The Deck Out My Window

The Deck Out My Window

From the corner of my office window, I had developed a habit I was not entirely proud of. I watched the neighborhood. Not in a suspicious way, and certainly not in a curtain-twitching, binoculars-on-the-windowsill sort of way. I simply worked from home, and the window was there. So were the flowers hanging from my patio, the bird feeders, the fence line, and beyond all of that, my neighbor’s wooden deck that led to the back door of his house.

That deck fascinated me more than it should have. In sixteen years of living next door, I had never seen anyone stand on it. I had never seen the back door open. I had never seen a coffee mug set on the railing, a chair pulled into the sun, not even a breath of fresh taken on that deck. Nothing. The deck existed like a stage built for a play that never opened.

The wife’s name was May. I knew this because I had seen her a handful of times walking through the neighborhood on her husband’s arm. A brief encounter once just long enough for a quick introduction. She was always neatly dressed, always close beside him, always gone again before I could decide whether to wave. I never saw her drive. They appeared to have only one car. I never saw her in the yard, never through a kitchen window, never carrying groceries, never watering a plant. Not that I was looking, mind you. I simply noticed what was visible from my corner of the world.

My own corner of the world was a spare bedroom that had once been a man cave. The walls were still covered with Coleman lanterns, antique fishing rods hung from the ceiling, and a gun safe sat in the corner under a mysterious pile of objects I could no longer identify. Years earlier, the door and frame had to be removed just to get the safe into the room. Now, squeezed between all that history, I had claimed one small corner for two monitors, a printer, and a two-drawer filing cabinet. I called this space my office, though it looked more like clutter had negotiated permanent residency.

Still, the window made it worthwhile. From there, I could see finches bargaining over seed, cardinals landing like tiny red announcements, and the occasional squirrel committing crimes against my bird feeders. Beyond the flowers and feeders was May’s quiet deck with absolutely no personality, no bird feeders, no flowers on the rail ledges not even a chair to relax in the evenings after a long day of work. 

Over time, the not-seeing became a kind of seeing. I began to measure the days by what did not happen. I could see Jack coming and going in the car, but without a job himself; not sure where the going could possibly be, I guess the grocery but by himself? Jack was diligent about bringing the garbage cans on Thursdays. In winter, he shoveled a narrow path to the front door and the path on the sidewalk leading to his next neighbor but never touched the deck. In summer, he cut the grass weekly and trimmed one shrub near the porch.

I told myself there were reasonable explanations as I would have brief conversations with Jack as he would stop me during an afternoon walk and discuss May’s job at the daycare. Maybe May did not care for the outdoors. Maybe she had allergies, or arthritis, or simply better things to do than stand on a deck and wave at a woman surrounded by fishing rods and office supplies. But reasonable explanations have a way of losing their footing when you stare at the same silent back door for sixteen years.

Eventually, my curiosity got the better of me, and I hatched a harmless little plot to pull the truth from Jack. I waited until the day he was cutting the grass, put on my walking shoes, and started my usual half-hearted trek around the corner. Sure enough, he stopped me for a chat. My plan was simple: to invite May to a Pampered Chef party and watch him scramble for an excuse as to why she could not possibly attend.

In my imagination, she was not really his wife at all. Maybe she was a woman he paid to walk around the neighborhood with him so he would appear normal. Or maybe she was being held captive and needed me to rescue her. Naturally, I had convinced myself this was the most likely explanation. To my surprise, Jack said he would pass the invitation along and ask if she was interested. Then, just as I was about to resume my walk, he added the caveat I had been waiting for: May was shy and prone to migraines. There it was. I had him. I was not entirely sure what “it” was, but I had him. 

What knowledge I had hoped to gain by this plot I had conjured up, I really have no idea, but I was sure he would stutter and stumble at my invitation and with a slip of his tongue I would know…know what? I came away with more questions than before, exactly what daycare did she work, how did she get there, by teleport? How shy can she be that she never steps on to that lovely deck or even bothers to put a flower on the rail?

The next day, May and Jack rang my doorbell. I was busy working in my corner of the man cave, so my husband answered. Jack handed him a card with his and May’s names, along with their house phone number written underneath, since neither of them had cell phones. Keep in mind, this is 2026. Jack mentioned the Pampered Chef party, and a complete confusion took over my husband’s face. God forbid he ever just go along with me on these things.

