[2016] Slip

by SH Livernois

  "Sir," she said with emphasis as Arthur broke away, distracted by the room and its fascinating trinkets. "We don't need to burden your family. Perhaps you'd be willing to drive us to the next town. Surely there must be a hotel there."

  Pa laughed. "Not in this weather, ma'am. Stony Ridge is the closest town — twenty miles east."

  Harriet recalled the map. That was impossible — she knew the next town, Downing, to be only a couple of miles away.

  Arthur made a lap around the room, picking up items and humming excitedly to himself. He traced his finger along a chair, exclaiming "How remarkable! A Hitchcock, in perfect condition!" The other three watched him with cat-like focus.

  "Well, then, if you and your son-in-law could help us get our car unstuck," and again, she pictured the neat, hidden hole, "then we can get on our way and leave you to your dinner."

  Pa scowled this time, sucking on his pipe. "Car?"

  Arthur now stood at a tall, rough-hewn hutch, filled with red dishes. "Beautiful redware collection!" he said, turning to Zelda, who crooked the corner of her mouth at him. "And you, my dear, what a lovely dress. Did you make it yourself?"

  "Yes, I did, sir."

  "Amazing," he said, reaching out to touch her sleeve.

  "Yes, our car." Harriet's voice found the sharp edge she reserved for people she didn't like. "It's not a difficult job. It would only take a half hour of digging. It'll be done by the time your supper is ready. You must have time for that."

  Arthur ran his hand along the trestle table, muttering "such workmanship" to himself and shaking his head with wonder. Pa waved away Harriet's last suggestion with a thick-fingered hand.

  "It just so happens I don't, in fact. Now don't worry yourself, ma'am. You folks can stay here the night. The last visitor just left, so we have the room, don't we Ma?" She nodded obediently. "Besides, ain't no one around for miles, anyway. We're all there is, I'm afraid, so you might as well stay."

  All there is. Harriet pictured the scene at the crest of the hill, the acres of empty land, not a flickering light to be seen. A slow wave of goose bumps sprouted from her forehead to toes.

  Arthur came out of his reverie. "Are you sure we're not too much trouble for you kind folks?"

  "Not at all," said Pa, sucking once again on his pipe.

  Ma marched forward. She stiffly handed Harriet a wooden lantern with a candle flickering inside.

  "Up the stairs, end of the hall, on the left," she said. Instead of looking at Harriet, her eyes fell on her pearl necklace then to a watch glinting on Arthur's wrist. "Bring the wet clothes down. We'll dry 'em."

  She turned tail and waddled into the kitchen. Pa nodded, grinning. Zelda and Zeke stood in their places, still as statues, eyes fixed on Harriet and Arthur.

  "Thank you, sir." Arthur took Pa's hand and shook it. "What kindness!"

  "But this is an awful burden —" Harriet began.

  "Not'all, not'all." Pa stood and plodded across the wood floors, ushering Harriet and Arthur from the room like cattle, then across the entryway to a stairwell.

  "Come down and join us for dinner in a few minutes, now."

  They climbed narrow, steep stairs into a gush of cold air. The guttering candle barely lit the upstairs hallway, leaving the furthest corners invisible. Harriet spied plank floors, an odd yellow striped wallpaper, doors closed to secret rooms. The tomb-like walls pressed in on her.

  "Last on the left," Arthur called from ahead of her. The familiar shape of his shoulder and back bobbed in the shadows. "Ah! Here it is!"

  A creak sounded behind her. Harriet spun around, lantern aloft, and squinted down the hall. A wispy figure peered out of an open door. Candlelight traced a wrinkled cheek, the curve of a sagging, fleshy neck. The woman shook her head, shrank into the room, and silently closed the door.

  "What a charming little room!" Arthur called.

  She followed his voice, but instinct and dread held her back. Her feet trudged forward as if through water.

  The room was indeed small, with just one window, a narrow bed covered in a jewel-toned crazy quilt, and a dresser. She searched for a door leading into a bathroom, but found none.

  Pain was gnawing a hole from bone to muscle, but there was no way to take a pill without Arthur seeing. He chattered about the wallpaper, the bedpan, the pitcher and ewer, but for Harriet, the room was stifling and growing smaller. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Don't be silly, don't be silly.

