by Aaron Dries
But regardless, she had to try.
The contents of the Tupperware container tucked under her arm sloshed as Sally made her way up the street in the direction of Emily and Jordan’s house. A corridor of hedges zoomed by on her right, dead leaves crunching under her sneakers. The seasons had already started to mingle, a chill encroaching like an anti-fever.
It was just after ten in the morning and she’d left Kevin in her husband’s care. Conrad was just as much a sucker for Saturday morning cartoons as their son. It made her happy to see the two of them entangled on the couch together in the living room, each donning matching milk moustaches. The boys were her everything, and she had no idea what life would be like without them. Hell, she didn’t even like to think about it.
Sally reached Emily’s familiar gated fence and slipped her sunglasses up onto the crown of her head to better see the shade-speckled front yard and driveway. Her heart was racing. Screw the double-shot latte she’d devoured earlier whilst sitting on the couch with her laptop across her knees, speculation was the ultimate stimulant. The headlines from the articles she’d been reading online still echoed through her head:
10 SIGNS SOMEONE YOU KNOW MAY BE INFECTED.
YOUR CIVIC DUTY: THE HARD CALL WE ALL MUST MAKE.
BONE EATERS MUST BITE THE DUST—A CALL FOR SURVIVAL.
Bandages. Antiseptic. Cotton swabs. Saline. Scissors. Nail clippers. All of this Sally had seen in Emily’s basket at the pharmacy—items that appeared innocent enough, yet when viewed as a whole were rather telling. Especially when one other factor was considered: Jordan’s absence. This was the primary fuel to her suspicion. It tickled her guts, shooed sleep away. Even Conrad, as blissfully unaware as he could be, had noticed that his friend wasn’t contacting him for their once a month bar-hop, all of those unanswered emails and text messages.
I’m not going crazy. I know it.
Sally had asked herself multiple times where the seeds of her motivation lay. Was attempting to visit Emily just about her frantic need to involve herself in the business of others, a flaw that had been pointed out to her so many times by former friends? Or was her disquiet genuine? This see-saw of questions had pounded her brain over the past few weeks, and still Sally wasn’t sure. Not really. She’d always been good at fooling herself, which maybe was why she was so adept at sniffing out fools, a talent that motherhood had only exacerbated.
You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, as they say.
A niggling doubt: Did her motivation even matter? Regardless of which way the see-saw rocked, Sally felt she was right to be fearful for Jordan. The world had changed after all, even though the elm tree still stood, seemingly wise and impervious. In truth it was neither.
These were dangerous times.
Trees rot. Sometimes, there were no answers. And bone eaters must bite the dust.
The house peered back at her from beyond the bars, its overgrown lawn seething in the breeze. A murder of crows lined the roof peaks, silhouetted against the clouds like two-dimensional targets in a shooting gallery. Only this gallery had long since closed for business. Cobwebs glazed the windows, deadfall in the driveway. Whatever barkers had thrived here, and not so long ago it felt, had since moved out of town, leaving behind the husk of their carnival. But her toy rifle was loaded still.
One bullet remained.
Shadow against shadow. It darted across the lawn near the side entrance. Sally almost ducked back around the hedge and out of sight, feeling like a spy in one of those late-night espionage movies her husband enjoyed, the kind of films starring crusty middle-aged men in overcoats whose sleuthing was set to dominating scores. Only there was no music here. Just a soundtrack of pulsing blood in her ears, the delightful singsong of a young girl at play.
“Lucette!” she called, waving.
The shadow stilled, and Sally felt it studying her. Another thirty seconds of coaxing saw it emerge into sunlight, taking the shape of a pale pig-tailed girl in a soiled dress holding a dolly. Lucette (who looked thinner than she had at the pharmacy) crossed the lawn to the gate, glanced over her shoulder, back at the cobwebs and murders and, yes, Sally was sure, at the source of all these secrets.
“Hello, sweetheart. It’s Sally here.”
