The Woman Across the Aisle

The Woman Across the Aisle

by Owen Smith

I shouldn’t be allowed in here, he thought.

His footsteps echoed across the empty pews, bouncing from wall to wall like bullets ricocheting in a cave. Several candles lit up the church with a dim atmosphere. Only one overhead light hung above the altar, it’s yellow glow flickering over the crucifix.

If they knew who I was, what I’ve thought, they’d throw me out.

Claude slipped into the second pew, alone. Mass wouldn’t start for hours, but he wasn’t here for the gospel. He rarely attended Mass. The church, when empty, offered a kind of silence he couldn’t find at work or at home.

The air was damp and smelled of wax and incense. Saints that lived on stained glass seemed to weep as the rain slid down their faces.

It’s as if they already know.

He bent his head, performing the Sign of the Cross before clasping his hands together. “Dear Lord,” he began, “I need guidance.”

He hesitated, drawing a deep breath. What he was about to admit he had never spoken aloud. Not to his wife, not to himself, or anyone. Thoughts that disgusted him, that made him question the kind of man he was.

The church door creaked opened behind him, echoing down the aisle. Claude turned. A figure lingered in the doorway before shuffling inside.

Great, he thought. So much for solitude.

He waited momentarily, hoping the newcomer would settle far away.

“I…I…” his voice faltered. His hands trembled between his knees. He lifted a finger to brush away a tear.

The pew groaned slightly across the aisle. He raised an eyebrow and looked to his right to see that the newcomer was an elderly woman. Her cane hung on the back of the row in front of them, her knees buckling as she sat back into her seat.

Claude tried not to stare, but curiosity won. She wore square red glasses, common for a woman her age. A knitted blue hat rested atop her curly hair that resembled a bird’s nest. Each wrinkle traced a quiet road of history across her face.

“It’s not polite to stare,” she said, her eyes fixed on the crucifix.

Startled, Claude straightened. “I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

She turned to him, surprised, as if she hadn’t meant to speak aloud. She shifted in her seat. “Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’” She clasped her hands together in her lap, closed her eyes, and began muttering a prayer that Claude could not make out.

“Forgive me,” he said.

“I don’t think it’s me that you seek forgiveness from, is it?”

Claude blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness. She had the face of a sweet old

woman, but spoke like someone who’d seen through too many people to bother with politeness.

“Excuse me?” he said.

She turned to face him. “You wouldn’t be here this early,” she said, “unless there was

something you needed to tell Him. People don’t come to God unless they have something to confess, or to ask for.”

Claude rolled his wedding ring with his thumb. “Which is it for you, then?” he asked, his tone defensive.

She sighed. “A little of both, I suppose.”

Despite his desire to be alone, Claude found himself intrigued. What possibly could this

harmless-looking old woman have done to need forgiving? But he knew better than to pry and bowed his head again.

“You look like someone in need of direction,” she said.

“Excuse me?” Claude repeated.

“You said that already. Not very bright, are you?”

He exhaled, trying to keep calm. “I came here on my own for reflection, not judgment.”

“Well then,” she huffed. “You came to the right place.” She repositioned herself in her seat. While doing so, she accidentally kneed her cane to the aisle floor.

He bent down and retrieved it for her. “Claude,” he said, extending the cane across the aisle. “Sorry for my tone, it’s just that I’m going through something and you came in right when I was going to talk to Him.”

Her face softened. “Darlene,” she said without a smile. “It’s no matter. It’s between you and the Lord.” She put the cane back in its place.

He felt a tremor within his chest, his stomach feeling full and empty all at once. This sharp-tongued stranger felt safer than God himself.

“It’s Mia,” he said, choking back subtle gasps of anxiety. “My wife.”

“Oh?” she spoke, adjusting her glasses. “Married for how long?”

“Twenty-two years,” he replied. “Our anniversary is this Sunday.”

“How nice,” she said, appearing unsure of how else to respond.

