing like waves at the beach and the marigolds that lined the garden had fully bloomed, mirroring the colour of the sun, as if the sun was orbiting around my garden. I pegged the bed sheet to the washing line and closed my eyes to breathe in the scent of freshly washed cotton, mown grass, and the aroma of juicy sweet apples which transferred through my kitchen window. The sound of a car door slammed from the front of the house and I scurried back inside, and placed the woven laundry basket onto the counter. I dashed over to my stalking seat to peep through the window. A silver Aston Martin had pulled up in front of the lonely and vacant number twenty-four across the street. A slender bodied man exited the vehicle carrying one cardboard box, his head covered by a black, felt fedora hat to match his black tailored suit. He traipsed up his new path and soon enough disappeared into his new home with the drapes remained shut. My body slumped as I moved the binoculars down toward my lap. It is a waiting game then. He had to leave the house at some point or at least draw his curtains; unless he is the hermit type, someone who wallows in darkness, festering is their own mess and filth. He didn’t look like the that kind of gentlemen however – even if I did only see the back of him. A chime sounded from the timer in the kitchen making me jump in surprise. I grabbed the apple pie out from the oven and placed it onto the cooling rack. Tossing the oven mitts to one side I rushed to the window again, I did not want to miss the opportunity to become acquainted with my new neighbour through my peeping glasses. Raymond would not be home for another four hours so I had nothing but time.

An hour passed and still nothing. Not a sound, not a quiver, not a twitch in the curtains. I toyed with the idea that just maybe, he is the introverted neighbour, a private one with a private life like a grumpy old man. I had replaced my binoculars for a magazine to ease the wait and I had bitten my nails short and ridged in anticipation; I knew Raymond wouldn’t approve so I would have to apply fake ones before he returns home. Perfection is everything in the Belvedere household.

My eyes flickered as my attention is turned to the house across the street. The door of number twenty-four creaked open and out walked the mystery. I scrambled to find the binoculars so I could get a glimpse of his face. The rims of my eyes met the rims of the binocular lens and as soon as they did my body suspended any motion, the blood coursing through my veins slowed as my heart froze and my jaw tensed. It could not be. It could not be the man who I had buried five feet under. It could not be the man who I thought was dead, lifeless and no longer breathing the air on this earth. It could not be the man who I once loved and called my husband. It. Could. Not. Be.

My eyes squinted down the lens at the man walking down the path to the road, I moved off my seat and edged closer to the window to get a better view. I removed the binoculars to see him with the naked eye and in harmony his eyes met mine through the window, he smiled broadly. I flinched, pressing my back to the wall beside the window, I held my breath. It was him. Johnny Dagger.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The knocker went as he knocked on my door, it was gentle and unnervingly calm for someone who had been murdered. I left him for dead in 1953; almost a decade had passed yet he decided to come back from the dead to haunt me now. I thought I was free; free from a man who tormented and abused me in every way possible. My brain raided my memories, frantically searching for the error, for where I went wrong, and an explanation on how he could still be alive today, but it was empty and too clouded to focus.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He knocked again. With a tremble I scooted to my front door, leaving the latch on, I opened it.

“Hello, Loretta.” His voice was guttural and raspy, penetrating through every fibre of my body.

I said nothing, for words could not escape me, I was mute with fear.

“Aren’t you going to invite your husband in?” He chirped.

My eyes trailed his face, then to his hands which were empty – no weapon? My eyes scouted the rotary phone on the table beside me. I could call the police, but what the devil would I say? My ex-husband who I thought I had murdered has come back to kill me? For heaven’s sake.

“Loretta, please, you are my wife.” He pleaded.

I murdered him once, I can do it again. My hand trembled as I unlatched the door and I stepped back to let him in, gesturing my hand to the main room. He grinned and as he walked past me, the familiar, putrid mixture of cigars, alcohol and peppermint gum filtered through my nostrils and immediately I felt like I could expel the insides of my stomach onto the recently mopped, shiny, hardwood floor. I followed him into the room whilst eyeing up the roman statue Raymond had bought me for my birthday this year. My weapon of choice this time round. The first time, I had discretely laced his food with rat poison but I guess, the dosage hadn’t been high enough to obliterate him.

Silence hung in the air like a bad stench. My spine chilled and my blood curdled at his undisturbed, calculating demeanour. What was he thinking?

“What are you doing here Johnny?” I croaked.

Johnny edged closer and gave me a sinister smile like the grim reaper. He curled his finger through a strand of my hair in a stroking motion and I gripped onto the window ledge until my knuckles turned white.

“Well my darling, we vowed ‘til death do us part. So, say goodbye to your husband for the last time.”