The Irrelevant Woman

Experiments show that our senses only detect a tiny portion of what's out there. Worse, our brains manage to process just a fraction of that.

It's astonishing how much escapes our notice - and escapes it so completely that we don't even realize we missed anything. Surely it wouldn't take much to exploit those limitations...

(This story takes place in the "Newer Universe" series.)

Whatever the girl was thinking about, it purely wasn't the groceries she was ringing up.

"Excuse me," Mary said.

The clerk kept grabbing items and typing in the prices.

"Excuse me," Mary said said again, a bit more loudly.

The girl looked almost startled, as if the register or a box of cookies had suddenly spoke up. "I'm sorry?" she asked.

"You rang up my corn twice."

The girl stared for a moment, then ran her finger up the tape coming from the register. She then turned and looked at the clot of foodstuffs at the end of the belt - apparently to count cans. Sullenly, she pulled the microphone to her mouth and called for a manager. Once the sale was voided, the girl silently went back to processing the order. And then bagged it all silently, too.

No one offered to help Mary load the groceries into her car. Martha Brady and Patty-Jo Waller were chatting in front of the exit door; she had to wait quietly for them to notice her and move out of the way.

She piled it all in the trunk of the rusted Nova, and got it started up on the second try. Switching on the radio, she carefully pulled out of the lot.

As she made her way home, she noticed Annabelle on the sidewalk, and almost honked. The girl looked her way - for a moment Mary was sure she looked right in her eyes - but she moved on, and the car passed her. Oh, well, why should the girl even have the time for a middle-aged housewife, outside of choir practice?

Her path took her by the church where their choir sang. She took note of the sign out front: "THE LORD LOOKETH FROM HEAVEN; HE BEHOLDETH ALL THE SONS OF MEN." - PSALM 33:13

Pastor Collins was still on about that "White Event". Not three months ago everything had lit up for a few moments, bright as could be, everywhere on Earth. Many people took it as a sign the End Times had begun - Collins among them. Mary just held to Matthew 24:36, "But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only."

The radio people were talking about an earthquake, in some place called "San Salvador". Or maybe "El Salvador". It seemed like both, or something. Just for a moment, she wondered if the pastor might not have the right idea.

Her own worries took over as she turned onto their street, and searched their driveway with her eyes. Mary sighed with relief as she pulled into the garage. Hobart's car wasn't there. If only she could put away the groceries before he got home...

She compared prices, waited for deals, clipped coupons. He still always chewed her out about how much she spent on food. Yet there was plenty of money for beer, or bowling shoes, or paint for his car. If he didn't see her putting it all away, she wouldn't have to hear him go on about it. Or feel him take it out of her hide.

She started by lugging the milk into the kitchen. Even in early October, dew beaded like sweat on their sides. Cold never really hit Georgia until January or so. Maybe December.

As it turned out, she had plenty of time. He didn't show at all, the whole time she was stowing things away, and she got started on dinner. Meatloaf was a safe choice. Hobart never complained about her meatloaf, which was the closest thing to praise that came from him anymore.

It was hard to remember ever loving him. She could recall bare facts - being excited for the wedding, going off on their honeymoon. But the feeling had drained away a long time ago. Even her memories were in black and white. All that was left were smoldering embers of fear and resentment and well-banked, carefully-hidden hate.

She had dinner ready by six. But there was no sign of Hobart. A quarter after, she had a sinking feeling, which had turned into a sick depression by half past. He'd gone for a beer with the boys, or some such thing, and hadn't bothered to let her know. Anxiously she checked the answering machine again, but there was no message.

At seven she surrendered hope, and ate standing up, even as she rushed to get the plates and leftovers put away. There was no way around it, it would be a bad time when he got home. He'd scream about her wasting food, no matter that he hadn't called her. No matter that he'd have screamed just as loud if he'd got home from the plant and dinner wasn't on the table.

The most she could hope for was that he'd be too drunk to think about it until the morning. She couldn't be lucky enough for him to get so drunk he'd kill himself on the road home.

It wasn't much after eight when she heard the car door slam outside. Earlier than she'd expected. Maybe even his "friends" had ditched him.

