2

I asked. "That's a long way to go for such a short time."

"You never know,"

she replied. "One of us might like it so much, we may never come back!"

She laughed then, mouth wide open, head thrown back with abandon.

I stayed quiet, because I didn't like what I was hearing. To be honest, I knew there was something odd about this trip, but I couldn't figure out what.

"We leave in two days, and I was wondering,"

she said, "if you'd mind looking after the house while we're gone ... since you're always watching it anyways. Can you keep an eye on things and water the new hydrangeas outside?"

"You don't have hydrangeas," I said.

"If you could spy into my backyard the same way you can into my living room, you'd know that I just planted a fresh plot. They'll need water to thrive."

"Very well,"

I said. "You'll leave me a house key?"

"Marge, don't pretend you know nothing about the key under the welcome mat."

Of course I knew she kept one there, had seen her slip it under the mat ages ago. That's how the parade of men always entered. But what I didn't know is that Doris knew that I knew. "Fine,"

I said. "I'll keep an eye on things."

"I'm sure you will,"

Doris replied. And with that, she click-clacked her inappropriately pink kitten heels out of my house and back to her own.

Now, here I am at my picture window, two days after Doris's big holiday weekend announcement. As I watch, Doris backs her candy-apple-red sedan out of her garage (heaven forbid Bob be permitted to take the wheel). Her tinted window is rolled down, and she's waving my way.

"Live large, Marge, while you still can!"

she calls out loudly enough that I can hear her through my closed living room window. "And water my plants!"

I try to spot Bob in the passenger seat beside her—poor, long-suffering Bob—but Doris promptly rolls up her window, then screeches down the street before I can so much as glimpse her husband.

I drop the curtain and turn to face Harold in his easy chair. "She's gone,"

I say. "Are you happy? We get a break from her shenanigans."

With that, I go brew a cup of tea, then return to my chair by the picture window. I sip until I drain the last dregs. Then it's time to go to Doris and Bob's.

"I'll be back,"

I tell Harold as I head to the door.

I amble down my stairs, holding tight to the railing. At my age, holding tight has become a way of life. I make my way over to Doris and Bob's front door, where I stand on their welcome mat—if that's what you'd call it. From my window, I never could make out what it said, but from here I can read it clearly: "I see London, I see France ..."

It takes me a minute, but then I remember the childish rhyme. Only Doris would welcome guests with a joke about their underpants.

It's been a couple of years since I've been inside this house, but little has changed. Doris still has that gaudy lamp in the living room—a woman's leg in a fishnet stocking, with a lampshade trimmed in black fringe. The wall behind it features new "artwork"—hairy male nudes in various states of undress. I step closer to see if my hunch is correct—it is. Each piece in this oeuvre is signed by the great artiste herself, Doris.

Everything else in the open-concept living room / kitchen is exactly as it always was, but as I walk to the sliding back doors, I spot the new flower bed in the backyard—a six-foot rectangular patch piled high with freshly turned soil, budding hydrangeas planted on one end.

"Absolutely ridiculous,"

I say out loud as I exit and walk over to the garden plot that Doris has shaped like a buried coffin. What the hell was she thinking?

I locate the hose and drench the bed with water, though it's clear either Bob or Doris (probably Bob) watered just before leaving. Once done, I'm about to head inside when something on the patio crunches under my heel—a shelled peanut. I spot a couple more on the slabs by the sliding door. Damn squirrels. They steal nuts from bird feeders and carry them everywhere. It's a good thing Bob's not here since he's deathly allergic.

I head back into the house and make my way to Doris's picture window. How strange to see my world from her point of view—my empty easy chair by the window, and beyond that, Harold, seated in his chair as usual. On top of Doris's credenza is a collection of framed photos—Doris with Master Tim in some kind of crouching-tiger pose; Doris wearing paint-covered overalls, holding a palette and surrounded by her terrible art; and Doris and Bob in full flamenco regalia—she the diva, in a ruffled, floor-length gown, and he looking anemic in an ill-fitting bolero shirt and pants so tight it's a wonder they didn't burst their seams. Oh, poor, poor Bob.

I consider a room-by-room inspection of Doris's entire house, but I'm not a snoop by nature. I lock her front door and head home. The moment I enter the house, I hear my phone ringing in the living room. I hustle to grab it. The call screen warns me who it is before her irritating voice confirms it.

"Doris? Why on earth are you calling me so soon?" I ask.

"Where the hell were you, Marge?"

Doris replies. "I've been ringing you for half an hour."

Since it's none of Doris's business what I do with my time, I don't reply.

"Well, stuff my cornhole with a beanbag,"

says Doris. "You were already poking around my house, weren't you?"

So often, the best response with Doris is none at all.

