The Thing Bugging Mrs. Watanabe-Watts

The lady kicked off her garden sandals and stood barefoot, finding the coolness of the rock surface soothing. A particular image was clouding her thoughts. It was the picture of the birch-coloured wooden knife holder on her kitchen countertop. Her hand had reached out, grasped and pulled the black handle of the largest knife there. With the whole knife extracted, it’s serrated edges appeared dirtied by ruby red streaks. Blood. She was certain of it.

Mrs. Watanabe-Watts stepped back from the brink, with no recollection of what the knife might have been used for. For what purpose, or on whom. Her husband of thirty-five years, Morley Watts PhD, as far as she could recall, was safely asleep upstairs in their bed. She did not remember using the knife on him.It was Sunday evening and their week would begin tomorrow. She had her book club appearance followed by a meeting with a potential publisher. Using a pen-name, she’d already produced a modestly successful collection of short stories and hoped soon, to have her name on the cover of a quaint murder mystery. Morley would be teaching at the University. African-American studies by an African-American lecturer married to a Japanese-American woman.

Her husband, as far as she could recall, was safely asleep upstairs in their bed. She did not remember using the knife on him.

Nothing happened Sunday. But Saturday night was a different matter. There was the little dinner party which she’d organised at home. It had been quite a pleasant event. Did something happen then that had escaped her attention? Who exactly was present? Did someone use the knife for some reason? On someone or something?

The guests had arrived in pairs and all had dined together in the garden where she’d set the table. No one had wandered off alone except for washroom visits. Didn’t someone carry drinks into the living room after dinner and a small group gathered there to chat later? Mrs. Watanabe-Watts had preferred instead to remain in the garden, letting the night breeze continually caress her face as she listened and punctually laughed to the amusing stories coming out of Mr. Jacobson, the guest of honour.

The students – what were their names? were they twins? a pretty pair of girls they were, invited by darling Morley – did not contribute much but were attentive listeners and polite to boot. They’d gone to the living room and a small group had trailed them.

And didn’t everyone gather right at the end for a round of drinks and to formally bid farewell to Mr. Jacobson before he embarked on what he called ‘possibly the last tour of the Indian subcontinent’ he will undertake in this life and that he planned to return as a Hindu in the next one so he’d spend more time there ? She remembered there was a wait to ensure that everybody was present for the evening’s final toast. She couldn’t think of any one person absent from the scene.

Shortly thereafter, came the boisterous goodnight hugs and farewells. She recalled the pleased departees, exiting an evening of good food, wine and company. Did she see everyone out? She tried counting off the faces by memory but she’d forgotten the actual number invited to the party.

This is so bloody frustrating ! She half-considered marching back into the house and upstairs to rouse poor Morley. He’d remember exactly who’d been there, who’d said what and any other detail she cared to ask. But really, should she wake him up now? Over this trifle? What if it’s not a trifle? A fresh breeze caressed her cheeks and the smooth rock beneath her feet cradled her steadily. She looked down and saw the koi pond, and suddenly remembered exactly where she was.

Stepping off the rock, reaching down to pick up her sandals, Mrs. Watanabe-Watts gingerly walked across the tiny rainbow of a bridge that ran over the pond, stepped barefoot onto the dewy grass and headed to the open, rear door of the house, passing the exact spot where the dinner table had been, under the stars, the previous night.

As she entered the lighted kitchen – she must have left the lights on when she went out – she noticed the birch-coloured wooden knife holder beneath the overhead lamp, as if under stage lights, to concentrate an audience’s focus at a crucial stage of the drama. She paused. Has the house ever been this silent? Even the crickets had shut up shop. Upstairs, Morley would have tossed and turned umpteen times and taken up her half of the bed. The soothing effects of the night air, the feel of the chilly rock beneath her and the barefooted traipse through the dark garden, all had dissipated quickly. Mrs Watanabe-Watts approached the kitchen counter and stood with her hand poised over the largest handle sticking out of the knife holder.

After taking a moment to steel herself, she gripped the handle and pulled the knife out slowly, deliberately standing in a position that allowed the overhead lamp to fully shine on the blade and confirm if it was indeed bloody.