| Doorbell She stared at the front door intently, as intently as she had been when she first looked at it this morning, nearly an hour and a half ago. The door remained just as silent as it had been all day; no doorbell, no soft creak of click as old doors do when being opened. The silence was mocking her. The door was mocking her. Tears no longer fell from her eyes as her desperation turned to anger. Angry at a door, what's happening to me? She knew, of course, that she wasn't really angry at the door, but angry at those who weren't using the door. No one would come. Still, it burned inside her, this desire to pound her fists against that hunk of painted oak until they were raw, screaming so loudly as to send a chill down the spine of every living creature within a fifty mile radius. Well, every living thing with a spine that is. I suppose that leaves out my husband. She knew, of course, that if she were able to beat her fists against the door, there wouldn be no reason for her feeling of desperation. If she were able to reach her kitchen, she could take a knife and slice her wrists, watching the juice drip out like a ripe tomato; but if she could reach her kitchen, there would be no need to kill herself. Maybe he'll come home for lunch, thinking I don't know, thinking nothing's wrong. Eric hadn't come home from work to eat lunch with her dince the second year of their marriage. That would be nearly ten years ago. The chances of him coming home early today of all days were at worse odds than Helen being able to walk to that door, getting in her car, and driving as far away from this godforsaken town as the sun would let her. She heard a creak, barely audible, come from the front porch. Her head perked up and a new light of hope and vitality flashed through her eyes. Flashing so bright, it was as if the adrenaline surging through her brain was shining a flashlight out from the inside of her retina. Maybe it's the mailman delivering a package. If I call him in, offer him some lemonade, he'll come in and open the front door. Or maybe it's Stanley's wife from across the street. She'd let herself in, even if she didn't know for sure I was home. She'll open the front door. I'll even eat that nasty jello salad she always brings over. I'll eat the whole bowl if she'll just open the front door. This was the first time Helen had ever wanted the woman across the street to come over for a visit. For seven years, Eric and Helen have lived in that house. Seven years of living across from Stanley the walking beer belly and his wife with the fushia colored hair. Seven years they've come to Helen's Christmas parties even though they were never invited once. Seven years of pink flamingos in the front yard. Seven years of stealing Eric's newspaper to line the bottom of an overgrown cat's litter box. In seven years, this was the first time Helen would welcome the woman with open arms. "Is there someone on the porch?" Helen called out. "Anyone? Please come in. PLEASE! I have money! I have a fifty right here in my hand, and it's yours. It's all yours if you'll come in and help me! Please, just come, open the door, and take your money. Just open the door and it's yours." This was the third time Helen had screamed and offered money to a creak she heard on the front porch. She began to weep again, crying so hard she thought her eyes would be flushed out of their sockets. She looked up at the clock, twisting her neck, causing her head to throb more and more. Scotty! She thought of her son, her pride and joy, her little nine year old. Maybe he'll be coming home from school soon! I'm sure he'll be home any minute now! Her eyes blurred, but she was able to read the digital clock on the coffee table. The bright fluorescent green images flashed in her face, about as helpful as night vision goggles when you're locked in a box. It was only 10:43. Scott wouldn't be home for another four hours. The clock continued flashing, mocking her as the door had. The pulsating in her head continued to grow, now to the rhythm of the digital clock. It felt as though some creature had placed its eggs inside her cerebrum and now, hatched, they were trying to break free. All two hundred of them. Her hatred for her husband grew more, stronger, hotter; like she was a volcano |