“I know,” the girl said, hands behind her back, swinging her shoulders from side to side. “I’ve got Miss Natalia here with me.” Lucette revealed the limp Raggedy Ann doll.
“I see,” Sally said. “How about you let me in, and you, me, and Miss Natalia there can have a tea party. Would you like that?”
“Uh-huh. Sure would.”
“Well. Right then, sweetheart. Just wave your magic wand and whisk me through this big old fence of yours. That, or get that delightful mother of yours to come my way and let me in.”
Lucette drew Miss Natalia into a hug, squeezing an elongated dog-toy cry from the doll. “I want to, but I’m not allowed to let anyone in. Those are the rules.”
Sally knelt down against the pavement, stretching the elasticity of her lycra tights to their limit, and placed the Tupperware container on the cement. Now at eye level, she leaned forward, gripping the bars for balance. “Oh, is that so?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know, sweetheart, it’s not polite to lie to people you know,” Sally said. “Nothing gets better until the truth is told. Otherwise how else can people like me help you? What’s going on? You can tell your Aunty Sally.”
“You’re not my real aunt.”
“Oh, pish-posh. You’re like kin to me. You and Miss Natalia both. Your father and I go way back, too. How is he anyway? I hear he’s been mighty sick. There’s no better medicine than a batch of my world-famous chicken soup.”
“You can’t help Daddy,” the little girl said. “He won’t get better.”
Sally inhaled, held it, felt herself quiver all over. Exhaled. Her grip on the bars tightened. “Lying’s a sin, you know that, right?”
“I have to go back inside now.”
“Hold your horses. I bet Miss Natalia knows that lying is bad. I bet she knows that smart girls don’t keep secrets from grown-ups. God’s always watching.”
“I haven’t done nothing wrong.”
“Then tell me what’s happened to your father.”
Lucette shuffled from one foot to another. The guilt Sally felt almost drove her to tears, but she clung to the strings of her manipulation, kept the brave smile on her face, though later when she was alone she planned on weakening. A good old-fashioned cry in the shower, away from Conrad. As she so often did.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Sally said. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
A cloud passed over the sun, paling the air, which in turn, etched definition in the shadows. There, in the yard, where there had only been black, there now were spiders spinning webs and worms churning grit and cold eyes amid the feathers of those crows.
Sally reached through the bars to stroke the leg of the doll.
“I understand why you won’t say peep, Lucette. I really do,” Sally said, her voice lullaby sweet, despite the wavering. “But would you mind if I asked Miss Natalia a question or two?”
MURPHY’S LAW
Every day has its destiny. The cracking icicle that’s almost ready to fall. A branch weighted by too much snow, soon to break. Clouds that try and try to hold in their water, only to fail, and in doing so fulfill their meaning in the world. An architecture of inevitability, that this was fated to be. The destiny of this day: Bloodshed. It would begin with a single drop.
A pigeon sailed through the air, uncaring and unthinking. It knew nothing but its desperate need to eat, that desire its only real companion. That, and lice. Wind rustled its feathers as it soared out of the sky towards the hospice, which from above seemed two-dimensional against the snow. It neared the rear courtyard where the tall, two legged creatures sat to eat, this act of survival, despite the cold, uniting them in some strange way.
Closer now. Closer.
It was then that t
he wind changed, warping the bird’s descent. Its wings were sideswiped, its body turning fast. The pigeon didn’t feel fear, it had been knocked off course more than once in its day. It understood on a primal level that the sky could be a fickle thing.
The pigeon rolled, trying to flap itself upright again. Only it was too late. It entangled itself in the barbed wire lining the lunch area fence. Metal thorns pierced the bird’s fragile hulk, and the more it tried to fight the stronger that hold became. The pigeon screamed until the pain became too much, and then cooed itself into stunned resignation.
Somewhere.
A falling icicle.
A buckling branch.
The coming of the rain.
And there in the hospice courtyard, a single drop of bright red blood pattered against the snow.
