Mirror

The large guilt mirror, bought by her mother, had seen most of it. Hanging on the right of the unusually square shaped hall it had witnessed the fighting, the fucking, and the killing. Standing slightly too close to its cold gold frame Stephen parted his dirty hair, brushed it straight, then parted it again.

He’d liked the hall immediately. On first viewing the house had been disappointing. “It reminds me of school’’ had been her damning comment, thrown back at him as he’d lingered in the lobby. The squareness of the rooms, along with a sense of the place having been discarded at the end of a people filled day, gave it an educational air. Mrs. Reetner, the present owner, had contributed to the learning by filling her conversation with facts that were to be of no use to anybody in future life. “We used to have a grandfather clock here” she chimed, “we brought it over from my father’s place on my brother’s trailer”. The kitchen smelled of past baking glories, the rest of the house simply smelled. Under her breath she’d whispered “cat piss”, and he’d wondered how she knew.

Now, seven years later, Stephen stood in the very same hall. He still liked it. He liked the way it let you stay when you first came through the front door. It didn’t force you down a long straight road, forcing you to go somewhere else or choose an exit. At first viewing it didn’t appear to offer you any continuation of your steps other than to turn and simply walk back out the way you had come in. The kitchen door was hidden someway to your left, and the living room was around the L – shaped corner in front of you. It cried out for a seat, or two, and the Canadian piano stool (sent by her Uncle Joe who made them) had looked perfect. Departing guests would start new conversations by accident, forgetting it was time to leave, dropping their car keys back into their trouser pockets and purses. Items were left by accident, bags, scarves, newspapers, supermarket bags.

Life had always seemed to gravitate to this space. He remembered, now parting his hair on the other side, how they had sat on the hall floor and opened their Christmas presents. It had seemed the perfect place, the tree was there, and the noise from next door was at its least intrusive. She had been pleased with what she’d found underneath the cheap wrapping paper. It had proved that Stephen understood her, knew who she was, reinforced her own opinion of herself. Edward Lear nonsense proved she had a sense of humour and adventure, and simple cosmetics in plain packaging proved a certain elegant feminine sense of moderation. The small wooden heart shaped box filled with condoms had confused both the giver and receiver as it was ripped from its wrapper. Stephen remembered the sense of fun wrapping it, and the confused look on her face as she opened it.

The noise had started in the first week. At first neither of them commented on it, looking away from each other, composing their own truths. Soon though, it came out. She’d started it. “That’s not right is it? I mean that amount of noise? I mean, hearing a cough through the wall? That’s not right?” Later, he’d hated her for making it real, giving it life, giving it a name.

It got worse. The child’s heavy running footsteps down the hall, the music, the fighting, the fucking. They heard it all. Later, he heard spoons being dropped into the cutlery drawer, windows being cleaned, shoelaces being tied, vinyl records being slipped back into their dog eared sleeves. She heard none of this, only the voice that asked her why it was her that had to cope for two, he couldn’t do anything without half cocking his ear toward the invisible intruder and waiting for it to start. It surrounded him and robbed her.