The title for this story will become apparent quickly and is adopted with tremendous respect for Hitchcock.
This is my response to all those stories about finding a strange car in the driveway. Every time I read one of those, I wonder, "How can they not expect to get caught? Do they think the neighbors are blind?" This is a slower story than what I usually write, but I became fascinated by the thoughts and inner conflict in the mind of a witness to likely infidelity.
There is no sex in this story.
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"You did well today, Mr. Bennett. Just keep that ice bag on your knee for thirty minutes, or more if you need it. You already took an ibuprofen and an acetaminophen, so no more for three hours."
"Yeah. I remember. When will you be back?"
"Well, today is Monday. You do your exercises tomorrow and I'll be back on Wednesday. Remember, on Wednesday we start an earlier schedule. They'll be no more of these late morning workouts. I'll be here at nine and then you'll have the rest of the day to yourself."
"Sounds good. Travel safe, Megs. I'll be here."
That last bit made her chuckle. I wasn't going anywhere just yet. She was pleasant enough when she's finished, but a freakin' sadist when she's workin' me over.
Ten days ago I had knee replacement surgery on my right knee. I heard stories about the post-op physical therapy and there was nothing about it that sounded good other than, "It won't last forever." I figured I could push my way through just about anything if I knew there was an end in sight, but I guess everyone I know must have a higher threshold for pain than me. This was torture.
The whole idea behind physical therapy after knee replacement is to get at least a 90-degree bend to the knee. Sounds easy, right? The surgeon cuts tissue and then the tissues mend by reattaching the fibers and growing together. The problem is the cut segments tend to attach to anything nearby, and the physical therapy is designed to break all those undesirable attachments until the knee once again operates correctly and bends as intended. Think on that while you pour me a beer.
The therapist got in her car and drove off. Her name is Maggie if anyone cares. She's actually a good kid, but she has no pity. She's heard the screams before and knows that pain is the path to recovery. When I'm feeling generous, I do call her "the kid". I'm guessing she's in her mid-twenties and I'm fifty-seven, so she's a kid to me.
Not that it matters, but my name is Henry Bennett and I build custom kitchen cabinets in a small four-man shop that I own. And, yeah, one of those men is a woman and she's a damn good carpenter and cabinetmaker, but I'm old school and saying "four-person shop" just doesn't sound right. I've been thinking about expanding the business to include furniture, Windsor chairs mostly, so retirement isn't something I'm considering. It seems like I'm up and down all day, squatting and standing, and then kneeling on that hard floor, so one way or another the cartilage wore out in my knee, and I wound up with some factory replacement parts.
So I'm sitting here by my front window with my leg up, ice on the knee, and I'm watching Megs drive off when I notice Jenny Carpenter pull into her garage across the street. The Carpenters are in their late twenties. Chris is also a carpenter by trade, which makes his name all the more ironic, and he was working hard to build his own small company of carpentry contractors. They did good work and were sought after by homeowners that needed home repairs and remodels as well as the mid-size companies that often needed to hire in some additional talent. I know he had dreams of expanding his company so they could become the prime contractor for new home construction, and we had long talks about how to grow a young company. That was something I knew a little about. Meanwhile, Jenny is an attractive blond who works for one of the big investment houses in the city. I liked her.
I'm thinking to myself, "They really are the perfect couple" when I see a black BMW pull into her driveway. You don't see a lot of those in this neighborhood, and you don't see guys in expensive suits walk into a neighbor's front door like he owns the place, but I saw one that day.
I watch Jenny's place while I ice my knee. After a half hour of icing my knee, I make my way into the kitchen for a sandwich. I know it sounds crazy, but I can't carry a plate and a drink while I use this damn walker to get back to my living room. So I pack the sandwich in a paper bag and pour my drink into a to-go cup, put both in the silly-ass basket on the front of the walker, and make my way back to my chair. I drop in my seat and the BMW was still there. I've still got some ice, so I put the ice bag back on my knee while I sit there and watch my neighbor's house across the street.
Time passes. It's a long hour before the suit finally leaves. Ten minutes later the garage door opens and Jenny leaves, too.
