The Woman Next Door Read Online Free PDF Page B

once been told that those thoughts were "surprisingly profound," and, of course, be had no idea what that meant. He knew only that they were true thoughts.
    He smiled to himself. It was good to be able to think.
    He saw that he was approaching the big, dark house where Mrs. Courtney lived, and be remembered the time—a year ago?—he had been passing the house, and Mrs. Courtney's son had been on the sidewalk, and he, Sonny, had said "Hi" to the little boy, just trying to be friendly, and Mrs. Courtney had come running out of the house, and pulled her son to her and almost spat, "Get out of here, get out of here! Stay away from my soul."
    The pictures he had seen around the woman had frightened Sonny more than any of the others. Never before had he seen such pictures around anyone. And the feelings that had radiated from her had made him nauseous, as if someone's strong hands were clutching hard at his stomach, trying to squeeze out what was inside.
    Ever since that day, even passing the Courtney house made Sonny nauseous, and so he gave it a wide berth, his eyes riveted on the house all the while.
    "Hello," he heard, aware that the word was not really a greeting but designed to make him take notice of the person saying it. He turned his head and stopped immediately. The pretty blonde woman was in a wheelchair, her legs covered by a heavy checkered blanket. She was one of the "new people" in Cornhill; Sonny knew it immediately.
    "Hi," he said.
    "Hi." The woman smiled.
    "My name's Sonny." He gestured toward Avenue A, behind him. "I live down there."
    "Hello, Sonny. My name's Christine."
    Sonny thought that he liked her voice; it was soft, nearly musical. Which is why he was puzzled, confused, that the picture, the memory, should come to him at that moment. It stemmed from the beginning of Cornhill's rebirth, two decades before, when Sonny was still a teenager. Some of Cornhill's old, decrepit houses had been gutted to make them ready for renovation, and people with hammers and saws and truckloads of brick and roofing tile were everywhere.
    Sonny had never been allowed to own a pet (they demanded a lot of attention and care, he was told); but that did not stop him from making "free pets" of the numerous stray cats and dogs that then roamed the streets of Cornhill. ("They're my friends," he explained. "I feed them, sometimes, and I pet them. They know me, and I know them.") One day, he came upon a new stray—a huge, short-haired gray tabby sleeping quietly just inside the front entrance of an abandoned house. He watched the cat a while, pleased by the feeling of serenity and comfort it gave him, by its perfect beauty. And then—because he had no fear of stray animals, had always known instinctively which were approachable and which weren't, and because of the good feelings this animal gave him—he leaned over and put his hand on the cat's back and began to stroke it.
    Instantly the cat awakened, lashed out at him, and ran into the house. Sonny followed, his intention to apologize to the animal for disturbing it. He found the cat in a second-floor bedroom, cornered it—"I'm sorry, kitty cat, I'm sorry"—tried to understand the new feelings radiating from it, feelings of fear and panic, tried to equate those feelings with what the cat had been only moments before, felt awed by the two so totally different creatures this cat could be.
    He leaned over again, certain he could calm the cat and make it into the beautiful, peaceful thing it was.
    It took many stitches to sew up his arm and hand. The scars would remain with him for the rest of his life.
    Sonny could not understand why that memory should return—and so vividly—when he talked to the pretty lady in the wheelchair. The feelings that came from her were so good, so loving. What could his memory of a cornered and panicked animal have to do with that?

Chapter 5
    Â 
    C hristine shook her head slowly, in self-criticism. This wouldn't do. What