***
It was New Year’s Day, and whilst all over the country hangovers were nursed and heat-of-the-moment resolutions slowly remembered, Emily found herself back on the merry-go-round, unable to get off. Work. Sober. Riddled with anxiety. She rode it into the break room and found Lucette hunched over the table.
Her daughter was folding paper into origami again, humming to herself in that toneless way kids do. Emily sighed, clenching her jaw, a habit that if she kept up may require medical attention. Her teeth were starting to hurt from the grinding. Despite those shards of adult behavior she often witnessed in Lucette, on that day, her young lady had never looked so childlike.
Like something from a picture book or an illustration from a Dickens’ novel, she thought.
It broke Emily’s heart to think about what she had to do, and wished she could’ve left the room right then. The Dickens allusion wasn’t lost on Emily, either. Every person went through phases, some of which hinged upon dependency. Heartbreak made orphans out of all.
No. Emily wouldn’t run. To do so would be a cowardly thing. Emily was better than that. But she couldn’t muster the courage to say what needed to be said, negating whatever self-respect Emily thought she might have. Not quite yet.
With every fold and crease, Lucette was learning that you could create something from nothing if you worked at it really hard. This in and of itself had the potential to be a beautiful thing. But another lesson lurked within the room, waiting to be taught: with such incredible ease, something—usually someone—important in your life could return to that nothingness. Whoosh. Gone. Just like that. And this couldn’t be helped. No matter how hard you tried. Regardless of the screaming.
Lucette spotted her. “Hey Mom, can I go see Robby now?”
Emily scanned her mind for the right thing to say. She settled on evasion. For now, at least.
Coward. Maybe you’re not half the person you think you are.
“I’m pretty sure he’s still sleeping,” Emily said. Pulse pounding.
“He’s been sleeping since we got here.”
“I know,” she replied, walking over to stroke her daughter’s hair. Emily could smell her little girl, that trademark mixture of shampoo, bubblegum, subtle traces of kiddish sweat. These scents made Emily want to hold her, squeeze her. “You have to remember, Robby’s a sick boy. He gets worn out.”
“Yeah. Okay. Well, I think I’ve figured out the crane. I have to show him. Can’t we wake him up for a few minutes? I know he wouldn’t mind.”
“Darlin’, he needs his rest. If he wakes before the end of my shift, I’ll take you to see him. Otherwise, you’ll just have to wait ‘til tomorrow.”
Lucette stuck her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout and turned back to her paper.
Let her sulk, Emily thought. As long as she stops asking questions.
Walking to the fridge, Emily snagged a bottle of water and guzzled it down. Its chill was intense. She could use a real drink, something strong and hot and stiff. Gin. But getting sloshed on the job was a sure way to get fired, though it was a common occurrence amongst certain members of the staff. Still, they managed to keep themselves on the payroll.
A whiff of alcohol on the breath, someone tucking away what might have been a phone yet which looked like a flask.
Emily wasn’t stupid.
This place could chew you up and make butter of your bones if you didn’t find your own way of coping. For some, it was cigarettes, the avarice of so many nurses. For others, it was a sneaky swig here and there. Emily had heard that one of the kitchen hands had been selling his ADHD medication to staff on the floor at an exorbitant price. A hopeful upper in a world of downers. Emily understood the appeal, and whilst she wouldn’t be treating herself to any of the above, she had little intention of rocking the boat. Hospices, nursing homes, hospitals—they were all the same. You had to cope, and if you didn’t, your focus dipped when it was needed most, your perspective on work turned septic. Which was the greater risk, Emily had often debated: the buzz that got you by, even if it violated your duty of care versus abandoning those who needed help because your hair was turning grey from the stress of the job?
Emily wondered about the nature of her vice. She looked down at the girl staring up at her, the one who had seemed so innocent before and smelled of shampoo, bubblegum, and sweat.
You’re my carrot on a stick, honey. You get me through. And that’s okay. Because at the end of the day, I’m here for you. I promised to keep you safe. Always.
