In the morning, the small room still smelled of fresh paint, while Theresa’s thoughts kept returning to the helicopter.
It had looked huge, with every reflection on the glass and metal causing an urgent glare. Her heart thumped, keeping pace with the beating blades as the chopper lifted, searchlights on.
Theresa noticed a mark on the floor. Will’s footprint, left after stepping in spilled paint. Too dry to wipe up now.
The previous night, Theresa had left the bar before they did. The walk home was less than a quarter mile; she could do it with her eyes closed. Will insisted on staying longer, drinking with his brother Randy, the younger man annoyingly edgy again. Theresa was exhausted from helping paint, and ready the old house for renters.
All she wanted was a bath.
The late summer night was mild. There had been little rain, and some farms were preparing for an early harvest. Theresa heard the rumble of a distant tractor, strange in the dark.
Some men worked late.
Some drank.
Like Randy. Theresa didn’t care much for him. Ever since he and his wife had the baby, Randy was always nosing around, like a pesky dog. Once she had crouched in the shed, hiding, for nearly an hour, waiting for him to leave. Stirring her fingers in a bag of potting soil.
After midnight, after Theresa had bathed and drifted off on the unmade bed, Randy was pounding on the door.
“Will took off,” he mumbled.
They started making phone calls.
The State Police helicopter landed in the Dollar General parking lot, where the town cops and others were gathered. Neighbors came out from the tenements near the jail, eager for excitement. They all watched as the chopper leaned into the deep blue sky.
After they found Will, the Sheriff told Theresa where. The stream was hardly more than a wet ditch.
Now, she shut the door to the small room that Will had chosen for them.
His valise leaned against her dressing table, hastily stuffed with papers before the downsizing, the painting. Theresa slumped at the prospect of sorting through his affairs.
She glanced at her day journal, her own thoughts and calculations from recent months. What had Will done, leaving her freshly painted into this corner of the big house? The heavy coat, his attempt to cover flaws.
She felt Will’s presence, like his painting tool, cutting through the space.
Downstairs, the phone rang. The Sheriff, perhaps. More questions. She could walk home from the bar blindfolded but did not know how Will ended up drowned in that narrow stream.
Outside, in the clearing light, neighbors were going to the Dollar General, and Theresa moved to lift the window, to hear their conversations. But she could only imagine the talk.
Will had painted the window shut.
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