The Lure
By Susan Andrelchik
Whenever Jenny felt guilty about selling her childhood home, she would remind herself that she had given up too many freedoms to stay by her mother’s side. The house had been a joyless place. Her mother had been assaulted by the same man twice in their home. The two incidents added up to her parents’ divorce and her mother’s depression.
Jenny was an only child. Her parents split up when she was ten. She learned about her mother’s ordeal in her late teens. Her mother had remained stoically silent, and her father just left one day. When she was deciding where to go to college, her aunt shared her mother’s secret. The news dissuaded her from moving too far away. She chose a local university and supported her mother through a lifetime of sadness and failed relationships. The time had come to move on.
When Jenny first stepped into the little bungalow while house hunting, her immediate inclination was that it would not do. The hardwoods buckled near the dishwasher and the shower reminded her of Europe with its high spout surrounded by a loose curtain on a circular rod. The windows were old and stuck shut. The siding needed a fresh coat of paint. There were no clothes in the closets but most of the furnishings and a few personal belongings, like framed photographs, remained throughout the house.
A picture of a young woman in her early twenties hung in the sitting area off the kitchen. Her attire said late sixties. She had long dark hair parted down the middle. Lying prone on a bed of colorful pillows on the floor, smoking a cigarette, the camera revealed a wisp of smoke near her right hand.
The backyard was the best part, with mature azalea bushes lining the fence in two or three shades of coral including the brilliant orange of the native Georgia azalea. The lawn had circles of yellow grass lending the suspicion that the seller had a dog. Jenny and her agent walked out of the house without any discussion. The house did not make the ‘maybe’ list.
The day after she had seen the bungalow, a work colleague left a message for Jenny to give her a call.
“Hey Jenny, I saw your car parked at that house for sale on Longleaf Drive in my neighborhood. Are you looking to buy?”
“Yeah, I need to find a place of my own and start fresh.”
“Well, I know the neighbor next door to that house. We chat on my walks. She told me the reason the previous owner is selling. Her house was broken into, and she was sexually assaulted a few months ago. She’s about your age.”
Jenny felt a shock wave go through her. She quickly got off the phone. The layout of the bungalow flooded her mind and images of the attack could not be suppressed. Jenny thought about the photo of the young female on the pillows. She had originally wondered if the woman was the seller in her younger days. But now she wondered if it was the seller’s mother.
Jenny sat lost in thought for over an hour. She felt her heartbeats, remnants of her visceral reaction. She took deep breaths to calm herself. She teared up, imagining how horrific the attack must have been. In the past, pictures of her mother’s attacks had appeared out of nowhere. The conjuring never failed to leave her in tears.
She drove by the bungalow two more times. She spent a good deal of time wondering if the victim had a support system. She felt herself respecting the owner for trying to move on. She asked her agent if she could see the house again. When the agent unlocked the front door, she requested to go inside alone.
Standing in the living room, she took in every nuance an old home had to offer. The wide moldings, the little built-in wall shelves, the smell of age. She ran her fingers along the wall that led to the hallway. She lingered in the doorway of the master bedroom. Did it happen here on the bed? Why do I think it would have been logically located?
She moved to the door of the second bedroom, repeating the same thought. Her senses heightened and she took notice of other photos. There were several of a young woman about Jenny’s age with long dark hair. The woman looked vaguely familiar, and then Jenny remembered the old picture near the kitchen. She ran to it and stared at the pretty face, concluding it was the seller’s mother. Was her mother there for her? Did the attack ruin a relationship? Her life? Where did she go?
Jenny made an offer on the house within the hour.
During the daytime, when she was not working, she decorated, painted, and made mental plans for big improvements. At night she found herself quietly dwelling on the crime that had taken place in her new home.
One Saturday morning after Jenny had finished her second cup of coffee, she went to the garage to retrieve one of the last unpacked boxes. It contained a retro set of cheap dishes with a wheat pattern that her mother had held onto. She planned to store them in a built-in buffet off the dining room area. When she opened the far-right cabinet, she spotted a shoebox.
Jenny set the box on the table. It held about twenty photographs of the previous owner. She spread them out and took in every detail. Some of them showed the backyard with the azaleas in full bloom. Others depicted a black lab being petted by a tall blond good-looking male. Jenny now had a clearer picture of the victim who did not want the box of photos. She left that part of her life behind.
Less than a month later, Jenny bought a black lab. He was about two years old and had had training. On the very first walk around the block, a neighbor saw Jenny with her new dog and beckoned her over.
“The last owner of your house had a lab, too. Her dog’s name was Seymour.”
“I think I heard that. They are good dogs, aren’t they?” Jenny responded, as she mused that now she knew what her lab would be named.
The more she walked, the more neighbors commented on the coincidence.
Several nights a week, Jenny leafed through the previous owner’s pictures. Her own hair had grown to the same length as the victim’s.
After about four months, Jenny bought a gun. She took lessons, and her new hobby became target shooting at the local gun range.
Then she dyed her light hair a deep brown. While walking her lab down the street one afternoon, her neighbor called to her, only he was not shouting “Jenny.” He had called her Christine.
“Oh, I am so sorry! I thought you were Christine, who used to live in that cute bungalow around the corner. I thought for a minute she was back.”
“My name is Jenny, and I live there now.”
“Wow! You two sure resemble each other. You are about her age, and she had a black lab, too. Nice to meet you and welcome to the neighborhood.”
Jenny said thanks and walked back home, all the while feeling pleased with her mistaken identity. When she got inside, she retrieved her gun from the bureau. She placed it in the drawer of the end table to the left of the couch. She took a seat and watched a little news, then a cooking show. Typically, she would have poured herself a glass of wine. But not tonight. And not any night to come. At dark, she turned off the lights and the television. She sat quietly, waiting, establishing what would become her nightly routine of vigilance. She knew it was only a matter of time, and she was ready.