"You know what, Marge? Fill your boots,"

Doris says. "But when you're next at my place, please throw out the leftover tuna fish Bob left in the fridge. It'll stink to high heaven if it's left for days. Can you do that? Marge?"

"Yes," I reply.

"Good,"

says Doris.

"Have a nice vacation," I say.

"I intend to have the time of my life,"

Doris replies, then hangs up.

I huff as I put down my phone. Even in her absence, Doris has found a way to meddle. I'll bet my right arm she left the tuna in the fridge, not Bob, but Her Royal Highness would never admit to any wrongdoing. Aggravated, I make a cup of tea, then sit in my chair by the picture window.

"What?"

I ask Harold. I can tell the call has unsettled him too. "Don't worry,"

I say. "I am not at Doris's beck and call. I'm not rushing over to her house again just because she told me to."

I sip my tea, refilling it from time to time as I spend the day surveying our street. How quiet it's become over the years. In the old days, it was bursting with activity—kids on bicycles, dogs running loose (mostly Doris and Bob's stupid cocker spaniel). Back in those days, Harold and I used to sit on the front porch after work and greet everyone else as they arrived home. I was so happy to leave my windowless cubicle and come back home to all the hustle and bustle, and same for Harold, who tolerated office work but was happiest right here in our home.

Back then, we knew the names of everyone on the street, and they knew ours. Weekends meant barbecues and birthday parties. There wasn't a celebration that we didn't mark as a community. With no kids of our own, we served as an informal neighborhood watch. That's the way it was back then: people looked out for each other, and people were grateful for the extra pairs of eyes.

In the old days, when a neighbor's husband on the street took ill, I'd bring a casserole over. "This is for you,"

I'd say to the wife. "Now tell me, what exactly is wrong with your husband?"

The odd time some Nosy Nancy would spread a rumor, I was quick to get the real story and then put a stop to it—"Did you hear that Barbara Sanderson got fired?"

I'd say. "It can't be true, can it?"

No one talks to anyone anymore. The older generation is nearly gone—downsized or dead—leaving only a few members of the old guard left. I've tried to make connections with the new, young families, but no one seems neighborly these days. The youngsters play video games indoors, and the only signs of life are the cars commuting to work in the morning and tucked promptly into garages after five, when the curtains and house blinds are promptly drawn closed.

The afternoon slips by, and the light changes in our window. At long last, the mailman—or mail carrier as I'm told to call him ( Thank you so much for enlightening me, Doris )—finishes delivering the mail on our street. I wave, but if he sees me, he does not let on. People these days—so rude.

"What?"

I ask Harold, who's glowering at me from his chair. "I told you before. I'm not going back to Doris's today. I am not her slave. The tuna can wait."

And so it does. I find ways to make the hours pass, until at long last the day is done. In the late evening, I help Harold up the stairs, positioning him on his pillow beside me. I give him a kiss good night, then I turn over and drift off to sleep. The next morning, when I'm awake and dressed, I set Harold up comfortably in his easy chair in the living room. Only when the clock reads 9:00 a.m. do I decide it's time.

"I'm off to Doris and Bob's,"

I announce.

First, I water her hydrangeas out back, then go find the tuna can in the fridge and wash it out. Doris keeps her garbage bins on the front porch instead of hidden away in the garage, which means they offend my eyes every time I look out my picture window.

As I set the can in the bin, I'm surprised by what—or rather who—is staring back at me. On a labeled jar in the recycling box is a familiar monocle-wearing, cane-toting figure—MR. PEANUT. I pick up the jar, twist off the lid, and sniff. No question—fresh peanuts. I drop the jar, lock Doris's front door, and head home.

"You're not going to believe this,"

I tell Harold the moment I'm inside. We both just sit there, quietly trying to figure out a reasonable explanation for why a man who is deathly allergic to peanuts would have an empty jar of peanuts in his recycling box.

"Now let's not worry ourselves,"

I say after a time. "I'll just ask Doris once she's back."

The day passes slowly. A few cars rumble by; the mail "carrier"

ignores me as usual; and before I know it, the streetlamps turn on, illuminating the sidewalk, and with it, Doris's dark and empty house.

"Time for bed,"

I say. I help Harold to our bedroom and tuck him in beside me. I kiss him and wish him sweet dreams, then switch off the light, drifting into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, I get Harold set up as usual downstairs. I head across the street, water the hydrangeas, then do an interior house check. On the credenza in the living room, the framed photo of Doris and Bob in their flamenco outfits catches my eye. Bob is looking right at me, his face pale and sickly. And that's when the thought crosses my mind. It's just a silly notion, really—one of those crazy what-ifs that is too impossible to entertain. But then I look at Bob's face again—the dark circles under his eyes, the wan look. I think about the patio and how I found peanuts there, crunched under my feet. And then the empty peanut jar in the bin ...

