The Ceiling Man

by Patricia Lillie

  My head-shake is slippery and I do not think my mom knows what it means.

  Officer Weber hands me my list. “Do you know how to sign your name?” she says.

  Of course I know how to sign my name. I think Officer Weber is disrespectful and rude. It is her problem and not mine.

  I do not know what I did in the garage or how I did it. Maybe Officer Weber knows Blevins is dead and it is my fault. Maybe she will put me in jail. I take her pen and sign my name on my list.

  I do not want to be in jail.

  I think my problem is worse than Officer Weber’s.

  “Well, I think we’re about finished here.” When my mom’s policeman smiles at me I like his smile. I do not like Officer Weber’s slippery smile or her slippery head-shakes.

  I think she knows I did a bad thing. I want her to leave.

  “I hope Jim’s about finished,” my mom says. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “Daddy is finished,” I say.

  “He should be in soon,” my mom’s policeman says. Officer Weber does not say anything.

  Jim is Daddy. Daddy is the Woodsman. The Woodsman is gone.

  I need to rock but if I do my mom will say, “Abby, now is not the time.”

  “You should leave now,” I tell Officer Weber. “You can stay,” I say to my mom’s policeman.

  They laugh. I did not mean to be funny. I cannot help it and I am rocking.

  “Come on, Abby. Let’s go see your grandmother,” my mom says.

  I think she means I should not rock, and I follow her into the kitchen. Gramma Evelyn is drinking coffee with her policeman.

  “That smells heavenly,” my mom says.

  Gramma Evelyn offers coffee to everyone but me. She is very polite, but my mom’s policeman says, “No thanks, we need to get back outside.”

  I am not polite and do not say good-bye to Officer Weber. The policemen go out and the Ceiling Man comes in.

  “Damn, it’s cold out there,” he says.

  I wait for Gramma Evelyn to tell him Do not say damn but she does not. She is too busy giving him hugs.

  Daddy says bad words when he is Mad Dad or when he is fixing the sink but he does not say bad words in front of Gramma Evelyn. She does not like Foul Language and she is his mother so he must respect her.

  I do not know why Gramma hugs the Ceiling Man when he says damn. Maybe even if the Ceiling Man looks like Daddy he does not have to respect her. Gramma Evelyn is not the Ceiling Man’s mother.

  “It’s over,” he says. His smile is slippery.

  My mom’s face is wet. I do not think she is sad because It is over. I do not think It is over. I think the Ceiling Man lies.

  My mom hugs the Ceiling Man.

  My mom should not hug the Ceiling Man.

  The Woodsman is gone and I am shaky inside.

  “Ouch. Watch the arm,” the Ceiling Man says. His arm wears a bandage.

  Sami is Velcro-pup and she growls at the Ceiling Man. Maybe she wants to bite him again. Maybe the Ceiling Man makes Sami shaky inside too.

  “Abby, come join the celebration,” Gramma says.

  I cannot look at the Ceiling Man and I do not think we should celebrate.

  I pull Livvy’s quilt tight around me. It smells like wet and garage and only a little bit like purple flowers, but it does not smell like dirt and pennies.

  “Abby, why don’t you give that to me until we can wash it again,” Gramma says.

  I do not answer and I do not give her Livvy’s quilt. I think as long as it smells a little bit like purple flowers, maybe it has some comfort left.

  “Leave her with it,” my mom says.

  Gramma does not argue.

  “Things are not what they seem,” I say, but no one listens to me.

  “I’m listening.” The Ceiling Man does not talk with his mouth and I do not think my mom or Gramma hear him.

  My mom says, “Abby, you really need to try to pay attention to details. Details are important.”

  My mom says, “Your grandmother’s hair always looks exactly the same. I don’t know how she does it. It’s like she gets it trimmed every day.”

  Gramma gets her hair trimmed every three weeks, not every day. Three weeks is twenty-one days. Sometimes she must wait twenty-eight days and her hair gets very long and I see it. That is a detail. It is a small thing, but I do not think it is an important thing.