Okay, I tell myself there are a thousand perfectly good excuses for what I just saw. Jenny isn't the type. I try to put it out of my mind, but I'm just so damn bored sitting here. Damn it, I need a book, or a puzzle, or anything to keep my mind occupied. The shop called twice with some fairly simple questions. I suspect they were just keeping in touch, so I didn't feel left out. With nothing else to do, I decided to look through a few books on chair design, and I began to pour over ideas for a line of simple, stylish chairs that we could make in the shop.
I was still sitting there in the late afternoon, alternating between having my leg up and doing my bending exercises, then going to get a bag of ice, while I worked through books on chair design. As I read, I drew some design ideas. I was trying to develop something traditional, but comfortable.
It was growing dark when I happened to look up and noticed Chris' truck pull into their garage. Jenny's car was already parked in its usual place. That's when my mind returned to that black BMW and the driver with the fancy suit who seemed to act like he lived there.
I began to gather my drawings and notes when I saw Chris making his way across the street. He was headed for my house. I made my way slowly to the door and opened it just as he arrived.
I stepped back to let him into the house, which was more difficult than you might think with that damn walker. "Chris, what brings you here?"
"Well, Jenny thought that with you convalescing and not able to spend a lot of time on your feet, you might like some home cooked food. So she packed up a dinner for you and sent me across the street to deliver it."
I laughed. "I love that girl of yours!" As we made our way slowly back to the kitchen, I asked, "What did your lovely wife fix for this tired old man?"
"First of all, you aren't old."
"But I am tired!" I was still laughing, but Chris was the real first visitor I'd had all day if you don't count Nurse Pain and I was enjoying the company.
He set the food on the table and began to unpack it. There was a big bowl of corn chowder and some ham biscuits with a nice salad. "My God, there's enough here for the both of us!"
"Oh no, no way. If I eat even a bite of it, my wife will find out and I'll be in a heap of trouble. That's all for you."
I admit that I was smiling now. "I guess there's enough here for dinner and for lunch tomorrow. Please tell your lovely wife 'Thank you' from me. Now, can I offer you a beer before you make that long and arduous hike back home?"
Chris was smiling and he knew my thanks were sincere. "No, she'll be waiting for me. I'd better get moving. I'll try to stop in tomorrow evening."
"I'll be here! I've got nowhere to go for the next few weeks."
As quick as that, I walked Chris back to the door, shook his hand, and he was gone. As I watched my friend walk back to his house, I thought about the value of good friends and thoughtful wives. "I'm sure I'm wrong about her" I thought. "She's not the type."
I enjoyed my dinner that night. I also felt like I'd accomplished something with my drawings and notes, so I spent the evening watching television and reading. I also went through another bag of ice. Then with another ibuprofen and an acetaminophen, I headed off to bed.
Tuesday was largely uneventful. I fixed a simple breakfast of yogurt and granola with a glass of orange juice, took an ibuprofen and an acetaminophen, and then carried my coffee to my living room chair. I sipped my coffee while I gave the pills about twenty minutes to work, and then I started the unpleasant business of exercising my new store-bought knee. No pain, no gain. My exercises start with a series of simple motions like leg raises and ankle movements. Then I start the reclining knee bends, and when I'm ready I use an elastic band to pull my ankle toward me and force the knee to bend. I do repetitions and by the time I'm breathing like a long-distance runner I'm ready to stop and ice the knee. It's not hard work, but it takes a lot of discipline to pull that band knowing it's going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.
For the next half hour I content myself with propping my leg up and applying ice. It's mid-morning before I'm ready to get on with my day and I get back to working on those drawings that I started yesterday.
Sitting by the window, I work and watch the world go by. Neighbors come and go from their houses. Dan Williams is out cutting his lawn. He's retired and has turned maintaining his lawn and property into an obsession. I guess that's what happens when you don't fish or play golf. The Daniels are out for their late morning stroll and later Herb Jackson goes out for his run. The UPS truck delivers some boxes up and down the street and eventually the mail man delivers the mail. Funny, but nobody seems to see me sitting by my window.
I'm working away and glancing out the window when I see Herb walk up to the Perkins' front door and let himself in. That's strange. Jim Perkins is away on business this week. I keep watching and try to work, and it isn't until an hour later that he leaves by the back door, walks down the driveway, and heads back toward his house.