Now normally, I would never snoop around someone else's house, least of all a neighbor's, but to relieve myself of all doubt, and for safety's sake, I decide to have just the quickest look around.

My feet lead me down the hall to Doris and Bob's master bedroom. The door is open, and the bed is made, with a scarlet coverlet that looks like something out of a James Bond film. The wall behind the bed features a mural of wild horses, leaving no question about who chose the bedroom decor. The closet door is slightly ajar, and even at this angle, I can see Bob's flamenco costume inside. Those ridiculous frilled sleeves have no place on a man, and the black pants beside them look as stretched and exhausted as Bob himself.

I open the closet wide. The men's clothes account for a tiny fraction of what's in there, while the rest of the space is devoted to Doris—flashy dresses in rainbow colors, a dizzying array of wholly improper garb for a seventy-five-year-old woman. Below the clothes are shoes—mostly hers, except for two pairs of men's loafers up front. At first, Bob's shoes appear dusty, but as I bend, I see it's not dust on them but a gritty powder. A deodorizer perhaps? The last thing I want is to sniff Bob's shoe, but I do it. Then I rub some granules between my thumb and index finger. I smell them too. I even put a tiny particle to my tongue to make sure my senses aren't failing me. They are not. Peanuts—ground peanuts. In Bob's shoes.

I hurtle backward as if bitten by a cobra. It's then I notice the same dusty particles on the carpet by the bed. I bend for closer inspection. No question about it—peanuts. I throw back the lurid satin coverlet and shake the pillows from their cases, only to watch as a dusting of beige crumbs cascades onto the scarlet sheets.

My eyes scan the room—two dressers, his and hers. I open the top drawer, which contains Bob's socks—taupe, gray, beige. I rifle through to the bottom until my fingertips palpate whole peanuts hidden in the back corners. I open the next drawer—Bob's tighty-whities. I pull the entire thing out and dump it on the carpet as peanut dust fills the air. The next drawer—men's cardigans, which I throw onto the floor. Poof! A cloud of peanut dust rises. Next, I ransack the walk-in closet, tossing Bob's dress shirts out, shaking out the breast pockets—every last one filled with peanut particles.

Trembling, I don't stop until I've checked all of Bob's garments, leaving them strewn on the bed and floor of the bedroom where Bob has slept, unsuspecting, beside his wife, Doris, every night for about fifty years. I collapse on the bed, short of breath even though I'm not at all allergic, but the scent of peanuts in the room is suffocating. I hobble out of the bedroom and head for the sliding back door.

I'm standing in Doris's back garden, panting in front of the plot of hydrangeas. That's when it occurs to me. No, it cannot be. But I can't stop staring at the strange six-foot-by-two-foot mounded garden plot. I never actually saw Bob in the passenger seat beside Doris as she drove off. What if he never made it into the car? What if he never left the house at all?

No. It cannot be. I'm jumping to insane conclusions. I'm not thinking straight. My heart thumps as I rush up the steps to the sliding door and race through Doris and Bob's house, trailing muddy footprints, but I don't care. I lock her door behind me and rush home.

Once safe inside, I head to the living room, where I stand breathlessly in front of Harold. "Peanuts everywhere,"

I gasp between labored breaths. "Doris—what if she wanted him dead all along? I think maybe she's gone and done it. I think she killed Bob."

The rest of the day passes slowly. My mind won't stop racing. I can't sit down. I pace in front of my picture window. Doris and Bob are due back tomorrow morning, but if I'm right, only one of them will return. I think back to how Doris ran an index finger across her neck, suggesting Bob was a goner unless he found a passion for flamenco. I thought she meant divorce, but what if that's not what she meant at all? What if Bob is already done for, buried in her backyard?

Oh, poor Bob. Poor allergic, four-eyed, asthmatic Bob. He was bland and boring in every way, a terrible match for Doris, but he wasn't a bad man. Doris always wanted to transform him into someone he could never be. He didn't stand a chance. Why she didn't divorce him years ago, I'll never understand. But is it really possible she took matters into her own hands? Even as I say it, I'm filled with doubt. It cannot be. Doris is a right pain in the ass, a narcissist if there ever was one, but she cannot be a murderer. I'm getting ahead of myself. I must be. But there's only one way to know for sure.

On any given day, the hours of my old age pass far too slowly for my liking, but on this day, time is even more relentlessly slow. To pass the time, I decide to ring my niece. When my sister died ten years ago, Fiona became my last living relative, and sometimes it's just nice to hear her voice.

The phone rings ... and rings ... and at last she picks up.