The Woman in the Murder House

Darlene Eliot

Octavia watched the onscreen car chase and shifted in her plastic chair. The chair, bolted to a desktop, was designed for wiry college students, not an eighty-two-year-old woman with abundant hips, long legs, and the impulse to gesture dramatically. The other students smiled, but rarely spoke to her unless it was required. They assumed she was related to the professor or, worse yet, auditing the class, which they thought would be an easy A, but turned into a crucible of teamed projects, graded discussions, and Octavia’s earnest observations about film noir—the black and white twin to her still photography.

Octavia watched as the actress stepped into a beam of light, denouncing the world for forgetting her existence. And her greatness. When she descended the stairs for her final close-up, the students laughed and Octavia cringed. The truth was, except for the dead chimpanzee, the moldering mansion, the wrist-cutting, the butler’s fraudulent fan mail, and the body dragged from the pool, she identified with the woman and worried things could end similarly for her. A lack of stardom decreased that risk but didn’t diminish her fear of being forgotten or humored like the woman onscreen.

When she met with her discussion group, the leader adjusted his laptop and said,

“So, what are we putting down?” Octavia broke the silence. She said the theme of being discarded went beyond Hollywood and was something embedded in the culture. The students nodded slowly. One said,

“Ri-i-i-i-ght,” then responded to a text. Another stared at her blankly. The leader didn’t move; his fingers poised over the keys.

“So, what are we putting down?” he said. Octavia shifted in her chair, trying to ease the backache.

“I don’t know,” the first one said. “Put down ‘discarded.’”

“What does that even mean?” the empty one said. “I’m not talking, if he asks.”

“Put something else down,” the texter said, glancing at Octavia and smiling without showing teeth. “No offense.”

At break time, Octavia went to a different floor to use the restroom. The walking helped her back after sitting so long and allowed her to fix her hair—a silver curly bob—without feeling self-conscious. She imagined her best friend, Molly, sparring with the students, gossiping with her at break time, describing the best dancer at her retirement home, and telling her who would be good to photograph if she’d stop being so stubborn and take pictures with her phone. Molly would have liked the butler and the clothes in the film, but not much else. Octavia would have reminded her that the actress was lied to and abandoned. Molly would have agreed, but said she’s still a total lunatic. Then, she would have invited Octavia to the next dance, saying she needed to mingle, which sounded more appealing with each new day. And night. Molly was long gone, but still on Octavia’s mind. So was her husband, Raymond, whose fear of being patronized ran so deep that he swore her and their daughter, Janis, to secrecy about his heart condition. A promise they kept to the end, but Janis never got over.

Octavia tried to reason with Janis, saying they owed it to Raymond to make him as comfortable as possible, and an onslaught of pitying phone calls, obligatory visits, and constant inquiries would have hastened his departure. But Janis had none of it, saying it required her to withhold information from people who loved him—the same people who held it against her when they were unable to say a proper goodbye. Then she went silent, shrugging when Octavia held up photos, asked if she could see her new watercolors, or tried to rekindle their friendly debate about the best time of day to capture light on the hills behind the bungalow. Janis preferred to joke with her son, Mark, who shrugged things off like she did and had followed in her footsteps with a divorce, a custody battle, and table scraps of visitation. Although Janis was grateful when Octavia signed over the house, partially to appease her and partially to get it out of the way while she could still focus, the rift never healed.

Janis and Mark spent their evenings watching slasher movies and didn’t turn around when Octavia came home, eager to share what she had seen in class.

“That’s nice,” Janis said, downing a smoothie. “I put carrot sticks in the fridge for you.” Octavia jumped at a high-pitched scream, then went hunting for leftover lasagna.

“It’s a great film,” she called out. “Maybe we can watch it on DVD.”

“DVD?” Mark laughed. “You’re funny, Grandma. Don’t let the kids hear you say that.” Octavia’s shoulders slumped as another onscreen victim was dragged into the woods. She paused, then blurted out what she’d been thinking for months.

“I’m moving to Molly’s place,” she said.

“You hate old people,” Janis called back. “And it’s really bad food. You don’t want to check out early, do you?”

“Can you at least turn around?” Octavia said. Janis drained the last of her smoothie and glanced back.

“What is it?” she said. Octavia shook her head. Janis raised her eyebrows. “Mom? What?”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Octavia said. Janis sighed, put down her cup, and went back to the TV. Another scream filled the room.

Octavia left her unheated lasagna and walked to the garage, pressing her lower back. She stared at the dusty boxes, wondering which ones to take and which ones to leave. She couldn’t remember where she packed the camera or the road-trip photos or close-ups too painful to frame: a five-year-old Janis holding up popsicle-sticky fingers; Raymond smiling so big he had crow’s feet; Molly wearing a poodle skirt and holding up a full dance card. The weight of it all engulfed her. She steadied herself—one hand on the washer, the other on her knee—realizing, for the first time in her life, she wanted someone to lie to her.