  The man my mom and Gramma hug is not my dad. He is the Ceiling Man and that is not a small thing and I think they do not see it. They are not paying attention.

  “Big things are important too,” I say.

  “How bad is the arm?” my mom says.

  “Not bad.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not much.”

  “Anybody hungry?” Gramma Evelyn says.

  “Famished,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “How about waffles?” Gramma Evelyn does not use the toaster to make waffles. She uses her waffle iron which is different from her clothes iron. Gramma Evelyn’s waffles are one of my daddy’s favorite things.

  Daddy is the Woodsman and the Woodsman is gone. The Ceiling Man is here and he is hungry.

  I do not think he is hungry for waffles.

  [50]

  Carole

  FEAR DRAINS. AFTER A BRIEF super-charge of adrenaline, all that’s left is the need to sleep. Or cry. Relief operates the same way.

  The police left as the sun came up, and I came down. Blevins was dead. We were all safe. Whether it was fear or relief, I hit the sleep or cry or both stage. The reason didn’t matter. I couldn’t give in to exhaustion or tears. Not yet. Not until I’d spent time with my family and made sure they were okay inside as well as out, as much for me as them.

  Despite my attempts at denial, I needed to make sense of what I’d seen.

  I wanted to talk to Jim, but not with Abby or Evelyn hovering. The EMTs had bandaged his arm and urged him to go to the hospital and have it examined, maybe get stitches and an antibiotic.

  “It’s just a surface wound,” he said. “Barely a scratch. I told them I needed to stay with you and Abby and promised to get checked out later.”

  Abby and I were both scheduled to return to the hospital that morning, me for blood work and Abby for tests. We could make it a family outing, but I doubted any of us would bother. Maybe tomorrow.

  “You should have gone with them,” Abby said.

  “And leave you?” He reached for her, but she evaded his touch, just as she did when he came in.

  “It’s one of those mornings,” I said. I was just grateful Abby wasn’t in meltdown. Hell, I was happy I wasn’t in meltdown.

  We all sat at the kitchen table while Evelyn bustled around making breakfast. Waffles and bacon, and not the microwave kind. I offered to help, but she shushed me and told me to sit.

  The smell of breakfast and the warmth of the kitchen wrapped around me like fog. Not the suffocating mist of the garage, but a wonderful anesthetic. I was numb but safe. Both were good.

  After an idiot reporter from the local paper called for the third time, Evelyn unplugged the phone. None of us wanted to talk to the press about what happened. We weren’t even talking about it with each other.

  Other than the hiss of the waffle iron and the sizzle of bacon in the skillet, the room was quiet. The storm died out just before dawn, and left the world outside the windows tranquil. The morning sun made the snow sparkle. As much as I hated snow when it was falling, and as ugly as it was when tracked up and dirty, I had to admit the brief pristine period in-between was beautiful. I hoped school was canceled. Abby hadn’t brought up the subject yet—and I wasn’t about to—but there was no way she was going. If she had a snow day, I wouldn’t end up the bad guy.

  Evelyn refilled my coffee cup. When she called 911, she told them I was stealing her car. She apologized. I forgave her. Not that there was anything to forgive. I was stealing her car.

  “I don’t care why you called them. I’m just glad you did.” I
hugged her. She hugged back.

  I was even more thankful she woke Jim and sent him out to stop me. I didn’t want to imagine what might have happened if Abby’s Woodsman hadn’t arrived.

  Denial was my friend. Blevins was gone. We were safe.

  Relief and exhaustion made me benevolent. I promised myself to sneak Evelyn’s cash back into the cookie jar before she noticed it was gone.

  Jim wore clean clothes. I had a vague notion the police took his bloodstained clothes, but wasn’t sure whether it really happened or I imagined it. I felt that way about a lot of the night. Eventually, I would ask Jim what was real and what wasn’t and hope it made sense. He was ragged. If the EMT’s hadn’t checked him out, I would have worried. A thin coat of sweat gave his forehead a slight sheen. His color was off, not quite gray, but not his usual robust glow. His eyelids drooped, as if his lashes were too heavy for his lids. His cheeks sagged. He’d aged overnight. Not overnight. How long since he slept? Two days? And, he’d just killed someone.

