I Knew

Her name was Mrs. Hildebrecht, that, everybody knew. She was an old-fashioned woman, and never introduced herself by “Mary” or “Jane.” Always Mrs. Hildebrecht. Who or where Mr. Hildebrecht was, nobody could find out. But I knew.
Some said she'd married a sailor with a girl at every port, and when he grew old he chose a different dock to stop at. Most believed he died in the war. This hypothesis was the closest to the truth.
The war killed him—he was dead. Tormented in his dreams by the horrible memories of terror, he remained a breathing dead man, lying in his bed, never moving. My visits with him consisted of silence between us, but Mrs. Hildebrecht, ever content in her care, prattled on about her latest shopping expeditions, how the cherry trees were blossoming up at the parsonage, or how the new ice cream shop on 95th street had surpassed her expectations. Every once in a while, her gaze fell on her husband's misery, and her normally sunny face would melt into pain and concern but as suddenly as it came, it would pass, as she endeavored to remain cheerful.
Every day, she kissed his stone face, and walk out for her errands. Every day, she would walk by my house, occasionally plucking a dead flower off the hedge and waving to me as she walked on. Every day but Sundays, that is. My aunt felt bitterly about her hedges, always remarking, “That woman thinks she is something special.” I tried to ignore the scorn, and never replied.
Later in the afternoon, she would come by again. To my aunt, she was an unreasonably merry widow with no sensibilities about pruning other people's bushes. To me, who knew her burden, she was a reason to smile. She was a delightful contradiction. In her gray silk blouse and heavy black skirt, a small hat balancing on her white head...her favorite ice cream smeared on her face, a smudge of her favorite lipstick evident on one side of her ice cream cone...as she skipped home in her elderly fashion—I couldn't make her out, though I knew her better than most.
One evening, I received the call. I rushed over as soon as I could, but I knew it would be too late. Her dead husband had entered life. Somehow he looked no different lying there, but Mrs. Hildebrecht, for once, silent—she would never look the same, I knew it.
In fact, after the funeral, nobody ever saw old Mrs. Hildebrecht. But I did. Nobody knew what happened, and nobody seemed to want to know. But I knew.
I would look out my window frequently, expecting her to see her, but in a strange paradox, I felt deeply that she would never be there, and the dead blooms hung off the hedges unaccosted. My aunt looked at her precious hedges daily, and it took two years before she observed coldly,
“Old Mrs. Hildebrecht must have died.”
“She did.” It was the first I'd responded to a comment about her.
I knew. I watched her die.