  She told herself they drove into a freak storm. That a fire or blight had stolen the color from the landscape. That the old woman was a hallucination.

  Her body told her something else: everything felt strange.

  "We better get out of these wet clothes, Harry." Arthur began rustling through his suitcase. "I hope we get a slice of whatever meat they're roasting. Can you hear my stomach growl? Where is my green sweater? I'd like to look smart tonight."

  Harriet's eyes sprung open to find Arthur in his undershirt and boxers.

  "Darling, we can't stay here," she said.

  "Why not?" His face fell, like a child denied candy.

  This place frightens me came instantly to mind, but she didn't want to say that. It was absurd to be unnerved by a mere feeling.

  "Why wouldn't that man help us? It was perfectly reasonable of me to ask for help digging us out, or a ride, and he had all kinds of clever excuses."

  "Harry, dear, you're too suspicious." He removed his sodden underwear and put on fresh ones.

  "Sometimes it's wise to be suspicious. I don't like these people —"

  "You don't like anyone, dear."

  "That may be true, but I don't like this house, either," she said, her panic overtaking reason. She nearly admitted the silly truth. "It's not very comfortable here, Arthur. What kind of people don't have electricity?"

  "They're survivalists, living on their own terms. Recreating a simpler time! When will we ever meet people like this again?" He put on his pants and zipped them. "Have I ever steered you wrong?"

  Harriet was silent. In those telling couple seconds, Arthur sensed the truth. He took her arms in his hands.

  "Are you having a terrible time, Harry?"

  She shrugged.

  "Don't you enjoy our adventures?"

  Your adventures.

  Arthur's face was the picture of heartbreak. His pouched cheeks sank into a frown, the sparkling brown eyes lost their luster, dulled by concern and fear. Harriet's face warmed as shame surged hot through every vein.

  How could she do this to him? End his dreams, after so little time fulfilling them? She could bite back these ridiculous fears, she could even bite back the pain. She stroked his rough cheek, ran her hand down to his neck, where whiskers scraped her palm.

  "Of course, my darling. I'm just being silly." He placed his warm hand on top of hers. "And I'm a bit tired."

  "Well, once you get into dry clothes and have a hot meal in your belly, you'll feel better." He took her face in his hands and kissed her, softly. "No worries."

  She nodded, unconvinced. Harriet did her best to change into fresh trousers, blouse, and cardigan without screaming out. When she was dressed, she walked to the window. The storm had ushered in clouds so heavy and dark the world seemed shrouded in dusk. The muddy road snaked parallel to the yard. Walking from the direction of their abandoned car, a gray silhouette emerged from the gloom. Something large was tucked under its arm.

  "You ready, Harry?"

  Harriet turned away from the window. Arthur had cracked the door open a hair, an excited smile brightening his face. She nodded. It was time to stop being so suspicious. What was it Arthur always said? You always believe the worst, Harry, and the worst never comes true.

  On the way back down the hall, she stared at the old woman's door, wondering if she imagined the wrinkled face and reedy whisper. For the first time in her life, Harriet hoped she was losing her mind.

  They found the dining room not much changed since they left it. Zelda sa
t in the corner. Ma remained in the kitchen and now stood at a large hutch busying herself. Pa reclined at the trestle table, legs crossed, sucking on his pipe. Zeke was gone. The house whined in the wind.

  "There they are! Just in time for dinner," Pa hollered through a cloud of smoke. "You're in luck. Ma has cooked up something mighty tasty for you kind folks. Special recipe."

  "It smells delicious," Arthur said, rubbing his belly.

  "Tastes delicious, too," Pa said. "Is the room to your liking?"

  "Very much! It's just chock full of beautiful antiques," Arthur said, eyes wide with remembering. "Where do you get them all? Garage sales?"

  Pa leaned back in his chair and puffed again, shaking his head. "Garage sales? I can't make hide nor hair of what you're talking about, friend."

  Ma waddled in from the kitchen to snatch the wet clothes from their hands. She hung them with care over a large drying rack before the fire. Flames undulated along the curve of pant legs, turned the crisp white of Arthur's shirt orange. Harriet stared at the sight, entranced and unnerved.

  Stop being so suspicious.

  "Your house is lovely, if I hadn't said so before. Very rustic and cozy," Harriet said.