Mary stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for tomorrow's casserole. The accustomed tension spread across her back as the key turned in the back door lock. He walked in and made an unconscious sniff when he caught sight of her.

"I missed you at dinner," she said quietly, not looking up.

"I got dinner out. Me and Barry and Hitch went over to Lula."

"Oh." She knew what that meant. A bar there. They went because it got a younger crowd, even some college kids. She didn't even care anymore about Hobart eying girls half his age. It was just that he'd come home to her, and she wouldn't measure up. And he'd blame her.

"Is that meatloaf I smell?" It had started. She risked a quick glance at his face. His expression belonged on an angry grade schooler, maybe even a kindergartener. Not a canning plant worker pushing fifty. Not a tall man with thinning and graying hair, a broad beer belly, and rosacea-ruddy cheeks.

She sensed the fearful, pleading tone creeping into her voice, and hated herself for it. "I thought you were coming home after work. I thought you'd like..."

"I never said I was coming straight home! Christ, it's Friday night! I don't need your damn permission to go out with my friends!"

Right, it was her fault she'd assumed he'd come home for dinner like he did nine times out of ten, even on Fridays. "Of course not, I just thought..." She shrank in on herself, but she was facing him now. She'd need to see when he started hitting.

He bellowed. "You 'thought'! You don't think, you do what I say, woman!" He pulled back his hand. From long experience, she instantly judged how far. The smack would be about average, she saw, and on her cheek. One followup, maybe two. Then, most likely, he'd have worked it off. Some crack about her hair or her spending or some other nonsense, and then he'd go watch TV. She'd probably have to muster up some tears, prove he'd hurt her; actual sobs shouldn't be needed, though. Just enough to make sure he didn't decide to...

Finally she realized the blow hadn't landed.

He just stood there, hand in the air, such an expression of... of...stupid befuddlement on his face that, despite the fear that was almost comfortable, despite all her instincts, she had to desperately struggle not to laugh.

"Mary?" he called out uncertainly. "Where'd you go, woman?" He sounded strange.

Her mouth fell open in pure confusion. What was he on about? She hadn't moved an inch.

He wouldn't look her in the eye. His head darted around, searching. "Where the hell..." he muttered. Then he leaned around to look behind her. Her heart froze, along with her body. The skin of her arms, the back of her neck, sprung out in goose-pimples. If he was angry enough to taunt her, tease her... this might be a memorable beating indeed.

But he just walked past her, over to the doorway into the living room, still hunting. "Mary Giselle Watson, you get your ass back in this kitchen right now!"

She'd hunched over, frightened. "I'm right here, Hobart," she said, somewhat tentatively.

He turned around, and she flinched. But he walked past her again to the back door, and opened it to search the backyard. "Mary?!" he yelled. "How... where the hell are you at?!" She finally placed that odd undertone in his voice.

Fear. He was afraid.

She'd heard suppressed fear in his voice before. Talking about his job or his boss, or sucking up to police officers when pulled over for speeding. She'd just never heard it when he was giving her orders. It made a very strange, unnerving contrast. Especially because he tended to hit her more when he was afraid.

He waited a moment longer, then hollered, "You get your ass back in here right quick, or I'll tan your hide! You'll be black and blue, y'hear?!"

She spoke up again, against her better judgment. Whatever game he was playing, she just wanted it done. "Hobart, I'm right here."

He didn't respond to her. A moment later he slammed the door. He stormed over to the fridge, pulled out a beer, and marched into the living room. She heard the TV come on.

Mary just stood in the kitchen. Completely bereft of any explanation, of any notion what was going on.

It felt like a couple minutes passed. Eventually she went into the bathroom and stared in the mirror at her own reflection. There she was, the same face she saw every morning and night. She wasn't see-through or anything.

It was a tired face. A timid face. Rounder than times gone by; short dirty-blonde hair framing it. She'd never liked her large nose, but once upon a time she'd thought her green eyes were her best feature. Back when they'd had some life in them. Before they stared at the floor in shame around other people.

Her figure had broadened, too. She looked so... plain, so average. An overweight, middle-aged housewife. Socially invisible, maybe. But not physically so.

She walked back out to the living room. Hobart sat on the couch, watching some baseball game, holding his bottle of beer.

