From the dark at the foot of the stairs, Jonathan watched his wife stand at the top of the landing and look out the window. The late autumn sun illuminated her with a soft intimacy that spilled down the staircase toward him. But once again she was unaware of him. He had often seen her that way, looking out the window, but he never understood what she saw. The window, the looking, were part of a larger unfathomed mystery that had made Jonathan feel restless and alone these many months.
A cold draft whispered against his cheek as the old house settled around him. Somewhere a dove mourned the passing of summer. Finally, he said, “Emily, what do you see?”
Emily started and looked down at her husband. The wan oval of her face floated on the troubled air, a distant cold light above a dim valley. She stepped away from the rail, afraid it seemed, of this stranger’s voice. She held one hand to her lips, her eyes small and dark.
Jonathan continued gently. “What is it that you always see out the window? Please tell me. I’ve a right to know.” He grasped the banister, the dark polished wood of the staircase creaking under his strong body as he came to her. “Won’t you show me?” Jonathan looked at his wife. So pale, so fragile, he thought. He remembered how rough his hands were against her skin. He followed her eyes as they turned back to the window, and he looked out. In a moment he said, “Oh. I see.”
Emily’s voice was high and brittle. “What do you see? What?” She glared at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“Strange how I never saw it before,” said Jonathan.
“You can’t see,” she challenged. “Tell me what you see.”