Olden

by James Newman

  I headed in that direction.

  Hopefully, there would be people there. Help.

  It was a nursing home, I saw as I got closer.

  V.

  Shortly before ten p.m., the facility’s power goes out for good.

  There is a weird humming sound from outside the building, the lights flicker several times, and then darkness engulfs the six trapped in Room 123.

  Most of them merely sigh. As if they have expected this all along.

  Larry says, “Fucking figures.”

  Anita says softly, “Must you always use the ‘F’ word?”

  ANITA BYRD, 54 (BEFORE)

  The Lord is kind and full of grace. He rewards those who have lived a Godly life.

  Oh, goodness, no—I’m not talking about myself! I’m as flawed as they come, and I know I’ll have plenty to answer for on Judgment Day.

  I’m talking about Meemaw.

  My dear, sweet Meemaw was the perfect example of God’s compassion.

  He had blessed her with a full, long life. It was almost mind-boggling, all that she had witnessed, if you sat and thought about it. The stories she could tell! Meemaw had lived through the sinking of the Titanic… two World Wars… the Great Depression… the invention of talking film, color TV, Oreo cookies, crossword puzzles, and Mickey Mouse… the Civil Rights movement… the first man on the Moon… the building of the Berlin wall, and its destruction… the Vietnam War… the tragedy of the World Trade Center… and the first colored man in the White House. She had mothered four children, and outlived three of them. Eleven grandchildren (of whom I was one). Seventeen great grandchildren. And any day now, God willing, she would see the birth of her first great-great grandchild.

  She was one hundred years old today. She deserved something special.

  If I had anything to say about it, Meemaw was going to have the best party since… well, since the bash we had thrown for her ninetieth birthday!

  I was so excited. I couldn’t stop that nervous habit of mine, the thing where I rub at my wrist like I’m trying to scrub away something nasty. Started when I was a teenager. Forty-something years later, I still do it during times of stress. I can’t help it. And this morning it was worse than ever.

  Dale, my late husband – God bless his soul – used to tell me I was gonna rub too hard one day, and my skin would just fall off in the floor. That always made me laugh. I asked him if he would still love me when that happened, and he assured me that he would love me even if I turned into a walking skeleton without any skin at all.

  Lord, how I missed him.

  That’s probably why I spent so much time with Meemaw these days. To take my mind off of how lonely I was, and give us something we both needed.

  Once Meemaw was gone, I would no longer have anybody.

  As weird as it might sound to some folks, my hundred-year-old grandmother was my best friend in the world.

  Well, one of my best friends.

  I mustn’t forget the Lord Jesus.

  ****

  Today was going to be a day to remember, no doubt about it. I still had a hard time believing I had planned all of this by myself! I kept waiting for something to go wrong, for Meemaw’s party to…

  … well, that was silly, wasn’t it? What could possibly go wrong? Dale used to tell me I was the biggest worrywart he ever met. Sometimes he sounded annoyed when he said it, but then he saw me get teary-eyed, start rubbing at my wrist, he would kiss me on top of my head, promise me he loved me just the way I was, warts and all.

  Dale had been gone for the last nine months, after the cancer took him. And due to prior obligations, neither my daughter Sandy nor her brother Jake could fly down from Cincinnati to celebrate with us. The rest of Meemaw’s family were scattered all over the country. She would have plenty of friends at her party, but most of them were her fellow residents at the home. I would be the only relative in attendance (sometimes I wondered if the rest of them even cared about Meemaw at all, but when I got to thinking like that I had to ask the Lord for forgiveness; it’s not my place to judge what’s inside their hearts).

  Besides, I wasn’t alone in this. Sure, I had come up with the idea, arranged the whole thing myself—and quite the undertaking it had been -but those nice folks at the nursing home assured me more than once that they were there for me, that they would gladly supply anything I needed.

  Everybody loved Meemaw, and we couldn’t wait to celebrate her special day.

  I had done all of the decorating the night before with the help of a sweet young nurse named Rachel. She had come in early on her graveyard shift to help out so everything would be ready first thing in the morning. We’d hung the streamers throughout the dining room, taped a rainbow of balloons to every other chair. A beautiful HAPPY 100th B-DAY, MEEMAW!!! banner stretched from one wall to the other at the back of the room.

  Everything couldn’t have been more perfect. She was sure to love it.

  Meemaw went to bed early every night – by seven p.m. some nights, depending on her mood and whether or not her favorite show, Dancing with the Stars, was a rerun – so a celebration over dinner was out of the question. The last thing I wanted was for my grandmother to fall asleep before she had even opened her presents. We could have done it over lunch, I suppose. But we chose to throw Meemaw’s surprise party early in the morning because breakfast was her favorite meal of the day.

  The whole thing was made even more exciting by the fact that our local news was going to be there. Channel 13 planned to drop by to do a little story on Meemaw. If I was lucky, I might even catch a glimpse of myself on TV (I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, to tell you the truth -they say the camera adds ten pounds! Then again, who did I have to impress since my Dale passed away?).

  By eight o’ clock, the rest home’s wonderful kitchen crew had breakfast fixed and ready to serve to everyone. The residents were in place, waiting to yell “Surprise!” as soon as Meemaw stepped into the dining room. The news crew’s camera was set to roll, and the pretty reporter lady covering the story was ready to do her thing; she had her microphone in hand, and not a single strand of her curly blond hair was out of place.

