The neighbor’s eyes were wide with an almost excited look as she told him the story from his front steps. She had heard the story from another neighbor, who heard it from the woman down the street with the turquoise front door, who lived next door to the girl’s parents. Scratch that—woman’s parents. She was no longer a little girl, although that was all he could picture. Found dead in her apartment as if she were asleep. No sign of foul play, no sign of illness. Just gone.
It was two weeks before Christmas, the air finally cold enough to freeze the ground, hard patches of mud among the brown grass. There hadn’t been any snow and the neighborhood took on a dreary look during the day—everything brown and gray and cold. The leaves from the tree across the street blew into his yard when the wind was strong and he had raked more this December than he ever had before. At least at night the Christmas lights cut through the darkness.
“Well, I better get inside,” he said to the neighbor when she had finished her tale. She looked disappointed that he had offered nothing more than a frown when she had told him the news.
“All right then,” she said, pulling her coat’s collar closer to her neck. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything about a service.”
“You do that,” he said, already halfway inside.
He shut the door quickly, not wanting the cold to fill his living room. He slipped off his shoes and put on his slippers which were waiting for him by the door. Shoes to slippers, slippers to shoes. It was an exchange that he made multiple times a day.
He put the kettle on and when the water boiled, he steeped his favorite herbal tea in his favorite mug. Then he settled down into his favorite chair. Normally, he would turn on the TV at this point, but not today. Today he sat in the silence, the late afternoon light already weak, the sky gray.
He remembered the girl’s bootprints in the snow when she walked by his house. They were even steps that stretched the length of the street. He remembered pausing and looking closer at them, her tiny imprints in the snow—stars that went one way and then the next. Always eventually going back home.
Although he tried to remember the last time he saw her, his mind was unable to. She had always been there as she grew up, a girl who he never really knew, but watched as she left childhood behind, transforming into a young adult with long brown hair. Sometimes he saw her waiting for the bus at the stop at the end of the street. He never learned her name.
His wife had probably known at some point. She was the social one, the one who knocked on neighbors’ doors, the one who invited others inside. She was the one who made sure he got out often enough, the one who wanted a little girl of their own. It almost happened a couple of times. One year they made it as far as buying a crib, but it was never put together. Mostly, he tried to forget those days.
The tea in his hands was cold. He blinked, unsure of how long he had daydreamed, how long only the ticking of the clock had filled the silence of the house. He got up. Dumped the tea down the sink. Warmed up a frozen meal even though it was early. Soon the house smelled of onions and ketchup.
That night as he slipped under the flannel sheets, careful not to disturb the empty side of the bed, he thought about the girl’s parents. He had never learned their names, only saw them rushing about in their car or on the occasional walk. He thought the mom had dark hair like the girl’s, the dad sandy blonde. But maybe he wasn’t remembering correctly. He found that was a common thing these days.
In the morning, he made his oatmeal with one banana and a pinch of cinnamon. He brewed his single cup of coffee and then got dressed for the day.
At around ten, the neighbor who had told him the news, rang the doorbell. The sound made him jump. He wasn’t sure if he should invite her in or do the shoe slipper exchange, so he settled on keeping the door open while she talked, the cold air filtering inside.
“Calling hours are tomorrow,” the neighbor said. “Funeral’s the next day at the McLellen-Croop funeral home downtown.”
“Thanks,” he managed to say, wanting to close the door as soon as possible. When he didn’t offer anything else, she took a step back.
“Well, I’ll be seeing you then,” she said, turning to leave.
He closed the door without saying goodbye.
He didn’t go to the services. Instead he raked more leaves, made more tea, listened to the clock tick when the TV wasn’t on. Some days he looked down the street at the girl’s house. Sometimes there were lights on inside, but nothing outside to mark the holiday season. If he recalled correctly, they usually had a nice wreath on the front door. He thought about going over there to offer his condolences, but he didn’t know what to say.