Eleven Neighbours Watching From Their Own Driveways While I Held A Coffee Cup I Had Forgotten About

The video was forty seconds of a hotel corridor camera, and the woman in it was not a stranger. It was Corinne from three doors down, who had brought us a casserole when my mother died. The date stamp was eight weeks old. Whoever sent it had cut it so that the only face you see clearly is my husband’s, standing outside a room door at half past eleven at night, and the sender was Corinne’s own husband, Ambrose, who had found it while disputing a charge on their credit card.

He had not covered the car in her lingerie to humiliate me. He told me that later, on my porch, both of us wrecked, and I believed him. He had done it because he had spent three weeks trying to work out how to tell me and had not been able to form the sentence, and that morning he had simply stopped being able to hold it in. Every item on that bonnet had come out of his own wife’s drawer.

Desmond did not deny it. He stood in the driveway with the neighbours watching and said her name out loud, and then he went inside and packed a bag without being asked to.

The divorce was uncomplicated because nothing was contested. He rents an apartment near the interstate. Corinne and Ambrose separated in the spring and she moved to Ohio and I have not seen her since, and I have stopped rehearsing what I would say if I did.

Ambrose and I talk. Not often, and never about them. He built the fence along my back garden in September and refused to be paid for it, and I let him, because refusing would have taken something from him that he needed to give.

I kept the house. I sold the bedroom furniture, which was more satisfying than it should have been, and the room gets the afternoon light now that there is less in it.

I stood on those steps at seven in the morning in front of the entire street, holding cold coffee, and I thought the worst thing was being seen. It was not. The worst thing was the two years before that, when I was being lied to gently and thoroughly by a man in my own kitchen. I would rather be looked at honestly than protected by a fiction, and I will not trade that again for anyone’s comfort.

Adrian Vale
Adrian Vale studied English literature. He is a novelist. He writes atmospheric literary fiction, quiet, character-driven stories about people who drift out of their own lives and the strange, lingering things that find them afterward.

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