Marriage is til death do you part. Or is it?

What Light Through Yonder Window

Mrs CW Jones was the heart of the cul-de-sac. For example, there wasn’t an unruly lawn in the neighbourhood. She arrived with a basket of

bum-scouring homemade bran muffins and an hour of chit-chat every day until the grass was mown. That ‘Tidiest Yard’ award was owed to her. 

So when her next-door neighbour Mr Alfred Birtwhistle handed her his housekeys she accepted with Noblesse Oblige. Who better than she to

ensure he returned from holidays with everything just as he’d left it. Birtwhistle was a Father Christmas-looking sort of man with a white beard,

red lips, and a treasury of interesting facts he liked to toss into casual conversation. On this day his lake-blue eyes danced even more than usual.

“Alfie, I’ve never seen you look so alive!”

Mr Birtwhistle grinned ear to ear, “I’ve always said, as soon as I retire, I’m off to Greece. And here I am, about to embark on the trip of a

lifetime.”

Mrs Phyllis Birtwhistle came out of the house and tapped her watch. She was a slight woman dressed for travel in a chic no-iron pantsuit. Her

newly permed hair was covered in a matching silk scarf. Mr Birtwhistle gave her an enthusiastic wave back.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Alfie,” the heart of the cul-de-sac said, laying the keys carefully in an apron pocket. “You’ll return to everything just

as you left it.”

Mr. Birtwhistle plucked an unopened bud and laced it through the lapel of his blazer. Holding a rose in front of him he joined his wife, who took

it with a delighted look.

The first week, Mrs CW Jones collected the mail and watered plants without a bother, but Sunday night she woke and saw a lonely light on in the

upstairs bedroom, as if someone was awake and couldn’t sleep. She threw on a dressing robe and hurried over.

“Helllooo.” She turned on the hall light.

“Phyllis?” Mr Birtwhistle whispered. He sounded desperate with hope.

“No, it’s me, Alfie.”

When her neighbour appeared at the top of the stairs, he looked thin and pale and very disappointed to see her.

“I thought you were my wife coming home.” Mr Birtwhistle slumped, covering his face. “OHHH, I’m so alone.”

“Not a bit of it.” MRS CW Jones bustled in and got the kettle on.

“Now, tell me, Alfie, where is Phyllis?”

“Hospital,” came the whisper. “Car, out of nowhere, hit us.” Mr Birtwhistle broke down again.

“Oh how dreadful.” Mrs CW Jones beckoned Alfie to the table where a pot of tea steamed. “Is Phyllis badly injured, then?”

Her neighbour stared down at his cup. “The doctors say she’ll recover, but needs hospital care.” The distraught man’s voice brightened, “I’m sure

she’ll be home soon. I’ll be waiting for her when she does.”

“The light on in the bedroom at night – that’s you? You could have let me know you’d returned home”, Mrs Jones scolded.

“Mostly I stay with Phyllis.” Mr Birtwhistle wrung his hands. “I’m only here at night.” Then he sighed, “If only she would come home to me.”

He pointed at the door. “I carried her across that threshold as a bride.”

“And you will again,” Mrs Jones reassured. “I’ll see to the house, you can spend your days with your poor dear.

After that when the light in the window woke her, she would slip next door and inquire after Phyllis. Mr Birtwhistle truly wanted to talk of

nothing else. When he thought his wife was close to coming home, he was his old jocular self. But then her condition would change and he would

despair, sitting and moaning that he’d lost her forever. On those days he ignored the neighbourhood news Mrs CW Jones shared, like how cats

were using his rose bed as a litterbox. Holding his head in his hands, the miserable man only moaned over and over, “I don’t like being alone. My

darling must return to me.”

The end of summer brought lots of work for Mrs CW Jones. Children played hookie, leaves covered lawns, cars blocked driveways. It was several

days before she realised the midnight light had not shone into her room for a while. Though she usually never presumed to read the local paper

she collected for the Birtwhistles, the sight of the familiar permed head rolled up made her snap the rubber band and open to the front page. 

“Poor Alfie” escaped her lips. It was an article about how brave Phyllis Birtwhistle had finally died of her mysterious illness.

Then Mrs CW Jones dropped her teacup in a brown splash. The first paragraph said that Alfred Birtwhistle had been killed instantly in the

accident where his wife received nonfatal injuries.

How could that be? She’d spoken to him almost every night. Then she remembered all the tea she’d brewed and all the cups from his side of the

table she’d emptied down the sink. Poor Alfred had been white as a ghost all summer, but surely that was because he’d stayed by his wife’s side,

too heartsick to leave?

Mrs CW Jones let the newspaper page soak up the spilled tea while continuing to read.

Poor Phyllis had been expected to recover but every time the doctors said she could be discharged she’d suffered a setback. The devoted

grandmother had looked forward to living with her daughter and two young grandchildren when she left the hospital. “She’d valiantly fought the

angel of death,” the article said, “but in the end he had taken her.”

She shivered, remembering Mr Birtwhistle’s determination to have his wife back by his side. If Phyllis had recovered, she never would have

returned here. Or to him.

Looking towards the empty house, she wondered if Mr Birtwhistle had carried his wife over the threshold a second time. Even though it was a

sunny afternoon, a goose walked over her grave.

Glancing up at the upstairs window she thought she saw a familiar perm the other side of the chintz curtain. Were those angry, haunted eyes

staring out? Before she’d thought that noise was the torn screen door scraping metal against metal, but now it sounded like faraway screaming. 

Mrs CW Jones put her hands to her ears to block out Phyllis Birtwhistle calling to her.

                                                      THE END

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