Across the Spectrum (62 page)

Then I started upstairs on quiet feet.

“Don’t forget to put your knife in the dishwasher,” the
house said.

To some questions, house did not require an immediate
answer.

In terms of his eyes, they were blue.

A tear rolls down my mundane cheek.

His chest moves slowly, up and down. His breathing soft,
like a cat.

Denny stirs. Moans slightly.

So they dream.

But what dreams come, I can never know.

There was no such face, ever. Not in my house. Not in my
line. None of my father’s strength. None of my mother’s cleft chin. None of us
were ever so broad-shouldered.

None of us were any good at math.

We were good with people. We were fast runners, me and Dad.

Denny’s a fast runner, too, but different.

One time I visited Dad in the care home. Premature
Alzheimers, they said. It was the last time he’d know my face. Be able to say
my name.

“Carolyn and I are having a baby,” I told him. “It’s going
to be a little boy.”

He took my hand.

“I’m so glad, son,” he said, his brown eyes warm and lucid.
Knowing me and what I said.

I wonder what it will feel like when I’m an old man. Denny
won’t come. I can’t imagine him ever telling me he’s going to have a son.

I dream what it will feel like to look into those ice-blue,
strange eyes.

Just one stroke. Quick. Hard.

Down into his changed heart. The heart of a perfect stranger.

Denny turns and sighs.

Like a vision, I see my dad’s face. He speaks.

Why did you lose us, Gary? Your Mom—me? For this?

He taught me what it was to be a man.

Outside, the rain falls. It’s tapping on the roof like a
hundred little cats running up and down.

I listen.

Then I turn and go on my quiet feet back down the stairs.

∞

Outside, the rain is a cold curtain of ice knifing my
face. I look up, into the clear, black sky. No stars, nothing. Pines shadowed
against the midnight fog.

I know if I just look hard enough,
I’ll find the other half of the football.

Let the sky darken like soot. Let the wind gather.

Let it rain.

For Anthony
Sterling Rodgers

This story received an Honorable Mention from Ellen Datlow in
Year’s Best Horror, 2009.
I love this story
for a number of reasons; it was so easy to write, for one. For another, the
tale references one of my very favorite authors, Shirley Jackson. Her book,
We Have Always Lived in the Castle,
plays a
pivotal role.

∞ ∞ ∞

When Irene died I found more than thirty paperback books
in her bed. I wouldn’t have noticed except I was removing what I thought was a
foam triangle tucked under the head of her mattress, in preparation for
stripping the bed. It was not a foam triangle at all but two pillowcases
stuffed with books.

The funeral home had already removed the body. The family
had gone home and the police had come and gone. For the police to be there was
rather odd because we were a licensed adult family home and people died here
all the time, but because Irene had fallen two weeks ago and the county had
proclaimed a crackdown on elder abuse, the police were notified. I doubted
their interest had anything to do with the increased number of deaths that
occurred here the last several months. Aimee blamed the book club for that. And
here was evidence that the book club was alive and well, despite our efforts to
shut it down.

Holding the two pillowcases I stood still and listened for
Aimee’s footsteps. The hallway outside Irene’s door was quiet. Putting one of
the pillowcases on the floor, I stuck my hand in the other one.

Pulling out a large paperback I looked at the title. I
disliked reading, found words confusing and irritating, especially long words.
This title was easy to understand:
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
. I pondered
whether this might be a children’s book, although I had seen children’s books
before and they were larger with colorful pictures I particularly enjoyed. It
was much easier looking at pictures than trying to figure out what the words
were trying to say.

This book was small and thin. I flipped through the pages
and saw that there weren’t very many lines on each page; that would make it
easier to read. I had to lift up my glasses to read small letters, so I put the
pillowcase on the floor and squinted at the first line on the page.

Just then I heard the clack of Aimee’s boots coming down the
hall. Quick as lightning I shoved the book into the pillow case and kicked it
under the bed, leaning over to make it look as if I was tucking in a clean
sheet.

Later I wondered why I hid the books from her. Before, I
would have proudly exhibited my finds, enjoyed the embarrassment of the unlucky
resident who had tried to hide their books from me.