  Abby killed him. I pushed the crazy thought away, visualized putting it in a box and locking it up. Nothing would burst my happy-comfort bubble. Safe. We are safe.

  Abby would have nothing to do with her father. She didn’t look at him and sat as far away from him as possible, with Sami by her side. The dog’s fall only knocked the air out of her. She’d recovered, but wouldn’t let Jim near her. Abby, she still protected. She gave a small growl when Evelyn set Abby’s plate of waffles in front of her.

  “Oh, hush,” Evelyn said.

  I swore I saw her slip Sami a piece of bacon. I wasn’t sure who had taken over my mother-in-law, but I liked it—and wondered how long it would last.

  Evelyn set Jim’s overloaded plate in front of him, and he pushed it away.

  “Not hungry.”

  “You have to eat something,” his mother said.

  “I said I wasn’t hungry.”

  Evelyn took a step back, and Sami growled.

  Abby finally looked at her father. “No red ceilings,” she said.

  Jim smiled.

  “What are you talking about?” Evelyn said.

  “Idunno.” Abby took a bite of waffle and stared at her father while she chewed.

  I told myself she meant no more red ceilings, or ceiling men, or anything else horrible.

  Blevins was dead. We were safe.

  “Abby, don’t stare at your father.”

  Blevins is dead. It’s over.

  Jim’s smile turned to a smirk.

  Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just exhausted.

  Evelyn put a plate in front of me. I drenched everything in maple syrup and dug in.

  We were safe.

  [51]

  The Ceiling Man

  “I SAID I WASN’T HUNGRY.”

  Oops. From their reactions, he didn’t sound much like darling daddy. He flashed the old bitch a big toothy smile. She smiled back. Oh, Gramma, what big teeth you have. Too bad for her—his were bigger.

  “No more red ceilings.”

  He couldn’t tell if the brat spoke aloud or only to him. Not good. He couldn’t let anger and frustration get the better of him. Cloud his perception. His judgement.

  His anger was directed as much at himself as the brat. Maybe more so. She’d taken him by surprise. He let her.

  If it hadn’t been for Daddy’s split second of shock when Blevins went down, he’d be dead along with his asshole former host. The jump was pure self-defense. Unthinking reaction. He was unprepared, and the move sapped his energy.

  “Jim?” One word from the mother, packed with so much concern and love it sickened him.

  Not the emotions he craved.

  “I’m good.” He picked up his coffee cup, pretended to drink. He’d play along with the happy family act until he had a plan.

  A plan. What was it, his fifth, sixth since discovering the brat?

  This one would be the last.

  First step, assess the situation.

  The kitchen pained him. Everywhere he looked, he saw cheerful. Yellow flowers on the walls. Blue ruffles on the windows. On the counter, next to a wooden block full of knives, a freaking teapot with a face grinned at him. He choked back the urge to smash it.

  He sat at the head of the table. Royalty. The conquering hero. They had no idea.

  Across from him, the girl swayed slightly—almost imperceptibly—in her chair, but there was no waver in her glare. He couldn’t see the dog, but heard its growl. Next to the girl, maybe at her feet.

  He needed to watch the dog. It knew. It would go first.

  “Abby, don’t stare at your father. He’s boring,” the mother said. Chipper, but he knew her well enough to know it was contrived. She’d aged since he first found her, something he was happy to take credit for. When he made the jump, he’d left her alone, but it shouldn’t be hard to regain control. Mom was the least of his problems.

  The brat was another matter. Alert and on edge, she didn’t break her stare.

  Both mother and daughter seemed to be waiting for something, but where mom appeared expectant, the brat appeared wary.

  Abby. He had to remember to call the brat Abby. Not the girl or the brat. Even with Blevins gone, it would be too easy to slip up and call her the little retard. Abby’s loving daddy would never say that. Probably never even thought it.

  Fucking saints. Blevins was gone, but he’d left his mark.

  Gramma said something about syrup. He didn’t catch it, but figured a quick smile and a that’s fine would do, and it did. She turned back to the stove. The old bitch was an unknown quantity. She’d resisted him once, with the brat’s help.