  There was only one problem.

  No one could find Meemaw, or any of her friends.

  I tried my best not to panic. But I had checked her room several times, and finally I had to admit to myself that something was wrong. Before long, my wrist was raw, chafed from all the rubbing. Several of the caregivers wasted no time joining me in my search, and even the reporter offered to help (although I couldn’t help thinking the whole time that her tone suggested she would prefer to be anywhere but here: “I’m sure she’s fine, sweetie,” she kept saying as she patted me on the back, “Does she wander off like this much?”).

  Ten minutes later, we found Meemaw. Outside.

  ****

  She was slumped in a chair behind the home, in the shade of her favorite tree. She came out here often when the weather permitted; she loved to sit and read her Bible beneath the dogwood, next to the spot where we had helped her bury Pappaw’s ashes when he passed away twelve years ago.

  An empty bottle of her heart medicine lay at her feet. The vomit caked on her bosom looked like a wrinkled yellow bib at first, until I got up close to her.

  Safety-pinned to the hem of Meemaw’s dress was a note, written in blue ink on pretty pink stationery. An unsettling letter that did not make sense to me at first. But soon, it would. In the very near future it would make perfect, terrible sense, as I learned what had become of Meemaw’s friends, and what she had narrowly escaped with this final, desperate act….

  Even at a hundred years old, Meemaw’s handwriting was so neat, legible. Better than my own. But her words were rushed, disjointed. Letters were missing or transposed, as were entire words. Meemaw’s mental faculties had been sharper than those of friends and relatives three-quarters of her age, yet the message she had left for us painted another picture.

  I fell to my knees beside her body
, and as a cool spring breeze whispered through the branches of Meemaw’s beloved dogwood, I read her suicide note:

  Heavnly Father, forgve me.

  Startd this mornig. VOICES in head. Telling do awfl things. Whispers frst, but grownig LOUDER all time. Drown out evrythng else now.

  Woke 6 a..m., nurse leaning ovr with inslin shot.

  All could thnk bout was grabbnig needle, STABBNIG INTO HER EYE.

  VOICES too STRONG. Knw will OBEY soon, if do not silince.

  Sorry mst of all > ANITA. Knew bout party.

  Im sure wuld been lovly, dear.

  M.

  VI.

  It is a few minutes past midnight now, and the six in Room 123 are trying to get some sleep.

  For most of them, it is impossible. At best, sleep comes in brief snatches, just four or five minutes at a time. Hard to lose yourself to deep, peaceful slumber when they never rest outside.

  The group is fatigued. Too damn tired to argue anymore about what they should or shouldn’t do, at least until the dawn of a new day. Shortly after the lights flickered out, they all agreed that they should try to recharge their batteries. They are safe for now; the ones in the hallway cannot get inside. So they try to sleep. Whatever will come.

  Tomorrow will be another long day. Tomorrow, they know, they will have no choice but to leave here. They will have to find food, water.

  For now, the room is quiet. Occasionally, in the darkness, someone’s stomach growls. A cough, a sniffle. Alex murmurs his brother’s name in a nightmare. Anita whispers the Lord’s Prayer.

  Micah starts snoring. The noises that come out of him are nothing anyone would ever expect from a skinny little fellow like Micah.

  Then… beneath that buzz-saw snore: another noise.

  A sharp gulp of breath from the man in the bed.

  A rustle of blankets.

  A slap of bare feet on tile.

  RONALDO LABIANCA, 82 (NOW)

  At last, eyes flutter open.

  AWAKE!

  Feels like been asleep for years. Like just now being born. Remember only black. Far-away voices. THEIR voices. Voices of OTHERS.

  Hate boils through veins, burns in bones. Not know why. No feel as if in control of self… like something ELSE live inside….

  Only know HATE. Urge to KILL stronger than anything else.

  All day, could hear IT calling. Commanding to wake, rise, KILL. But call was weak, distant.

  Now, louder than anything. DEAFENING.

  Loud enough to bring AWAKE.

  Want to see others DIE. Wanted all day. Could not see, but heard: talking, crying, arguing, like knives stabbing through soft meat of brain.

  So helpless then, lying here. HATING others, but unable to silence. Could not make DIE.

  No longer helpless. AWAKE now. Awake and rising.

  Time come. Time to make DIE.

  Sit up.

  Hear snoring. Can’t see others. They can’t see me. Total dark here.

  Doesn’t matter. Know room. Know way around.

  Rip out feeding tube, tear line from vein. Not need anymore.

  Only thing matters: others in room must DIE.

  Cannot wait to see ripped apart. Torn limb from limb. Warm blood splashing. Brains leaking from skulls. Hearts stopped beating. DEAD.

  Climb out of bed now.

  Stiff. Have not walked for… how long? Not matter. Driven by something else. Guided like puppet across room.

  Make way to door.

  A gasp in dark as I brush by one of others.

  “Who is that? Larry, is that you?”

  Cannot wait to see make quiet forever.

  Reach for door. Unlock it.

  Hear one cry: “Hey! Who is that? No! What are you doing?”

  “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy Name….”

  “Daddy? Oh, God – Daddy?!”

  Hate them. HATE. Cannot wait to see DIE.

  Open door wide.

  Stand back now.

  Allow ones from hallway to come inside.

  ALL of them.

  National Committee for the Prevention of Elder Abuse:

  http://www.preventelderabuse.org/

  Cemetery Dance Publications

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

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