After my wife left me, I felt a terrible loss because she took the dog and the cat with her. She left angry.
Don’t blame me. We both agreed we didn’t want children. A friend of mine told me that would change. He told me so while slumped over on a barstool, giving the bartender a begging look as the man kept telling us the place was closed.
He wasn’t drunk. Well, not stupid, pie-eyed drunk. He just didn’t want to go home to his wife and kiddos—all four of them. No, five total, if you counted the wife. She’s sweet, really, just a little, well, a little… simple. I mean, all those kids. She’s a great mother, though. They’d agreed they wouldn’t bring children into this awful, dying world. Like I said, they had four. I’m sure his wife is up for more, and maybe he is too. One more would shorten his life; two might end the suffering.
I held my ground on the whole pregnancy thing. Now my wife belongs to someone named Jeffery, with a little girl who “means the world” to her. I know my wife. She’s sorry she let her biological clock get the best of her. I know she misses those long weekends listening to Lake Michigan pound the coastline and reading by the fire.
I kept the cabin because there was no way she could afford it—not with a kid, the cat, the dog, and a husband named Jeffery. We sold the two-story house, but I’m fine with a small apartment downtown. Little has changed for me, except for the damned doorknobs.
My wife showed up while I was moving in, about three months pregnant, to make sure I was “okay.” I told her I was fine and got back to rearranging the apartment. She had no business being there.
The friend who didn’t want to leave his barstool talked loudly and rapidly at her for about fifteen minutes. I didn’t see her leave.
That night, while I was on the toilet reading Jaws, the doorknob rattled.
I shouted at Ralf, my big, dumb golden Lab, to knock it off and go to bed. Then I remembered Ralf had gone with Mommy.
I sat there, book in hand, staring at the doorknob. Why had I shut the bathroom door? I was the only one living in the apartment. I didn’t have to worry about offending anyone.
The doorknob rattled softly.
“Who’s there?”
The knob shook and turned as if someone were trying to wrench it out of the door. Then, suddenly, silence.
I felt cold to the bone. I sat there until my feet went numb. When I stood, my knees wobbled. I made lots of noise, flushed the toilet twice, and flung the door open.
Nothing.
The apartment was quiet and gray-dark. I could hear the comforting sounds of downtown after hours and see the dim glow of the streetlights. I turned on all the lights and the TV. I slept on the couch and went to work early.
Walking to work is nice. I’ve lost five pounds already, and some envious people tell me I need to take it easy.
When my wife had the baby, she plastered her ugly little face all over Facebook. Friends who didn’t know what to do with either one of us put their little thumbs up under the pictures, so I closed my account and started reading The Count of Monte Cristo. I even bought the audiobook and play it while I cook.
The apartment has a little galley kitchen. I miss the big old kitchen in the house, but I don’t cook like I used to. I can still cut a great salad.
One night I woke to a door slamming. I thought a neighbor was having a loud fight. My bedroom was dark, and I was groggy, just becoming aware that something was wrong. Where was the night-light I kept in the hallway?
I didn’t fully wake up until I heard the doorknob rattle.
My bedroom door was closed. Why was my bedroom door closed? In the ten months I’d lived there, I’d made a point of leaving every door open. Even the closet doorknobs had behaved themselves.
I don’t know what made me brave. I got out of bed while the knob jiggled. I grabbed it and felt an electric shock go through me.
The only thing I remember is my teeth chattering, trying not to urinate, and feeling… I don’t know… terrified. Absolutely terrified.
“Janet, I think something haunts my apartment.”
Silence.
“Janet, are you still there?”
“Yes. What makes you think something haunts it?”
“The doorknobs rattle, and last night I tried to open the door while the knob was moving. Something… something happened.”
“I know a good priest.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I.”
“You never went to church a day in your life.”
“I know. I started after I left you. Jeffery goes.”
“Yeah, well, never mind. I wouldn’t want you to miscarry.”
“I’ve already had the baby.”
“Yeah, right. Never mind.”
I hung up before she could say another word. I was disgusted with myself for calling her, but I couldn’t shake the apprehension.
I spent the weekend at the cabin and left instructions with the apartment handyman to change every damned doorknob in the place.
When I returned, every new knob, including those on the closets, shone bright and ready for use. On Monday night, I deliberately closed the bathroom door and continued reading The Count of Monte Cristo. When I finished, washed my hands, and reached for the knob, the damned thing rattled.
I stood in the bathroom for an hour.
When I finally opened the door, there was nothing.
At Wednesday’s board meeting, I lost track of the conversation thinking about what my apartment would look like without doors. I could use beads or heavy damask curtains instead. My boss pulled me aside afterward and asked if I was okay.
The job was great, sales were up, and my department was top of the line. I was a little impatient that he’d taken me aside.
“Listen, you’ve lost weight, and you’re here early and leave late. I know things have been tough, but I want you to take a few days off.”
He walked away before I could protest. I wanted to shout after him to come over and use my toilet, but I didn’t.
I can survive my wife leaving and becoming instantaneously pregnant with a younger guy named Jeffery instead of Jeff (who goes to church). It’s the doorknobs that will unhinge me.
Is there a pun in that?
The week off at the cabin was a good idea, though I decided not to tell my boss. The old place, on the Wisconsin coastline due north of Chicago, is a refuge.
I thought I’d miss my wife, but oddly enough, I missed the dog. Ralf and I used to walk the coast while my wife and the cat read by the fire.
For the first few days, I examined every doorknob before turning it. By Wednesday morning, I’d forgotten all about them. I was thinking about grilling steaks, making quiches with sweet potato crusts, and mixing egg custards. Salads didn’t cross my mind, and I finished The Count of Monte Cristo.
I returned mid-afternoon on Saturday, mentally thanking my boss for the good advice. The apartment seemed small and cramped, so I opened a few windows and thought about buying plants to freshen the air.
I stood in the middle of the living room.
“I like it here,” I said. “It’s close to work, and I don’t have to park on the street. This will work.”
For the first time, the closet doorknob rattled.
It rattled violently. I stood staring at it. It rattled again, settled into a tapping, and stopped.
I strode toward the closet and flung the door open.
I stayed in a hotel that night.
The movers took my things to a cool loft apartment in an old Victorian. It’s a little farther from work if I drive, but I don’t mind walking to the L, even on cold days. It clears my mind.
I went to Mass, and now I talk to the priest every Saturday. He’s a good guy.
The good news was that I got to keep my deposit, and they reimbursed me for all the new doorknobs. They put the old ones back.
The handyman figures she showed herself because of the new door handles. He told me she was usually quiet with women tenants and hadn’t shown herself in several decades.
No one knows why she hanged herself in the closet.
“One lady told me she thinks she did it for love,” said Leela, a former neighbor. “The manager and owner think everyone’s crazy, but hey, they gave you your deposit back.”
The handyman was a nice guy, but I wish he’d told me she’d hanged herself in there. I’m sure I would have known we wouldn’t have been compatible.
Women just don’t get me.