The Wescotts
Mr. Wescott was a normal man in every regard.
Each morning, he woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon wafting up from the kitchen, where Mrs. Wescott was busy at work.
After a good shave, and quick comb-over of the bit of hair that remained on top of his head, heād tighten his tie, fold his collar down and smooth it out, and head down to the kitchen where his chair, breakfast, and newspaper were waiting for him.
His wife would greet him with a smile, and heād give her a kiss on the cheek as he sat down and flipped to the business section. After some crunching, sipping, and page turning, Mrs. Wescott would grab his now empty plate and mug, and heād give her another kiss, on the lips this time, before heading out to the driveway.
His silver Lexus gleamed in the morning sun, and he looked at it proudly. Sure, it was over a decade old now, and sure, it was starting to show some wear and tear ā as was Mr. Wescott ā but he was proud of this car. The first thing he bought after his promotion to executive.
He adjusted his mirror, though it hadnāt been touched since the last time he adjusted it, and as he reversed down the driveway he waved to Mrs. Wescott, who had just come out, watering can in hand, to nourish her own shining achievement ā her rose garden. She smiled and waved back, and watched as he stopped at the stop sign, and turned left out of the neighborhood.
She turned back to her rose bushes still smiling and gave a little shake of her head. She had enjoyed 30 wonderful years with her husband and was hoping for as many more. Although, at their age it felt like a flip of a coin whether you had 30 more years, or only three. Either way, sheād be grateful. He was a great man, excellent father, and now grandfather, and she felt lucky to have a man whose only fault, if you could call it that, was that he worked too hard.
Which is why she was willing to look past the late nights at the office, the work trips, and how long it took him to fix things around the house. He was a proud man and wouldnāt dream of calling a repairman for a job he could ājust as easily do himselfā. So, she didnāt complain that it took him weeks to fix the leaky faucet, or that it took him four months to build the wooden garden bed her roses now called home. She didnāt even complain about the rats in the basement, but the smell... that was too much for even the saintly patient Mrs. Wescott.
Mr. Wescott would often come home late from work and lock himself down there, working late or tinkering with his projects, so he didnāt notice the smell at first ā Spend too long in the stink and your nose ignores it. But when the smell got worse she complained, and he got to work the same day: laying traps, spraying deodorizers, and assuring her he would take care of it. This rat removal project was all on him. Mrs. Wescott hadnāt been in the basement since they moved in, and she certainly wasnāt going down now.
But weeks went by, and the smell got worse, working its way up the stairs and into the living and dining rooms. He again assured her he would take care of it, but she was growing impatient, which is why, for the only time in their 30 years together, she betrayed his trust.
A van pulled up in front of the house, and Mrs. Wescott felt a tinge of guilt as she pulled off her gloves and shook hands with the stocky man in front of her. He grabbed some things from the back of his van, and she pointed the exterminator to the solid metal basement doors on the side of the house. The ones she had unlocked right after her husband left. He swung open the heavy doors with ease and got to work.
Mrs. Wescott felt terrible, but her guilt couldnāt outweigh her disgust for the smell, and the idea of those rats down there, scratching around in the walls. Sheād keep this little secret, and her husband would never have to know someone else did āhis workā. Sure, he wouldāve done it eventually, but she couldnāt wait. As far as betrayals go, she thought, this isnāt so bad.
Just then, the exterminator called to her. She went to the entrance and called back, but he didnāt reply. Leaning toward the darkness, she could hear him breathing ā rapid and shallow ā and worried he may be hurt. So, for the second time on that warm August day, she broke her norm and, placing a hand against the cold basement wall to steady herself, made her way down the stairs.
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The Wescotts were the kind of neighbors everyone hopes for: quiet, kind, considerate. Which is why the flashing red and blue lights outside their house made the small neighborhood especially curious, and it wasnāt long before a crowd had formed. When Mr. Wescott himself pulled up, he saw the lights and assumed the worst. His judgment got away from him, and he could only think something mustāve happened to his wife. He ran up to the house as fast as his old legs would take him, and only then did he realize.
In the seconds that followed, Mr. Wescott noticed the van, the taped off entrance toward the basement doors, and the faint sound of his wifeās cries, muffled by the shoulder of a stocky stranger in coveralls. When she saw him, she let out a scream that ripped through the quiet neighborhood and frightened the onlookers. The police approached Mr. Wescott, who stood frozen in the grass. Not saying a word. Not even blinking.
The sound of the sirens and chatter of the crowd merged, as Mr. Wescott sat handcuffed in the back of the cruiser. He stared at his perfectly shined shoes, ignoring the nosy faces peering into the car. A few honks, and the sea of people parted as the cruiser slowly crept forward, taking him away from a house he would never call home again.
And even as they approached the stop sign at the end of the street, through the sirens and the murmurs, he could still hear her screams.
āThey were in the walls! My God they were in the walls!ā