The Widower and His Web

The slam of a car door echoed throughout the small neighborhood. A slim, dark-haired woman in large sunglasses was slowly walking away from the vehicle. She was clothed in black and a serious expression was plastered upon her pale face. Viewing this from my window was the causation of a fierce shiver down my spine. It had been several hours since I had consumed my last alcoholic beverage in preparation for the moment that she arrived and the withdrawals were beginning to affect me rather harshly. Awaiting her arrival had been suspenseful in itself, and but seeing her was significantly more stressful.

I had been hopeful for a warm reunion with Elizabeth for an extended period of time, but that dream had been destroyed with the recent chain of events regarding our familial life. I was well aware of Elizabeth’s feelings about me after her mother and I divorced. The bizarre mixture of emotions that I began to experience overwhelmed me as she approached the front door. Fraternal nature made me want to comfort her, but my instincts told me that any comfort that I offered was unwanted and would merely create a larger gap in our relationship. A small, cowardly part of me wanted to take the backdoor out of the apartment and have a drink at the pub to calm my nerves and procrastinate longer. I closed my eyes and inhaled, breathing slowly and carefully. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I chose the only responsible option.

“Hello, Dad,” she murmured from the open doorway. Considering my profession, usually it was quite effortless for me to read people’s emotions. However, it was proving to be a struggle as I attempted to read hers. A blank, anxious expression adorned her face, but categorizing it as sadness would not have been necessarily correct. I did not have time to conclude her thoughts, for she pushed herself past me and began examining the apartment. She made a throaty noise of disgust before glancing up at me and saying, “Please tell me the guest room is cleaner than this.”

The apartment was moderately clean, but Elizabeth had inherited her mother’s perfectionism. Having known this, I had made efforts to assure that the guest bedroom was clean to her standards. I informed her of this before she removed her sunglasses, narrowed her eyes, and pursed her lips. It was obvious that she wanted to see for herself, so I directed her to the bedroom.

“So you plan on paying for the funeral, I assume?” Elizabeth tended to change subjects when she did not want to admit that someone had done something correct. She had a serious difficulty giving approval to people of which she generally disapproved. However, if I were to make a verbal note of that behavior, she would accuse me of attempting to diagnose her and it was simply not the time for an argument.

“I planned on paying for what I could, yes. I thought your grandparents would want to help a little. They’re too proud to let me take full financial responsibility, which you know.” Speaking to my daughter hardly seemed as natural as it had prior to the divorce. It felt as though I were speaking to a complete stranger, which was slightly unsettling. Nevertheless, I had grown accustomed to this in previous months and I knew that it would have been foolish to assume that her mother’s death would strengthen our relationship.

My thoughts were interrupted by an obnoxious rap song, which I quickly realized was her ringtone. She answered the cellular phone saying, “Hey baby. Yeah, I’m here. Just take a right off Lafayette and it’s the fourth one on the left. Lowest floor, only apartment on that floor. Love you.”

I furrowed my brow, wondering who it was that she was directing to my apartment. “Elizabeth, who was that?”

She averted her eyes towards me, piercing my own eyes with her gaze. “Andrew. My boyfriend. I need someone to comfort me. Will that be a problem?”

“Well, I only have one spare bedroom… He doesn’t mind the sofa, does he?”

“Is the spare bed not a queen size?” It was difficult to argue with her when she spoke to me in such a manner, but I did not approve of her sharing a bed with a boy that I had not even met, especially in my household. I shook my head so she understood my disapproval. She scoffed. “I am a grown woman, Dad. You can’t control my love life. I won’t be happy with him here. I already lost my mother and I’m stuck here with you, so you can at least make this as painless as possible for me.”

***

Andrew was a very quiet young man. Though he seemed friendly, it was hard for me to judge, considering he spoke very little. It seemed that whenever he tried to say a word, Elizabeth spoke for him. I was not sure whether or not I approved of the way she controlled his words, but it was not my place to start an argument in regards to the functions of their relationship. Elizabeth was primarily concerned about the funeral costs and assuring that I was going to be held responsible for them.

“So what is your major, Andrew?” I hoped that changing the subject would quiet my daughter’s verbal antics, but it was to no avail. Her face expressed her disgust with me and I quickly realized that I had angered her with my attempt to lighten the dark mood.

“My mom is dead and you think it’s time to take an interest in my boyfriend’s life? Grow the fuck up, Dad.” She stood and began to storm out of the room. Andrew’s gaze averted to the floor.

“Hey, hey, watch the language!” I called after her. She ignored me and I turned my attention to Andrew. “She’s just upset about her mother.” He nodded, but did not respond. Though it was obvious to me that Andrew was a shy individual, something still seemed odd about his behavior. I could not pinpoint exactly what was wrong, but his submissiveness to Elizabeth was not only bizarre, but troubling. As much as I loved my daughter, I did not approve of her treating someone in such a way.

Elizabeth returned from the spare bedroom and sat next to Andrew. She looked from him to me and raised her eyebrows. It was apparent to me that she was assuring that Andrew had not spoken out of turn and that I had not pressed him to do so. She sniffled and began tapping her foot against the floor, rapidly. I narrowed my eyes; this behavior was also very strange. It did not suggest grievance in any way.

“I’m going to go to the funeral home to see what sort of arrangements are in order,” she said. She stood and rushed to the front door before I had the chance to speak to her. She only peeked inside the doorway to call for Andrew to follow her.

“I’m coming,” he said in a dreary monotone. He shook my hand weakly and slowly walked out of the living room to the front door. I heard one of their vehicles start and speed away into the distance.

It had been less than thirty minutes that my daughter had been inside my apartment before she deemed it necessary to leave. The situation was both unsettling and unapproachable. As much as I wished that I could speak to her about her behavior not only towards me, but towards Andrew, I knew that it was not ideal to do so. Upsetting a person as controlling as Elizabeth, considering the circumstances, was a terrible idea.

I slowly went to the liquor cabinet and took a bottle of scotch from the shelf. I poured myself a drink and entered the spare bedroom to unpack Elizabeth and Andrew’s luggage for them. Being careful not to unfold her clothing, I placed all of her things in the drawers. A pair of jeans were rolled up fairly haphazardly, and I knew that this would irritate a perfectionist such as Elizabeth, so I took it upon myself to refold them. However, I quickly discovered that there was a reason they were rolled as poorly as they were. A collection of small bags fell as I picked up the blue jeans. Each bag was filled with a white powder. I began to piece the situation together and the overwhelming feeling that had come upon me when I heard of Molly’s death was once more evident.

“She’s on drugs.”