  The forced politeness was hollow. Her eyes spotted layers of dust, dirt smeared on the carpet, and that pervasive stench, undercut with the metallic meat odor. Nothing about the place was cozy or normal.

  "Why, thank ye." Pa grinned widely, pipe poking from between his lips. "Sit down, my friends," he said, extending a hand across the table to the seat opposite.

  There, behind the chair, a plain linen sheet had been drawn up to hide the corner. It wasn't there when they arrived, Harriet was sure of it.

  "And I would like you, sir, to take the place of honor." Pa gestured at Arthur. "I usually sit there, but since you're our guest tonight, I insist you do."

  Arthur smiled broadly and rushed to the seat. Few people had given him such an honor. "Well that's very kind of you," he said. Harriet took the one beside him, reassuring herself their hosts were being friendly and accommodating.

  "So tell me, folks, where do you come from?" Pa eased back in his chair.

  "New York — not the city! Everyone always thinks the city," Arthur said. "We live upstate."

  "Upstate, you say? That's mighty far. What brings you all the way up here?"

  "Road trip. I retired a few years ago, and Harriet and I have been visiting places all over the country since."

  "Retired?" A deep wrinkle grew between his eyes. "How you mean?"

  "You know. Stopped working. Started a life of leisure, as they say."

  Pa chuckled. "I don't know nobody who lives a life of leisure, friend." He shook his head. "There's work and death, ain't much in between."

  In the kitchen, Ma hoisted a large slab of meat onto a platter. She stabbed it with one utensil and began to hack at it with a cleaver. The hutch shivered with each strike, pots and dishes clattering.

  "You folks must be rich, seeing as you don't need to work anymore, eh?" Pa said. He leaned forward with a gnarled hand on his chin. His eyes roamed over Harriet and Arthur's bodies. Harriet shivered at his attentions.

  "That's ridiculous!" Harriet huffed and crossed her arms to cover herself. "Comfortable is more the word."

  "Comfortable, eh? Can't say as I've ever been comfortable." Pa pointed at them with his pipe. "And just what kind of lovely things can comfortable get you? I see it buys pretty necklaces? How 'bout a tortoise-shell hair comb? A silver snuff box, perhaps?"

  Ma lifted her cleaver again and brought it down with a smack that rattled Harriet's organs.

  "I doubt that's any of your business, sir." Harriet pursed her lips, sought another conversation topic. One thought pushed to the front. "So, will your mother be joining us for dinner?"

  For a second, Harriet enjoyed a hopeful moment in which Pa scowled at her as if the old woman upstairs didn't exist. The next second, though, he corrected her.

  "Not my mother. My wife's," he said. "And no. I'm afraid the old broad doesn't much like strange company, you see."

  Harriet's stomach dropped. The old woman was real, which meant her warning was, too.

  "So where you headed?" Pa mumbled.

  "Downing," Arthur said. "I guess it's a couple miles away, the map says so anyway. I'm afraid I got us a little lost this afternoon."

  "Must be, my friend. Ain't no town 'round here by that name. Just Stony Ridge, twenty miles off, as I said."

  But Harriet had seen the town on the map with her own eyes. Pa was lying, though it was a ridiculous thing to lie about. Arthur patted her arm from his honorable seat at the head of the table.

  "You were right, Harry. I did get us lost after all."

  "It's no matter now, dear." Turning to Pa, she said, "Do many travelers get into trouble on that road?"

  He grinned, puffy mustache flicking up towards a dimple in his whiskered cheek. "They do indeed." Ma once again hacked at that slab of meat; dishes and pots shook. "Lots of folks. Passin' through, or lookin' to settle nearby."

  "Well, what luck for them all to find this place and you generous folks," Arthur said. "Not many people would take in perfect strangers."

  A few things happened at once.

  Pa grumbled, "Not'all" and puffed his pipe. Arthur took in a long, satisfied breath and leaned back in his chair. His undershirt came untucked as he stretched, exposing his pale, hairy belly. Ma cracked her cleaver again.

  In the silence after this flutter of movement, a floorboard creaked. No one had stepped across the floor.

  The sound floated from behind the curtain.

  Harriet spun around and inspected the fabric, waiting for it to move or the sound of footfalls. They never came.

  "Whatever that is your wife is cooking, mister, it smells quite wonderful," Arthur said. "I can't wait to sink my teeth into it."