Aimee scowled at me as she always did. “You need to finish
in this room. Another resident will be moving in tomorrow.” Aimee was a head
shorter than me, wiry thin; she wore her hair piled on her head in complicated
twists to make her look taller. She was a lot older than me but weighed a third
as much. I was a big woman whose scrubs pulled tight against my hips; I was
strong. No matter how much Aimee worked out I could lift her by the hair and
swing her around the room, if I wanted.

But Aimee scared me. So I nodded and pulled the sheets toward
me. Aimee picked up a tissue box and chucked it toward the garbage can, but it
missed. Slowly I picked it up and put it in.

“When you’re done in here Sashi needs help with Mavis,” she
said before she left.

Aimee never called me by name. I wondered if she even
remembered my name, even though I had been here five years. I had been here
longer than anyone else. Staff didn’t stay long at this place.

Stuffing the books in a garbage sack, along with other trash
from the room, I left to help Sashi. Mavis needed to go back to bed; she had
advanced dementia and never spoke and often tried to hit us, but we got her up
every day to sit in the day room. Sashi had the wheelchair ready. Sashi was
lazy and waited while I put Mavis in the chair.

“This one had three books in her potted plant.” Sashi walked
behind me while I pushed Mavis down the hall. Her shoes made sliding sounds on
the wood because she never lifted her feet when she walked. I hated the sounds
her shoes made. “Why does this one need books? She can’t even open her eyes.”

I straightened Mavis’s sheets and laid out clean pads. She
wore diapers but sometimes they leaked. She smelled like this morning’s oatmeal
so I changed her sweater where she had spilled some.

Sashi fingered the old woman’s turtle, a brilliant green
stone with swirls in it. Sashi was fascinated with that turtle Mavis’s daughter
had brought. I didn’t like to touch the patient’s things any more than I had to
because Aimee would accuse me of stealing. A lot of small things had gone
missing lately.

“Did you turn those books in?” I brushed Mavis’s hair and
put some balm on her lips.

Sashi put a bottle of Mavis’s cologne to her nose. “I will.
What is it such a big deal, to have books?”

Shrugging, I pulled the blanket up to Mavis’s shoulders.
“Aimee thinks that if the patients read them, they get ideas. You weren’t here
when Helen tied John up using his bathrobe ties.” Sashi had heard the story
many times. She moved close to me; I could smell spices on her.

Her voice was raspy soft. “You found him. And the book that
made her do it. Why would a book make an old lady tie up an old man? Someone
said you tied him up.”

I had to remember that Sashi liked to say bad things about
people. I didn’t like Sashi. She was hired after Jackson died, crashing his car
on his way home after his shift. I kept my eyes on Mavis’s blanket, soft with
bright colors, reminding me of presents under the Christmas Tree. At least, it
always made me happy to look at it. Mavis’s eyes moved under her lids like cats
under a sheet as I tucked the blanket around her neck. I caught the sudden
glitter of her eyes. Her irises were so brown they seemed like the night sky
filled with planets and stars. Her breathing quickened.

“I’ll throw those books away,” I said, straightening and
rubbing the small of my back which ached worse lately, always tight and
jabbing, especially the right side. Through the window I saw Aimee striding to
the trash cans, carrying the two garbage bags of Irene’s books. I doubted Aimee
looked in the bags. The books were gone now. Sorrow pulsed through me with the
gentle throb of my heart; with each beat, something lost, like bleeding. I
wanted to read more about the cat.

It was time to cut hair, bathe, shower the other residents.
Change beds, get up, put back. It was late before I had a chance to get back to
Mavis, get her up and bring her out for supper. All afternoon I couldn’t stop
thinking about the books in the potted plant.

I went alone to Mavis’s room. The books, three thin
paperbacks—the residents preferred these tiny books, light as feathers and easy
to conceal—were in a brown plastic bag deep in the leaves of the plant.
Listening for anyone coming, I pulled out the first one and looked at the
cover.

It startled me. Dark blue background, a girl staring through
a knothole in a fence, black hair spidery around her; twin spires of a building
behind her made it look as if she had cat ears.