“She doesn’t know...” he paused, like tearing off a band-aid from a dried-up scab. “Well,

I’m sure she knows it. I’m sure she feels the same way, to some degree.”

Darlene waited.

“I’m not making sense.” Claude realized his hands were trembling. He took a deep breath

and continued. “We’ve reached a point where we can’t stand one another.”

“Oh,” she murmured.

“And I’ve had thoughts,” he said. “Dark ones.” He hesitated, realizing how much he was revealing to a total stranger. He looked around to confirm that they were alone before he continued. “She killed our daughter, Leigh. She was drunk when she picked her up from soccer practice. Our little girl died in the car wreck.”

Darlene said nothing.

“You’d think something like that would change a person,” his voice hardened. “Make her better. But it didn’t. She drinks even more now. She got into another accident. No one died this time, but it’s only a matter of time.”

His breath came faster. “I don’t want her to change anymore, because I know she never will. I just want her gone. I hate her for what she’s done. And she hates me, too, because when she sees me, she sees Leigh – the family she destroyed. We don’t share meals. We don’t share a bed. We’re just two enemies under one roof. All I want to do is…”

He paused.

“...kill her.”

Claude looked up, startled. The words hadn’t come from him. Instead, they came from Darlene. He froze, wondering if his thoughts had been that transparent. Tears stung his eyes. He buried his hands in his face. I want to kill my wife.

A soft touch brushed the back of his hand. Darlene offered him a handkerchief.

“I don’t deserve your kindness,” he stated. “But thank you.”

“Look at it as just an old woman cleaning up another mess,” she said with smile. Claude

let out a small chuckle and returned the handkerchief.

He looked up at the crucifix. “What kind of a person thinks like this, about killing his own wife?” He didn’t dare meet Darlene’s eyes. Shame pinned him to the pew.

“Marriage isn’t easy. Take it from someone married over fifty years. Problems come up. Some you can mend, some you can’t. Either you accept what’s broken, or you don’t.”

Claude nodded, though her words sounded like advice from a doctor without a cure.

“So, what are you going to do about Mia?” she inquired.

Hearing this stranger refer to his wife’s name unsettled him, yet it comforted him, too. She was proof that he wasn’t the only one who struggled with their spouse.

“I don’t know. I know what I’ve thought about doing, and I know what I should do.”

He rubbed his wedding ring again. Just leave. Before it gets worse.

“I’ve found,” she said, “that what we should do and what we want to do are often the same thing, just waiting to be recognized. The trouble is that we don’t know which is which until we are in the moment, or the moment has passed.”

Her tone sounded like she was speaking from experience.

“Why are you here, Darlene?” he asked.

She stiffened slightly, looking away, and sat back in the pew. “I told you. Confession and

guidance.”

“Guidance about what?” he pressed. “You’ve been prying into my problems, seems only fair I ask about yours.”

Darlene gave a patient sigh, as if she expected this moment to arrive. “Well, like you, my husband and I had been having problems for a long time.”

Claude softened. “I’m sorry, that must be hard.”

“It was,” she said. “But I decided to end it. Just this week in fact. Now I don’t know what to do next.”

Claude imagined divorce papers, lawyers, maybe adult children processing their separation. At her age? That must have been terrifying, painful and brave.

“I’m sorry,” he said, prepared to grieve with her. “Where is your husband now?”

Darlene looked toward the altar; her expression serene, almost peaceful. “That’s what I’m hoping the Lord can help me with,” she said. “His body is in my basement, and the stench has become quite unbearable.”

Claude stared at her, his breath snagging in his throat.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she was joking. But her face held no mischief, no tremor of humor. Only honesty.

The candle flames flickered again as a draft passed through the church, and outside, the rain hammered harder against the stained glass. The disciples’ faces seemed distraught.

Claude swallowed, unable to move, unable to look away from her.

Darlene folded her hands again, resuming her quiet conversation with God.