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Mr. Heavyfoot busied himself with the telescope until the doorbell rang. It was the police officer who had been there the last time.
Mrs. Heavyfoot noted the frown on the police officer’s face as she entered the room.
“I need to speak to your husband,” she said.
Mrs. Heavyfoot said, “He’s just out on the balcony. I’ll get him.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll come to him.” Having said that, the officer strode across the room and stepped onto the balcony.
Mr. Heavyfoot was caught.
The officer told him, “There have been complaints of your invading the neighbors’ privacy, with your telescope.”
“Oh, my,” said Mr. Heavyfoot. There wasn’t much else for him to say.
Mrs. Heavyfoot listened and watched these goings on, with a sad heart. She was disappointed in her husband and she felt a fool for not noticing his behavior.
The officer read him his rights, and handcuffed him. He was taken away, much to the consternation of his wife.
He was home again by the next day. He had to pay a fine, and was prohibited from spying on the neighbors.
As Mrs. Heavyfoot confronted him about his snooping, she sobbed and refused to let him comfort her.
“You are the cause of my upset,” was all she would say to him.
Mr. Heavyfoot hung his head and apologized, but it didn’t help.
“I want us to go home. Back to the homestead,” she said. After the visit from the neighbors Mrs. Heavyfoot had felt out of place and she realized now that her true home was in the bush. Her heart belonged to the wild.

Mr. Heavyfoot was already walking towards the balcony, where the telescope was, and he said over his shoulder, “No, I want to stay here.”
Mrs. Heavyfoot picked up the heavy lamp that sat on the coffee table. She struck Mr. Heavyfoot with its base.
He dropped to the floor. She hit him again, and then once more, just because she could.
Having done that, she muttered over his body, “You won’t be looking at that woman again.”
There were blood spatters on her hands and on her shirt. She wiped her fingerprints from the lamp, and cleaned herself up.
She packed her things. She took the telescope as an afterthought. She took a cab to the service station where the tractor was stored. She settled up with Ernie Watts and piled her belongings in the wagon. She drove to town and picked up some supplies. The town gossip, Alex Handle, was in the store. He asked where Mr. Heavyfoot was and Mrs. Heavyfoot told him that her husband had stayed in the city.
“So you’re back and he’s not?”
“Looks that way,” said Mrs. Heavyfoot shortly. Then she went out to the tractor and drove to the homestead.
She would be happy, she thought, without her spying spouse. And best of all, she could stomp around the old wooden shack as much as she wished, with no one to complain. That was freedom. That was joy.

Of course, she was the prime suspect in the death of Mr. Heavyfoot. and the local sheriff arrived to question her soon after she got home. He was a kindly old man, and he didn’t care to delve too deeply into her actions prior to coming back to the homestead. He wrote a report, suggesting that Mr. Heavyfoot was dead due to an altercation with some unknown person, and that was that. In the city, the police had other matters to attend to, since there was a gang war going on. That took precedence over the death of Mr. Heavyfoot.
Mrs. Heavyfoot sold the apartment to a couple who planned to rent it out through AirBnB. She got a nice tidy sum that would supply her needs for a very long while.
And so, Mrs. Heavyfoot got away with it. At night, she would sometimes go outside, bundled in her coat and look up at the stars. For here, unlike in the city, she could see them. She rather liked the telescope for star gazing.
Mr. Enders, from the next homestead over, had been coming for dinner for a time, and he helped her with some of the heavy work. She thought that he might be husband material. On the whole, her life was good.

The End

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