  The brat put her fork down. He gave her a nudge. Nothing. Either she resisted or he was too weak to get through that thick skull of hers. The effort brought hammering inside his head, and her steady stare made him itch.

  “Abby. Eat your breakfast,” he said.

  “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “Abby!” Mom and Gramma spoke in unison. Shock and disapproval. As far as they were concerned, he was The Dad.

  “It’s okay. Rough morning,” he said. “But remember, little girl. I am your father, and I am the boss of you.”

  «No you’re not.» Her mouth didn’t move. She spoke to him alone. The pounding in his head increased.

  He needed to feed.

  He needed more than food.

  The brat was more. She was his plan. How great would her pain be when forced to watch darling Daddy rip apart and devour her beloved mother and grandmother? His earlier joyride would be funereal in comparison. A tremor took him. Coffee sloshed from his cup.

  “Jim—” The mother’s concern amplified, echoed.

  “Tired,” he croaked. He ached to ride the girl’s pain, bask in it, grow with it.

  The girl was his goal and his obstacle. If she understood what she did in the garage, repeated it, he’d never get near the women. She needed to be contained. Restrained. His longing surged. Get a grip. Daddy’s body never reacted like that at the thought of his darling daughter.

  He reached out and nudged. Nothing. He pushed harder, got nowhere. She’d closed her mind to him.

  «Little Pig, Little Pig, let me come in.»

  She cut a bite-sized piece of bacon, placed it on a neat little square of waffle, and primly forked it into her mouth. She chewed intently, eyes on him all the while.

  Didn’t the brat blink? What was she, part lizard?

  She was taunting him.

  He thrust again—and he was in. She couldn’t keep him out.

  «We’re going to have some fun, Little Piggy.»

  She didn’t answer or change her expression.

  «The Woodsman’s gone. Gramma’s next.»

  Something snapped. White noise surrounded him.

  He had her.

  Caution tempered jubilation. No more surprises. He concentrated.

  Not noise. She was humming.

  Not the song from the garage. His song. The one she hated. />
  The humming stopped, and she sang out loud. The noise filled the kitchen. She really couldn’t carry a tune, but it was all good.

  Too good. Anticipation and desire shook him, weakened him. Not yet. He gathered his strength and focussed.

  “Abby, don’t sing at the table,” the old woman said. “It’s rude.”

  The girl sang louder, and he knew he had her. The kitchen reverberated with her racket, but in her head, she sang with his voice. He joined in, a duet with himself.

  “Scooping up the field mice and—”

  Fuck.

  [52]

  Abby

  THE CEILING MAN IS NOT the only one who can sing Bunny Foo Foo.

  He is quiet. His face is in his waffles and syrup and his voice is not in my head.

  I cannot see his smile.

  I think I should be sad I hurt my dad, but I did not hurt my dad. Only bad people hurt people. I do not think the Ceiling Man is people. I am shaky inside, but I am not sad.

  Daddy is the Woodsman. The Woodsman is gone.

  When I am five years old and small, Daddy says, “I’ll eat you up!”

  When I am five years old and small, I think getting chewed up and swallowed will hurt. I scream and I scream and I cannot stop until there is red and black in my head.

  Daddy says, “Abby, I am very sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I will never say. . .the scary thing again.” He stretches his lips. I think his teeth will chew me up and I cannot look at him.

  Every day, Daddy says, “Abby. This is my smile. It means I love you very much and I will never, ever hurt you.”

  I cannot look at him.

  Daddy says “Abby, this is my smile” forty-two times on forty-two days. On the forty-third day, I look at him and I think maybe his teeth will not chew me up. He says it every day anyway.

  Every tenth day, he says he loves me very, very much.

  When I am twelve years old and big, Daddy says, “Abby, what does my smile mean?”

  “You love me very, very much and you will never hurt me.”

  Today, Daddy does not say, “Abby, what does my smile mean?”

  Today, Daddy’s smile says, “I’ll eat you up.”

  Today, Daddy’s smile is not Daddy’s smile.