The Other Woman

by Charles C. Cole

Caleb sat primly in his folding chair at the end of the driveway, monitoring the quiet residential neighborhood. When Malorie, his ex-wife, pulled in, he stood and bowed. Malorie stepped out of the car and walked briskly by, intent on checking her mailbox.

“Nothing today,” said Caleb. “I should have told you.”

“It’s okay,” said Mal. “I needed the exercise.”

“How was work?”

“Lots of meetings. Lots of desk time. You?”

“Not bad. Quiet. Except for a brief encounter with the Boyntons, who didn’t have their dog on a leash. I wonder if they were trying to provoke me.”

Mal winced. “You didn’t say anything, did you? Or call Public Safety?”

“Of course not! But I noted the date and time in my log, in case it becomes a habit. Documentation is everything. And it breaks up the day, along with a good audiobook.”

“Did they notice you writing?” asked Mal.

“Not hardly,” said Caleb. “They had already gone by. In fact, Lulubelle squatted in the Goyettes’ front yard, not that they picked up after her. I wrote that down, too.”

“I wouldn’t want you to make a nuisance of yourself.”

“What’s the point of a Neighborhood Watch without someone actually watching the neighborhood? I saw on the community page that there was a break-in on Morgan Lane last week. That’s jogging distance, Mal. As long as I’m on duty, criminals will look elsewhere, I promise.”

“That’s a relief.” Safely too-subtle sarcasm for Caleb to notice.

“And if I see cars cruising slowly by with out-of-state plates, you can bet I document that, too. Make, model and color. You never know when the PD might swing by, looking for a hot tip.”

“Assuming the bad guys are from away,” added Mal, dryly teasing.

“These are our neighbors you’re talking about. They might have loud parties late at night and drive a little too fast, but I’m sure they’re all good law-abiding citizens at heart.”

“That’s very generous of you.” Mal smiled briefly, looked into his eyes to confirm his sincerity, returned to her car and started to unload groceries.

“You need help?” asked Caleb.

“Got it,” she called out, adjusting the bags and adding, “It’s pretty close to dinner. Your mother’s probably waiting for you. I’ll take the next shift. You’ve done enough today.”

“You want me to leave the chair?”

“I’ll just look out the window when I hear someone driving by.”

“You might want to open them wide, so you can hear the traffic.”

“Great idea! Thanks for protecting everyone. Good night.” And she was gone.

Caleb paused, in case she needed a reminder about opening the windows, what with unloading groceries and all, then he saw Mal’s dining room curtains flutter.

Mal pulled the panes up. “Say hello to your mother for me. I should finish the murder mystery she loaned me by this weekend.”

“I’ll tell her,” Caleb called out. He folded his chair and waved.

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Caleb’s mother lived down a 300-yard adjoining gravel driveway in the pine woods.

Mal’s house actually sat on a parcel of former family land. Caleb was still surprised she hadn’t tried to sell it and move closer to the city, downsized and shortened the daily commute. Not yet. But packing a house is a big deal, finding another place just as nice, loading and unloading a huge moving truck. Way more work than a simple, uncontested, amicable divorce that didn’t involve children or pets or loud arguments.

Besides, Mal liked the house. When his parents had given them the land, Mal had designed the rooms exactly how she wanted them, the paint on the walls, the style of the carpets, the double vanity in the en suite, the laundry room as you stepped inside, the laundry chute in the upstairs hall closet, even the way the master bedroom windows looked out on the morning sun. Mal knew what she liked. She was a master decision-maker and a traditional adult.

Caleb stepped into his mother’s house, where the furniture was unchanged from when he’d been a child. Just missing Dad. The breezeway led directly to the kitchen. The aroma of dinner was mouthwatering.

“That you, dear?” his mother called. She was a retired nurse, and only five-foot. She turned from the top of her handy kitchen step stool where she was pulling down the plates. “We’re having manicotti with garlic bread. Your favorite.”

“I can’t wait!” said Caleb.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands, dear. Did you see Mal? I don’t know how she lives in that house all by herself.”

“Me either. Imagine having to make your own dinner every day.”

“I’ll bet the microwave is her friend. Did you see any suspicious activity today?”

“Nothing.”

“Your father would approve of how you’re using his life insurance money: keeping an eye on the neighborhood. Why work drudgery in an office when you don’t need to? No bosses. All fresh air all the time.” She kissed him on the cheek and handed him the plates. “Can you set the table? We’re having your favorite desert, so leave room. Boston creme pie.”

Caleb did as he was told, even neatly folding the paper napkins.

“Mal says she’ll probably finish the book this weekend.”

“That’s nice. Sit down, dear.”

Caleb sat at the head of the table, and his mother placed the steamy-hot dish on the pine trivet that he’d made in woodshop as a Mother’s Day present, many years before.

“Let me get you an apron,” said his mother. “The sauce is a little runny.” At first, he lay the apron across his lap, but then his mother raised a critical eyebrow, so he opened the apron and pulled it over his head.

His mother took his left hand in hers and bowed her head.

Caleb gave grace: “Thank you, Lord, for this delicious meal. And please help Mal move on, as I’ve moved on. Amen.”

“Amen,” echoed his mother, giving his hand a quick squeeze.