  Pa placed his pipe between his teeth with a clack and puffed out another cloud, staring at Arthur's exposed belly.

  "You and me both, my friend." Silence followed, broken only by Ma's cleaver. "Matter fact, many people stop by to talk to Zelda."

  As if called to a stage, the young woman popped up from her chair across the room.

  "She's a spiritualist. Can read people, talk to the dead, predict the future," Pa lauded as his daughter drifted over. "Hell, she's even cured a few folks of their ills."

  Harriet suppressed a disbelieving chuckle. Spiritualist indeed. She didn't put stock in such things but Arthur seemed enraptured.

  "Is that right?" he said, eyes wide.

  Zelda reached the table, pulled out a chair, and floated onto it with a breeze that reeked of sour armpits. She laid her hands on the table, resting them inches from Harriet's.

  "May I do a reading of you, ma'am? I've had visions about you ever since you came to our door." The young woman's voice was breathy and deep.

  "No thanks, — " Harriet began.

  "Oh, let her, Harry. I'd love to hear," Arthur pleaded.

  Arthur knew Harriet had no patience for such things. She stared at him, trying her best to look uneasy, but he didn't seem to understand. He smiled, nodded, and Zelda took Harriet's hand firmly. A jolt of nerves sent her heart into palpitations.

  "Thank you for the interest, Zelda, but I'm in no mood…"

  The young woman had already started the strange process. She sucked in a deep breath, leaned her head back, and fluttered her eyelids. She dropped her chin to her chest, rolled her head back and forth, side to side, and raised her face to Harriet's. Ma smacked her cleaver again and Harriet jumped in her seat.

  "You say you've traveled a long way, but you've come further than you realize." Zelda stroked the back of her hand with a calloused thumb. "I'm afraid that soon, your journey will come to an end."

  Zelda glanced at Arthur and Harriet's stomach dropped. How could she know? But then Harriet remembered Zelda was likely making it up. She tried to calm the thumping in her chest and ignore the slither of the woman's thumb against her skin.<
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  "I'm really not comfortable with this ..." Harriet began

  "I know you aren't, Harriet. You accept nothing, give in to nothing, do you? Order from chaos. Right from wrong. That's how you think, is it not?"

  Zelda closed her eyes again, hummed, and whispered "Yes."

  Harriet huffed and tried to pull her hand away — it was lucky guesses and observations, after all — but Zelda gripped her hand with strong, bony fingers.

  "Yes," Zelda said suddenly. Pulled from a dream, her eyes opened to reveal oily black irises. "You're a fierce one, Harriet. Fierce in love, fierce in your beliefs."

  That breathy voice tickled Harriet's ear and slithered across her brain; nerves prickled the base of her skull. Unnerved, she turned from the woman's eyes to the inky black window, reflecting back her own face.

  It could only be 6 o'clock, though the world outside had fallen into night. But it was August. This seemed like more than odd weather. Harriet didn't understand.

  Fingers grazed her jaw and pushed — Zelda's fingers.

  "But you must accept what is to come, Harriet," she said, black eyes wide and wild. "Because what is to come is your destiny. No one takes a path without purpose."

  "I don't believe in destiny," Harriet said.

  Zelda smiled. "It doesn't matter what you believe."

  Harriet's heart pounded and her skin crackled with heat like the logs splitting in the hearth fire.

  Then, a light cough, just loud enough to prick Harriet's ears. She turned toward the sound; it came from behind the curtain, she was sure. Arthur sat, rapt with attention, before its white expanse and nodded at her with an encouraging smile.

  Behind him the sheet ruffled, as if brushed by an arm.

  "Harriet ..." The deep, drawling voice hypnotized Harriet with a shaking fear she couldn't grasp. "There is no order in this world. You can only enjoy the chaos or let it take you over. Things are the way they are."

  Arthur leaned forward and reached his arms across the table; his hands came to rest on a messy pile of newspapers. Harriet studied her husband's familiar hands, the way his ring rested loose on his thin finger, and spied, next to his thumb, a date.

  The papers were crisp and smooth, much unlike the clippings in her scrapbook of decades-old weddings and funerals, curled, faded, and yellowed. And yet, in small type printed underneath the masthead, the numbers announced something impossible.