As May and Jack walked away from my house, Jack turned to her and asked, “Do you find that odd?” May replied, “Find what odd? She probably just didn’t tell him about her plans.” I only know this because Jack later repeated the conversation when he stopped me during another walk around the neighborhood. This time, I was genuinely trying to walk off the chocolate I had eaten for breakfast. Slightly embarrassed, I explained that I had not actually discussed the party with my husband yet and was only trying to get a feel for my nearby neighbor’s interest. Eek.

As the weeks go by Jack and I nod to each other across the fence, and I walk the other way on my afternoon treks just to avoid any more spontaneous chats. I need to think about this. I am certain May, if that even is her name, really doesn’t reside in that house or she is need of rescue.  

Rescue is what I am sure of, as my imagination has now seen in this captor’s home and I can clearly see there must be a solid wood door with a dead bolt in front of a dark steep staircase. I can just imagine poor May being held in that dank dark basement. Her only source of daylight are those days when he feels the need for a walk around the neighborhood. No wonder she is so pale, mind you I have only seen these neighborhood walks twice in my sixteen years of this window. How can I possibly sit in this corner day after day knowing this pale, thin waif is only yards away. What misery she must be enduring. I must take my next action. 

My next action was to investigate. It was noon on Tuesday, and I was sure Jack was gone on one of his no-one-really-knows-but-him-because-he-does-not-work trips. As I was only investigating, and by no means breaking laws by meandering outside the garage door, I saw the door was slightly cracked. So, as I am certain this is still under the realm of investigation and not breaking and entering, as the door was left open, I walk into the garage.

The garage seems strangely bare. Where is that lawn mower? The ordinary smell of oil and garage smells are there, but nothing else.

Do I dare try the inside door? Am I going too far? I stand there for a moment, listening. I tell myself I should leave, that a reasonable person would back out, close the garage door behind her, and call someone who wore a badge or at least owned a clipboard. But then I think of May’s pale face, the way she walks beside him, the way she disappears again and again. What if I leave and he comes back? What if this is the only chance she has? My heart is beating so hard it feels like it is pushing me forward. I need to move quickly if May is freed from this horrible nightmare. I am positive she has endured many years under my watch. I can no longer wait. I turn the knob, and the door opens with ease, not locked.

As my eyes adjust to the dark room, I am sure this should be the dining room, but there is no table. Of course, why would one man need a dining table? I am looking for the door with the dead bolt that I know must exist, I walk deeper into the house, I am sure this should be a family or living room, no couch, no chairs, blank walls, where are the curtains, I am certain there are curtains, only horizontal white blinds, on every window, totally closed. My eyes have now fully adjusted. Downstairs was open concept, with blank white walls and tan carpet stretching across the entire first floor. I walk to the back of the house to the kitchen, unused appliances as if staged for an upcoming open house, no everyday items on the counter tops, not even a paper towel holder for me to grab, to the right I see the staircase to where the bedrooms must be.

I grip the railing, though I do not remember deciding to do it. The wood is cool beneath my palm. I take the first step, then another, trying to place my feet lightly, but every board complains under me. Creak. Pause. Creak. Pause. I keep waiting for something to answer from above. I call May’s name again, softer this time, barely more than a breath. No response. Only the closed-up smell of a house that has forgotten people are supposed to live in it.

By the time I reach the top, my legs feel strange and hollow, as if they belong to someone braver than me. A hallway of closed doors waits in front of me. Again, I call for May. No response. I open the first door and find an empty room. Second door, yet another empty room. I open the third and for a fleeting instant, hope, with the sunlight through the window, I see a glare in the corner of the room. I whisper, “May.” Still no response. I walk into the room and find the glare from the sun is caused by a long mirror leaning up against the wall in the back of the room. I catch a glimpse through the mirror and call her name again. Dead silence.

I hear a familiar voice from outside the house. It’s my husband, I feel the blood pumping even faster throughout my entire body now. He must be home early today. I stop cold in front of the mirror as I hear this familiar voice again, now calling for me. Now I can see the full view in the mirror. With realization, I put my hand to my face.

The pale, waif, thin face.