Mrs. Tretiyakova speaks three languages: English, Russian, and Gossip. It is 3 o’clock on Saturday, which means Mrs. Next Door and Mrs. Across The Street are already here for afternoon tea. As I slip into the living room to drink some milk, I hear Mrs. T busily telling her guests how Jackson Howard from down the street was planning an ‘early retirement’ according to his wife, but no one was supposed to know that he was already fired from the bank and had nothing else to do at age forty. Mrs. T does not forget to add that her darling Mr. Tretiyakova is working till late hours these days ever since he got his promotion at the same bank last month.
I let out a lazy purr; it is a particularly tedious Saturday afternoon, and I was getting bored watching three sparrows through the open window, chirping noisily and incessantly. I fix my yellow eyes on the three ladies at the tea table, ears pricked for the silly stories that Mrs. T mined in the past week. Mrs. T is now happily gossiping away about the Spencers two doors down. Their divorce made public only last week is now outdated news in the neighbourhood, after everyone saw Mrs. Spencer and her daughter moving out. Mrs. T lowers her voice and tells them how no one was supposed to know that the reason behind the divorce was Mr. Spencer’s coming out of the closet. In spite of herself, Mrs. T lets out a shrill giggle before hastily covering it with a cough.
A new neighbour has apparently moved in a few doors down. I am surprised it has taken Mrs. T as long as three days after Nicholas Payne moved in to find something about him. Rumour has it that Nicholas Payne just got released from St. Patrick’s, after years of hospitalization for three suicide attempts. No one, not even Mrs. T (much to her dismay), knows where he lived before St. Patrick’s or if he has any family.
Mrs. T says she would be very surprised if Betty Turner, the biggest flirt in the neighbourhood, hasn’t already knocked on Nicholas Payne’s door with a welcome gift. That Betty Turner will bat her eyelashes at even Mr. Spencer, says Mrs. T, wagging a disapproving finger.
“Speaking of which,” and Mrs. T lowers her voice to a theatrical whisper, asking her avid listeners if they are ready for the biggest piece of gossip yet.
The women’s eyes widen with curiosity.
Mrs. Next Door, also in a hushed voice, asks if this news is bigger than the time when the Spencers adopted an Asian daughter years back because Mrs. Spencer was infertile. Mrs. T gives her a meaningful nod. In fact, she adds in a maddeningly mysterious tone, this is bigger than the time Mrs. Nanako cashed the entire sum from her late husband’s life insurance money and burned the heap of bills in her garden.
Mrs. T lets her audience hold its breath for a few more seconds, clearly relishing in the effect that she has created in the room.
Finally, she looks left and right to make sure no one is around, ignores my presence, and whispers triumphantly that someone in the neighbourhood has been having an affair with Betty Turner. The two women exchange looks and gasp dramatically. Mrs. T continues to say that she overheard Mrs. Gonzalez telling Mrs. Howard at the supermarket line-up that she’s seen a man visiting Betty Turner’s house late at night every day for the last month. Mrs. T leans in closer and whispers that judging by the startled look on Mrs. Howard’s face, Mrs. T is certain that the man in question is Jackson Howard from down the street. The Howards have not been quite the same since Jackson Howard got fired last month.
The three sparrows outside make a racket, shrieking excitedly and flitting from one branch to another. Diverted, Mrs. T looks out through the window and spots Patrick Gonzalez walking down the street. Seizing on this fresh new target, Mrs. T lets out a small sympathetic sigh before eagerly explaining that Patrick Gonzalez proposed to his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day but she left him the next morning and returned the ring. It was a two-carat diamond ring, too. According to Patrick Gonzalez’s mother, the only thing he has swallowed since is water and the diamond ring. The man lost seventeen pounds.
“If poor Patrick can’t meet another girl,” Mrs. T adds with a wink, “there’s always Betty Turner.”
Patrick Gonzalez’s girlfriend isn’t the only one to run off. With a knowing nod, Mrs. T recounts our neighbourhood’s history. First, there was Jackson Howard’s son who ran away two years ago; Jackson Howard always dreamed of his son working at the bank, like he did, and his father did, and his grandfather did. But his son was never very good with numbers; he was always strumming his guitar and writing songs in the basement. And then of course, there was Mrs. Nanako who went gaga after her husband died, says Mrs. T, clicking her tongue. Although this is the second mention of Mrs. Nanako’s name, all of my hair stands up again and I let out a low, angry hiss. Mrs. Nanako evaporated from the neighbourhood a year ago after killing the five cats she had bought after her husband’s death. She is in St. Patrick’s now, Mrs. T adds. Good, I think with a shudder. Mrs. Nanako’s name is taboo among us neighbourhood cats.
Fortunately, Mrs. T changes topics quickly. She observes that Betty Turner didn’t always have looks like she does now. Mrs. T gleefully reminisces how Betty Turner used to have braces, glasses, and a hideous wardrobe back in high school and how she had no friends. She was a nobody, emphasizes Mrs. T with cruel satisfaction in her voice. Mrs. T, on the other hand, was captain of the cheerleading team and met her darling Mr. Tretiyakova at Crescent High as well. But then that Betty Turner left town and came back five years later with a new wardrobe, new nose, and new everything that modern medical cosmetics technology offered.
The phone rings and Mrs. T excuses herself from the tea table to answer the phone. As soon as she leaves the room, I hear Mrs. Next Door whispering something to Mrs. Across The Street. I inch closer to the tea table to listen in.
“Dear, dear. Poor Mrs. T. How on earth can she be so clueless? When she finds out that the man in the middle of the scandal is not Jackson Howard,” she shakes her head before muttering, “but that ‘darling’ husband of hers she worships…”
“Hush! I think I hear her coming back,” whispers Mrs. Across The Street frantically, pressing her finger to her lips. The two women quickly raise their cups and pretend to sip the tea.
Mrs. T waltzes back into the living room and informs her guests that the phone call was from her darling Mr. Tretiyakova who will be leaving on an urgent business trip to Chicago and will not be coming home for the weekend.
“It’s the promotion, you know,” says Mrs. T importantly, puffing up her chest with affectionate pride, “They’ve been keeping him ever so busy.”
Shortly afterwards the two guests announce it is time for them to pick up their sons from soccer practice. As I watch the two women head for the door, it strikes me how their retreating backs curiously resemble those of vultures.
Mrs. T trots back into the living room after she sees the women out. She sits down again and sips her tea, stares at the clock, sips tea, stares at the clock. It is 5 o’ clock. For the first time in hours, the house is completely and eerily silent. Perhaps unable to stand the silence, Mrs. T strides to the kitchen and I hear loud clanging, banging, and the sound of opening and shutting drawers. She comes back with a nearly empty bottle of vodka and pours what is left of it into her teacup with trembling hands.
I slip out of the room, as quietly as I had come in. I look out the window again. Only one of the three sparrows remains perched on a nearby branch. Dusk descends. Slowly and softly, the darkness masks the lonely, fading silhouette of the bird and the wind picks up, muffling its feeble, melancholy song.