"Hobart?" she said quietly. He didn't stir. He just frowned at the screen.

On a wild impulse, she walked over and stood on the other side of the coffee table, between him and the TV. He scowled, and leaned to one side. She shifted to her left, to get in his way again. He leaned the other way, still frowning. His eyes never once focused on her.

Giddy, disbelieving, she backed up and parked her rear right up against the screen. It felt warm, and a little static crackled as the fabric of her skirt touched the glass.

Letting out a bark of frustration, he stood up and charged toward her. The glare on his face... she quailed inside. But her instincts were to freeze, and she did. He strode up... and banged on the side of the TV. "Piece a' crap! What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he shouted. He craned his head, still trying to see around her. He grabbed the dial, clicked through to another channel. "Shit!" he yelled. He reached past her to fiddle with the antenna.

With another "Shit!" he gave up. Then he looked down at his beer. It was unopened. He must be rattled to forget that! she thought absently. He stalked away, toward the kitchen, muttering angrily to himself. She just stood there, and heard him rustle in a drawer, then the pop-fizz of the bottle being opened. As he walked back into the living room, she shifted away from the TV.

He stared at the screen. "Oh, you decided to work, eh? Ain't that always the fucking way." He sat back down in his usual place, where his hiney had worn a permanent dent in the cushions.

Mary was well-trained in reading Hobart's mood. Like an Indian judging the weather from the small signs in the wind and sky. He was ill-at-ease, upset. And yes, definitely a little frightened.

She stepped closer, carefully. He gave no sign he noticed her approach. Before long she stood next to the couch, staring down at him. Angry now, bold beyond reason, she reached down and tipped the beer into his lap.

He howled and swore and stood up, wiping frantically at his pants. But he made no move to strike her. He actually walked around the coffee table to get to the bathroom, instead of barreling through where she stood.

Utterly at a loss, Mary stepped away. Hobart came back, rag dabbing the wet spot on his pants. He seemed to be hunting for signs of anything out of place. It was plumb foolish how his gaze just slid past her, unseeing.

No, it wasn't that he couldn't see her. He couldn't... recognize that he saw her. It was like she was just a... a piece of furniture. Something ignored, inconsequential, unimportant. Something beneath notice.

Something you couldn't notice?

Numb, she decided to go for a walk. She caught herself trying to come up with an excuse to give Hobart... but then, half-convinced the strange spell would be broken, she just walked out the front door without permission. But no shouts followed. She ambled along their street, trying to figure out what on Earth was happening.

She wondered if Hobart had been bewitched or something. It made no Earthly sense. She knew he wasn't joking. That wasn't his kind of humor at all. He didn't... he wasn't smart enough to think of a prank like that. Let alone keep it up. It was all just beyond her.

It had been a long time since she'd gone for a walk in the evening. Hobart didn't enjoy walks, and when he was home she was expected to be around to fetch him beer or listen to him complain or absorb a smack or three. She'd almost forgotten what it was like, the cool breeze starting to blow, the dusk making everything look just a touch fuzzy, just slightly magical.

Turning the corner, she surveyed ahead down the way. The Weathers' house caught her eye.

Insight struck her like a thunderbolt. Old Jody Weathers had suffered a stroke back in '83. He'd never recovered, never been the same again. Some of his quirks would have been funny if they weren't so sad. His left side barely moved, and his left eye drooped, but that wasn't the worst part. The funny thing was, he never saw the left side of things.

His wife Sadie would put a plate of food in front of him, and he'd only eat what was on the right. It didn't matter if it was liver on the right, and ice cream on the left, he'd ignore - plumb couldn't see - the left side of the plate. If Sadie spun the plate, though, he'd see what he'd missed before. And no longer saw what he'd been eating just a moment ago. What had the doctor called that? Something 'neglect'. 'Hemi-something neglect'.

It was like Hobart had 'Mary neglect' now. Like he couldn't even process that she was there.

A stroke! Hobart had had a stroke. A... weirdly specific stroke? That didn't mess up how he moved, or talked? Or anything but seeing his wife?

She'd never heard of such a thing. Then again, until Old Jody had his stroke she'd never heard of 'neglect', either. Whatever else could it be?

