Page 15 of The Wives of Hawthorne Lane
“Hey,” she’d said as she filled his water glass.
“Hey yourself,” he’d replied. His gaze was so intense that it made Maggie blush.
He ordered some eggs and toast, and as Maggie attended to the straggle of other late-night customers, she could feel his eyes on her, following her from table to table.
After she cleared his plate and brought him his bill, he asked what time her shift ended.
“Not until one o’clock,” she said with a sigh, dreading the long, late hours ahead of her.
Dean nodded, dropped a crumpled twenty-dollar bill onto the table, and popped the collar of his jacket as he slid out of the booth.
Maggie watched with disappointment as he pushed open the glass doors of the diner and disappeared into the darkness. She’d thought that was the last she’d see of him, but when she left the diner that night, he’d been waiting for her in the parking lot, leaning against a vintage-looking motorcycle. His arms were folded over his chest, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and his long legs, crossed at the ankles, ended in dusty black boots. In the soft glow of the streetlights, she marveled at how handsome he was, at his dark lashes, the smooth planes of his face that made him look young and sweet despite the tough exterior. As if he were a boy playing dress-up. Something about it tugged at the strings of Maggie’s heart.
He flicked the cigarette away, the red ember burning bright against the cracked black pavement. She should have known then that he was bad news, that he was the kind of man who would break her heart, the kind of man every mother warns her daughters about. Not that it would’ve stopped her. In that moment, she couldn’tbelieve he was there, choosing her, in her faded pink diner uniform, the scent of fryer grease clinging to her hair.
“Where’s your car?” he’d asked.
“I, uh, I walked here.” Maggie didn’t want to tell him that she didn’t have a car. That she couldn’t afford one. “I don’t live too far.”
Dean nodded as though he understood anyway. He held out a helmet toward her. “Want a lift, then?”
Maggie pulled the helmet over her head as she watched him mount the bike in one swift movement, a jean-clad leg swinging over the seat. She climbed on behind him.
“Hold on,” he said, revving the engine. Maggie slid her arms around his slim waist, and she pressed close to him, feeling the hardness of his body, breathing in the scent of his worn leather jacket against her cheek. And she knew even then that she was going to fall for him. That there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Dean was wonderful at first. He brought her bunches of daisies every Friday, opened car doors for her when he picked her up for dinner or a movie. She remembers thinking that he was such a gentleman, remembers her disbelief that she’d managed to get so lucky. She wonders now if it was all an act, if he’d ever been that person at all. Dean is quite good at that, at making people believe he’s something he’s not. Though it’s always only a matter of time until his true colors shine through.
“Yeah, but shit like that, it’s just not enough,” Dean says now, slamming his beer bottle onto the table. Maggie jumps at the sound. It takes her a moment to remember what he’s talking about. Work. A Porsche. A loosened spark plug.
“The world is fucked these days. Where pricks like that have more money than they know what to do with, and guys like me who work their asses off can hardly keep a roof over their heads.”
Maggie bites her tongue. She says nothing about how much of his money he wastes or how Dean has lost more than one job because he didn’t feel like showing up for a shift.
“I’m sick of working my tail off—and for what?” He throws his arms wide, gesturing at the tiny run-down house around them. “For this? Don’t you think I—we—deserve more?”
Maggie nods. “Maybe, but what can we do about it?”
“I don’t know yet,” Dean replies, slowly shaking his head. “But someday soon, I’m going to find a way to move us up in the world, settle the score with those rich fucks across town. I promise you that.”
Maggie feels a stirring of dread in the pit of her stomach. She doesn’t know what’s coming, but she knows it won’t end well.
Halloween Night
Transcript of interview with Doreen Woodrow
October 31, 2024
Detective Olsen:Hello, Ms. Woodrow, my name is Detective Frank Olsen, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about an incident that occurred on your block tonight if that would be all right with you.
Ms. Woodrow:I’ve lived on Hawthorne Lane for nearly fifty years, Mr. Olsen, and in all my time here, nothing like this has ever happened. The world is changing, I tell you. It wasn’t like this back in my day. My late husband, Lenny, would be just sick to his stomach over it if he were still with us. God rest his soul.
Detective Olsen:So you’re aware of the occurrence this evening, then, Ms. Woodrow?
Ms. Woodrow:I’m old, not dead. You may not believe it, but I can see perfectly well, thank you very much. Like I wouldn’t notice all the police cars outside my own window! A crime scene! On Hawthorne Lane! I didn’t think I’d live to see the day. It used to be that you could leave your doors unlocked—you could trust your neighbors that much. But nowadays? Never.
Detective Olsen:I couldn’t agree more, Ms. Woodrow. You can’t be too careful. Now, given the proximity of your home to the location of the occurrence, I wanted to ask if you saw anything out of the ordinary earlier this evening. Anything at all.
Ms. Woodrow:Well, none of this is ordinary if you ask me. All this commotion over Halloween. What happened to homemade costumes and old-fashioned trick-or-treating? Now we have to have a whole festival? A fireworks display? It’s very unordinary indeed. Churchill absolutely abhors it.