I put my finger to the title and sounded out the letters,
something about a castle. Then I opened it to a random page and read it slowly,
painfully sounding out the first words.

“My name is Mary
Katherine Blackwood.”

My face warmed, a knot twisted in my chest. I remembered how
the other children squirmed and sighed whenever the teacher chose me to read
aloud. Next to me Mavis stirred; I could hear her mouth chewing, as it
sometimes did when she was hungry. I threw the book into the garbage can.

“OK, old girl, up you get.” I got her out of bed into her
wheelchair. Her eyes were open; she turned her head to look at me. I felt
uneasy with her looking. Mavis rarely opened her eyes. I wheeled her to the
door and stopped, thinking Aimee would find the book in the waste can and yell
at me. Turning back, I picked the book up and slid it into the back of my scrub
pants, under my shirt.

I rolled Mavis into the kitchen and the meal went well.
Helen didn’t throw her teeth across the table and Mavis ate all her rice.
Judith sang a song for us after prompting from Aimee. Later we watched a funny
movie on TV where people on a long driving trip yelled at each other. I enjoyed
it, even though I had to get up three times to help people to the bathroom or
turn Susie, who was bedridden and dying. Her son was with her, but he didn’t
like to do much but sit and hold her hand. I couldn’t blame him.

When I went home that night I was bone tired and my back
hurt so much I almost cried, but I took pills and the pain eased. I tried to
read more of the book.

“I am eighteen years
old and I live with my sister Constance. I have often thought that with any
luck at all I could have been born a werewolf.”

That last word was hard. I didn’t understand what it meant.
I did understand how the girl felt, wanting to be someone else, feeling bad
luck put her where she was. In spite of that I felt good about my day, better
than I had in a long time. I wondered if my new feeling had to do with the
book, or if it had something to do with Mavis looking at me as I tucked her in.
I decided I would be nicer to the patients, even though my back hurt. No more
insults or dirty looks. They got enough of that from the other staff. I fell
asleep quickly because of the pain medicine. I didn’t remember much of the book
except a dream I had about a cat in a meadow and a girl burying stones.

∞

My good mood followed me like a faithful dog, even though
I disliked dogs. The girl in the book didn’t like dogs, either. She had a cat
named Jonas. I parked my car at five minutes to three like I always did but the
radio was playing a perky song, so I listened, tapping my feet to the music. My
back didn’t hurt today, either.

I came through the door at precisely three o’clock and the
first person I met was Helen, ambulating with her walker, and she gave me a
sour glance as I passed, and I said, “Hello, Helen. How are you? Your hair
looks very nice,” and I enjoyed her look of surprise. Helen paid a hairdresser
to come in and style her hair into a high orderly mass of white, like an angel
food cake.

All the residents were in the day room and the TV was on.
Sashi lounged on the sofa painting Mavis’s nails. Usually, this practice of
Sashi’s to paint all the ladies’ nails irritated me, but today I thought the
color she had chosen was very pretty, bright and red like garlands. Sashi
ignored me.

Then Aimee stomped in. She nodded sharply at me and slashed
her hand, meaning she wanted me to follow her.

I wondered what I had done now and I followed her down the
stairs to her office. Cherishing my happiness, the bright colors of the walls
and the sweet smell of baking apples for the dessert, I decided that nothing
Aimee could do would harm me. I was as invincible as the summer sun and as
unstoppable as a wind blowing through a canyon.

Aimee circled her desk and sat down. I stood, not having
been offered a seat. There was no place to sit anyway, as all the chairs were
occupied by file boxes and cartons of syringes.

I wondered if she were going to tell me about another death.
Everyone seemed to be accounted for so far. I wondered if Susie had gone in the
night, perhaps. It was long past time for her to die. She had suffered far too
long, in my opinion.

“A private possession of a client has gone missing. Mavis’s
turtle. I wonder if you have seen it anywhere?” Aimee’s voice was blatantly
accusative as always. I was tried and judged and sentenced before I even walked
in the door. Heat warmed my cheeks.