The Window

Reginald’s head drooped slightly, exhausted, but his eyes never wavered from the unique window in front of him. It was intoxicating and addictive to watch the actions of others through the window - as though he was living through these other people.  These people dressed peculiarly, lived in a strange house together (like some kind of commune), and were always either too happy or too sad. At times the people on the other side of the glass disappeared abruptly, perhaps recalled to another task or another planet by their alien gods, only to reappear again in ten or twenty minutes.  He had seen a UFO just last year, shortly before his best friend Stewie went missing.  The officials tried to convince him that fifteen-year-old Stewie had taken his own life, but Reginald knew better.

In the space between Reginald and the large window sat a short table, a coffee table it was called, though he never drank the stuff.  Instead, it held a small vase of peonies and a grey-and-white cat.  He didn’t understand why he had a cat in his house; he had always been more of a dog person.  He smiled then, remembering the big old grey-and-white sheepdog he’d had as a boy.  Always getting into trouble, that dog.  He reached out to stroke the cat, but in his head, it was his sheepdog he was petting. 

The man outside the window was calling to his brother? Son?  Reginald could never remember their relationship, although the younger one was named Schmidt; of this he was sure.  An odd name, Reginald thought.  Schmidt reappeared in front of the window and had a brief conversation with his brother over their holiday plans.  Lost in his own thoughts, remembering last Christmas with his dear wife Marianne, Reginald didn’t hear what they decided to do for the holidays.  Marianne always had a talent for hosting, and she had done them both proud with the feast she conjured; even his mother, who could find fault with anyone and anything, had no disparaging comments.  

Returning his attention to the window. Reginald saw some of those newfangled cars driving down the street past the house.  He wouldn’t ever trade any of them for his precious R-type Bentley Continental, with its gorgeous grille and rear fins.  Driving up to the house that first day had been the proudest moment of his life - and the look on Marianne’s face was worth all the hard work he had put in at the factory.  Plus he liked to rub it in the Old Man’s face - to make up for all the times his father had told him he’d never amount to anything.  

Noise from inside the house caught Reginald’s attention; he slowly, reluctantly, turned his head from the magical window to see what made the sound.  A pretty girl, maybe in her early twenties, just a few years younger than Marianne, made her way into the room carrying a tray.  Marianne must have hired a new maid and forgot to let him know.  Understandable, given how often they hosted soirees - of course, Marianne would need extra helping hands sometimes.  The smell of the food wafted up to Reginald’s nose.  Why on earth was she bringing the food to the drawing-room?  Were they expecting guests that he had forgotten about? 

“Where’s Marianne?” he asked.  Reginald glanced at his clothes, which were somewhat wrinkled and faded.  He leaned forward to get out of his chair.  If they were having company he must change into something more formal. He winced as his joints ached, probably the result of another long day at the factory: it wasn’t much less demanding being the foreman than the laborer.  

 The maid put out a hand to help him up. Reginald pushed aside her hand brusquely.  He was a man; he didn’t need some mere girl’s help to stand!  “Did you need to pee?” she asked, not answering his question. He realized he did need the can, but he didn’t understand why she was using such vulgar language.  He would have to speak to Marianne about her.  Where was Marianne? 

The food on the tray smelled quite appetizing and Reginald’s stomach grumbled a bit, letting him know he was hungry.  Forgetting his need to relieve himself for the moment, he settled back into the sofa and reached for one of the sandwiches on the tray.  His hand trembled a little as he brought the sandwich toward his mouth.  The girl sat down beside him on the sofa, pulled the tray closer, and touched his arm softly.  He frowned and pulled away from her forwardness, her impropriety, causing the sandwich to tumble to the floor.  

“Where is my wife?” 

The girl leaned down to pick up the pieces of sandwich from the floor, her brow furrowing a bit.  Sitting back up slowly, she spoke carefully, as though worried how he would react.  “She isn’t here anymore.  She got very sick…”  

The girl paused, looked out the window in front of them, where the neighbor women were discussing their fondness of the neighbor men; then she reached for a black stick with numbers that rested on the coffee table.  Reginald watched her suspiciously, waiting for her next words.  The window in front of them suddenly turned black and the voices from the neighbors ceased, like magic.  The maid put the stick back down and turned to face him.  

“She got very sick, but she loved you ‘til her last breath.” 

Marianne.  His precious, lovely Marianne was gone?  Dead? How could that be?  She was fine just this morning when he left for work.  That was this morning, right? “I need to see her!  Her-her body - where is it? Please!?  Take me to her!”

A tear formed in the maid’s eye, but she blinked it back.  “I can’t.  I’m sorry, but she died...awhile ago and she has been buried in Saint Mark’s Cemetery.”   

This had to be some kind of hoax.  A depraved one, to be sure, but a hoax nonetheless.  He lashed at the tray of food with his hand; the plate and the glass fell to the floor.  Food sprayed everywhere.  The maid patted him gently on the shoulder, then knelt and began to clean up the mess.  She left the room for a minute, returning with a new tray of food

“You, maid, what’s your name?” Reginald demanded hoarsely.  His voice didn’t come out as strong as he expected.

But the girl smiled gently back at him as she adjusted the tray in front of him.  “I’m Bridget, Grandpa. Your granddaughter Milly’s oldest daughter.  Would you like me to turn the TV back on?  What were you watching, New Girl?”  She reached for a black stick-like thing on the table and pointed it at the window.  A moment later, the neighbors were visible once more.  

“Schmidt!” The neighbor yelled to his brother, his voice clear as day through the glass of the window.  Reginald sat back in his chair, eyes glued to the neighbors’ actions once more, his previous upset forgotten as he lived through the activities of another reality.