She turned in and walked up to the Weathers' porch. Maybe she could talk to Sadie for a spell. Get some idea what to do, who to call. She pushed the doorbell and waited, trying to figure out how to tell Sadie about it in a way that wouldn't make her sound crazy.

The porch light flicked on, and Sadie pulled the door open. She peered out uncertainly. "Hello?" she called.

"Hi, Sadie. I'm sorry to trouble you, but..."

She broke off at the blank expression her neighbor wore. The woman leaned out the door and peered about the yard. Just like Hobart, Sadie cocked her head to see around Mary. "Hello?" she called out, again, a bit louder.

Mary, poleaxed, watched numbly as Sadie muttered, "Damn kids..." and closed the door. She heard sounds of Sadie walking away down the hall.

Slowly, feeling dizzy, she sat down on the porch. Had everyone suddenly come down with 'Mary neglect'?

It had been a bizarre evening. She'd ended up walking downtown, mingling with the crowd. Nobody had reacted to her at all. She'd shouted, jumped, even danced down the sidewalk. The people near her had conversed a bit louder, not even seeming conscious that they were trying to talk over her.

Finally she'd grabbed a giant radio off a young man's shoulder and dashed it to the ground. He'd gaped and his friends had had a good laugh at his clumsiness. Not a one of them looked her way.

After that she'd just put one foot in front of the other, numb. Her meanderings took her near the high school and she sat down on the bleachers by the football field.

There was no way to get a handle on this. The whole town was giving her the silent treatment. The whole world, for all she knew. Unable to imagine what she could do about it, she'd fallen to musing about more familiar problems.

She hadn't liked high school at the time, but its luster had grown over the years. She'd been a bit of a wallflower then, too. But she'd had some friends, some social life. There had been a sense of possibility back then. She might have done any number of things. Gotten a job, traveled. If nothing else, she could have married someone besides Hobart. He'd been handsome once, and had a fast car, and lettered on the baseball team.

So many chances she'd missed. She'd been a good girl, and saved herself for marriage. For Hobart, who'd climb onto her and pump a few times and leave her with a mess. Surely there was better out there. Some women cheated on their husbands - they didn't do it for a lover like Hobart.

A giggle carried on the breeze, interrupting the familiar, comforting funk she'd fallen into. A boy and a girl were strolling by the fence, holding hands.

Was that Annabelle? And Jimmy Kowalski, Patricia's boy? Where were they going? Under the bleachers?

Even back in her day, it had been a spot for making out. She just couldn't believe... Annabelle?! Maybe the girl didn't know what she was getting into.

She sat there for a few minutes, shocked. Such a sweet girl, active in the church, good family. Surely it was more innocent than it looked... if only she dared check...

Visions welled up; Hobart, looking past her. Sadie turning away unseeing. Pedestrians ignoring her.

She crept down the steps and followed the couple into the dark space.

Annabelle looked anything but innocent. Her hair was down and she panted like a marathon runner even as she exchanged slurpy kisses with Jimmy. She was backed up against some supports. Her left leg was raised, foot resting on a shin-high crossbeam. The better to allow Jimmy to get his hand up her skirt.

Mary gasped loudly. Then, panicked, her hand shot up up to cover her mouth. But they didn't even pause. Jimmy moved in close; his other arm wrapped around Annabelle's back, pulling her tight.

The girl whimpered a little, back arching into his embrace. Her breath sped up even more. Jimmy kept going for a couple more minutes, seemingly determined. Then he shifted his hand down there, and seemed to be moving the tips of his fingers rapidly back and forth.

Annabelle's high-pitched moans were muzzled only slightly by Jimmy's tongue. Mary had faked a few orgasms, way back when Hobart still troubled to care, and she could see this wasn't for show. At all.

The girl's writhing settled down, and Jimmy drew his hand back. Annabelle seized him and kissed him passionately. She looked wild, free. Utterly unlike the reserved, demure young woman Mary knew from church.

It dawned on Mary then, finally, how fast she was breathing, how her heart thudded in her chest. Her underwear felt tight. She was actually getting wet! It had been years! Not since Hobart had thrown out her Harlequins and Silhouettes.