A Knock at The Door

  Margaret had left me some time ago. That very day I closed all the curtains and kept the lights out. I stopped going out. I ate mostly from the pantry, when I did eat. I raided the wine cellar with regularity, yet seemed to make no dent in it. The notices in the mail had no effect on me. I let them pile and overfill and the rain wash them out and make a carpet of them on the first stoop. And I waited. I waited for her to return for her things. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   It was tough breaking up the basement floor. I had the sledge hammer but nothing for a spike to pound on. I found a crack and used the fireplace poker as a wedge. I didn’t mind the work, the hours, I felt motivated. I tried to use the ash shovel to dig but only bent it. I snuck out at night to the barn for a proper spade and began digging a proper six feet. I worked through until the next morning. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   He was from my bank. Or he was her friend from the charity thing when we used to go to such things. I stopped my work until he went away. The work went well. My appetite even returned for that brief time. I ate an apple with dirty fingers. I washed it down with a nice Anjou. No glass, no need to be so formal anymore. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   I put Margaret in her place, but had not the time to cover her. Looking from the side window I saw the charity man had returned. Was he the lover? Aaron? Andre? What’s in a name? Now he was looking along the windows, trying to see between the edges and the curtains. I waited for his departure in darkness and silence. Later I patted the earth down on Margaret and snuck out in the night to pull up stones from the patio that would suitably cover the exposed earth in the basement. I slept the sleep of the just for several days afterwards. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   It was Margaret’s sister. Such a kind, considerate woman who had even hinted she understood my suffering in my marriage to Margaret. I could not bear to see her turn away. I moved in daytime darkness to the top of the stairs, to not be tempted to invite her in. The days that followed I passed mostly on the second floor away from the front door. I travelled to the basement only for the wine. I don’t know how much time had passed. One day I was opening a lovely late harvest Riesling. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   The charity man had returned. He had brought a pry bar. I beat him to his intentions and invited him in. He was surprised to see me and he shook quite a bit. I extended a hand in friendship but he held the bar across himself in defense. I knew despite my evening jacket that I must have looked quite a mess. I tucked in my dress shirt and offered Andre, as he identified himself, some of my Riesling. He declined. It was my fault, really, I should have poured him a glass instead of expecting him to drink from the bottle like myself. I told him there were other wines if he would come down to the basement with me. His hands went positively white holding the pry bar. In the end, I emptied the Riesling and made use of the empty bottle. Poor Andre, he really couldn’t manage to do much with the pry bar. It seemed to only weigh his hands down more than being of any use. Well, it was off to join Margaret for him. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   Irina had returned. My dear sister-in-law. Well, formerly. I’m afraid I creaked the steps getting from the basement to the second floor to look down on her from the windows above. I could have hardly of greeted her dressed as I was. My dirtied dress shirt now had spots of red. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was all spilt wine. In fact, I could not remember when I last drank some of the red. Irina seemed to be looking away from the house to Andre’s orphaned sports car. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   No, this was not how I wished to greet her. I daydreamt that with the passage of time she might see me in a new light now that I was estranged from the unbearable influence of her sister. The woman was a monster, clearly Irina must have seen that and been in sympathy with my need for liberation. And this Andre, an obvious self-serving fool the world was better off with the knowledge that hereafter he would be calling in as absent. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   Would it never stop? I changed to pajamas, robe, and slippers. Washed my face, and gelled my hair to hide the lack of kempt. I overspilled some cologne and opened the front door. Irina wore a modest, coarse fabric suit. She inquired about me and I played the lost soul that I was. She inquired about her sister and I explained she had run off with Andre. She declined an offer of wine and we sat in silence for some time before I lost my head and confessed my undying love for her. I’m afraid I overplayed my bid as it were. She fled. Days passed in anguish and the nights passed in alcohol. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   Irina had returned. My heart soared, and then did a belly flop as she explained there could be no future for us as she was not inclined that way. She made inquiries again about her sister. I fibbed and fabricated and sent her on her way. I could not blame her for not feeling what she did not feel. One must respect the boundaries of others as it were. I returned to the pleasures of the grape. My diet was leaning very much towards the cellar and not the pantry. Then I heard a knock at the door.

   A uniformed police officer made general inquiries. I offered several scenarios of creative speculation and sent her away none the wiser, I am sure. That night I was enjoying a reminisce in the basement when I heard the vehicles come up the drive. Creaking, stumbling, and laughing to the second floor I peeked out a window to see shapes approaching the house. With the moonlight I could make out uniforms, and plain clothes, and body armour, and weapons that were pointed at the house. Lights came on outside and flooded my home. Then I heard a knock at the door.