Emily ached for the broken heart the girl would soon suffer. There would be no more visits to see Robby. The boy had taken a turn for the worse the previous evening and wasn’t expected to survive the day.
The Crowners had already been sent for.
***
I might be a kid but I’m not stupid.
Of course Lucette knew that Robby was sick and that he needed rest, yet she also knew that sometimes hope and joy were better medicines than whatever it was they put in that plastic bag, the one they fed into the body through a needle. What Robby really needed now was to see that she’d mastered their project, the thing that bound them. Yes, she had mastered the crane, and so would he. Soon enough.
She looked down at the origami. The wings extended out in neat folds; its neck rising high. It sat in the palm of her hand like a delicate flower grown from seed, nurtured in soil that she’d turned herself. Lucette knew she had a right to be mad. Robby deserved to see it.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” Emily said, twisting the cap on the half-empty bottle and stowing it away in the fridge.
“Fine.”
“I’ll be back to check on you later. Stay here and behave yourself.”
Emily was out the door before Lucette could say anything, leaving her to stew in her anger. Why was her mother acting so funny? Come to think of it, everyone seemed to have a bee in their bonnet that morning.
Let them be that way.
Old people were weird. This dismissiveness came so easy, sweeping aside her annoyance as though it were little more than the balled up wreckage of her prior origami attempts. She would get the crane to Robby regardless of what her mother said.
***
Mama Metcalf felt jittery today, and she had to play things back to double check if her no-more-than-one-coffee-a-day rule had been broken. She was certain she hadn’t over-indulged. Yet her heart still fluttered in her chest, a bird beating against the bars of its cage. Every noise startled. Only ten minutes ago Mykel had dropped a breakfast tray in the hallway leading towards the common dining area and she’d near leapt right out of her skin. But the source of her edginess was lost on her.
Except that wasn’t true. She just didn’t want to acknowledge it.
Several factors contributed to her current mood, not least of which was the oppressive atmosphere in the hospice because of little Robby’s condition. It was as though the snow clouds building outside had wormed their way into the building, churning on the ceiling, threatening to pour down on them. On top of that, the mob that always congregated outside had been aggressive that morning. More so than usual. Mama Metcalf had no idea how people mustered the energy, day after day, to
maintain the futility of their anger when it always added up to nothing. The protesters could yell and chant and wave their hateful signs until the cows came home, and still all that hot air would account for diddly-squat. The sick still needed to be cared for. The machine still had to turn. And she was proud to be one of the many cogs, even on bad days.
The door swung open and Emily stepped out as Mama Metcalf approached the FSU. Beyond the young woman the corridor stretched off to that awful room at the end, the penultimate stop for all of their guests. That was where the crown was kept.
“How’s he doing?” Mama Metcalf asked.
Even with the mask covering the lower half of her face, Emily’s expression answered the question before she spoke. “He’s still conscious, which in this case may not be a blessing. He’s in a semi-delirious state. I’m not sure he’s fully aware of where he is or what’s happening. At one point he started calling for his mother. Fuck, that hurt to hear.”
“Has anyone contacted his parents? Told them it’s time?”
“Woods has left several messages, but surprise-surprise, they haven’t responded. They haven’t been to see him once, so I don’t know why we should expect them to show up now.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have to go through this experience alone. I’m gonna talk to Woods about me being there when the Crowners take him.”
Emily shook her head. “I already asked. She said since he was a minor, we’d have to have parental consent to do that.”
“This ain’t right. A young’un shouldn’t have to die alone, nothing but strangers in the room. Since he’s been here, we’re the closest thing to family he’s got.”
“I know, but Woods says the law is clear. We could get shut down if we don’t follow it to the letter. Even if she wanted to look the other way, no way the Crowners would go for it. They’re Ministry officials, after all.”
“Ministry folks are still just people when you get down to it.”
“I’m not so sure about that. As far as I’m concerned, they can stick their policies and procedures up their wazoos. Sideways, if you like.”
