Interfictions

by Delia Sherman

  But if it is not the business of one's community, whose business is it?

  If we'd have intervened, if we'd have tried to get the Addlesons some other living arrangement, perhaps poor Jonas would not have walked into the bathroom at the age of ten to find his father's dead body, the blood spilling out of his shattered skull.

  Why did the son of James Addleson kill himself? You are probably wondering. The answer is simple. It was those girls his daddy murdered. We have seen and heard them ourselves on occasion, wandering through the orchards, climbing out of the well, beating on the windows of the cellar and attic. We have seen and heard them, and continued on our way, ignoring them.

  James Addleson's son was not so lucky. He lived with them. He heard them day and night, talking about his father's evil. In the end, they convinced him to join them.

  A visit

  But not our own sweet Rose! How could this have happened? We often wondered where we went wrong. Through all the years of that house's torments, never did our own children go near it. We taught them well, or so we thought. But that house would get what it wanted. Our own sweet Rose. How we have fretted these past three years she has been gone from us. How we pray for her and for Mary Kay Billings nightly. And how Mary Kay suffers. How she holds herself together, never mentioning her daughter unless we ask after her. Never wanting to burden us. And how we all have our crosses. Which is why we did what we have done.

  We had let the Addleson family linger under the spell of the house's evil, and because of that Jonas's father took his own life, and Jonas himself became the wreck he is today. We thought we were doing best by them, leaving them to their own choices, trying not to interfere with the lives of others. But we saw how wrong we were when—House took our Rose, when it took our Rose's little girl. And then, recently, when Mary Kay Billings mentioned to one of us that Rose had been asking after her cousin, Marla Jean Simmons. “Could you send her on up here, Mother? I'm sort of lonesome. And I could use some help around the house."

  It was then we decided to take action. Not one more of our children would we let that house ravage.

  We approached Mary Kay Billings with our plans, and tears, buckets full of them, were shed that day. Poor Mary Kay, always trying to be the tough woman, the one who will not be disturbed, yet when we came to her and said, “We shall make that house a visit,” she burst, she broke like a dam.

  "Thank you,” she told us. “Oh thank you, I can't do it alone any longer. Maybe with all of us there she'll let us talk some sense into her."

  So we selected representatives. Mr. Adams, the town lawyer. He inspired fear in his opposition, so we chose him hoping the house would fear his authority. Mrs. Baker, the principal of our elementary school, who Rose once respected as a child. Pastor Merritt, since a man of God in cases such as this is necessary. Tom Morrissey, the undertaker, who has dealt with death long enough not to fear it. And Shell Richards, one of our school bus drivers, because she is simply a force to be reckoned with, and we all of us stay out of her way, especially when she's been drinking.

  Together, led by Mary Kay Billings, we trudged up the road to—House on a cool spring evening when the buds were on the trees, the sap rising. At the gate, we hesitated for only a moment to look at each other and confirm our convictions by nodding. Then Mary Kay swung the gate open and up the path we went.

  As soon as our feet touched those porch steps, though, we felt the life of whatever lived there coursing beneath us. We shuddered, but continued. Since it was not a social visit, we didn't bother knocking, just opened the door and went straight on in. “Rose!” we called loudly. “Rose!” And soon enough, she appeared on the landing above us, looking down at us with a peculiar glare, icy and distant.

  "What are you all doing here?” she asked. Her voice sounded far away, as if she were speaking through her body, as if her body were this thing that came between her and the rest of the world. Her hand rested on the newel post of the landing, massaging it as she waited.

  "We've come to help you, darling,” Mary Kay said. We all thought it best that she spoke first.

  "I don't need any help now,” said Rose. “What help would I be needing, Mother? Why didn't you send Marla Jean like I asked?"

  We immediately saw Mary Kay's resolve fading, so Mr. Adams spoke up. “Dear,” he said. “Come down to us. We're taking you out of this place. We're taking you home this very instant."

  Rose cocked her head to the side, though, and slowly shook it. “I don't think so,” she told us. “I'm a grown woman. I can make my own decisions. And my home is here, thank you very much."

  "Where's your husband?” asked Mrs. Baker. But Rose didn't answer. She only looked at Mrs. Baker suspiciously, as if a trap were being set.

  "We're going to help him, too, dear,” said Pastor Merritt. “But we need to get you both to safety. We must ask God to help us now."

  "God?” said Rose, and we shivered. We'd never heard a word so full of goodness said in such a way that it sent chills up and down our spines. “God?” she said again, then started down the stairs toward us. “I haven't heard Him in a long time,” said Rose. We nodded. We remembered. She hadn't come to church since she was twelve.

  "He is always listening,” said Pastor Merritt. “All you have to do is ask for His help, and He will provide."

  "I don't talk,” said Rose. “I'm the one who listens."

  We didn't nod this time. We weren't sure what to make of what she was saying.

  "Enough of this,” said Shell Richards suddenly, and we all, even Rose, looked at her, puzzled by her outburst. “Enough dillydallying,” said Shell. She stepped right up to Rose, grabbed her arm and said, “You're coming with us, little girl."

  Mary Kay ran up the stairs to gather a few things for her daughter while Rose fought to free herself from Shell's grip. “Stop struggling,” Shell warned, but Rose struggled. She slipped, and as she fell buttons poured out of her sweater pockets, scattering across the floor.

  Then a scream spilled down the staircase and we knew Mary Kay Billings was in trouble. We abandoned Rose on the floor and rushed up the stairs, one after the other, the steps creaking beneath us, until we came to the baby's room with the mural of the orchard painted on the walls and the sky on the ceiling. Mary Kay stood in the center of the room, near the crib, staring apparently at nothing. We followed her stare, and in the mural we saw the Blank boy, Ephraim, sitting in an apple tree, looking out at us. You could tell it was him by the dark eyes and the ruddy cheeks.

  We took Mary Kay Billings by the arm and led her back down the stairs then, only to find that Rose had disappeared on us. “Who saw her last?” we asked each other, but no one had stayed with her. We had all gone running to Mary Kay when she called.

  We searched the house from top to bottom, shouting for either of them to come to us. “Rose!” we called. “Jonas!” But all we found were buttons, and all we heard were the screams of dead mothers, and all we smelled was the house's evil circling us like a dark cloud.

  We were too late. Our chance had come and we had failed her. The house had taken her and Jonas before we could free them, and so we left, defeated, not bothering to close the door behind us. Let the wind have it, we thought, let the rain flood it, let it all fall down in ruin. For that was the last family that—House would take, we decided at that very moment. Never again would we allow anyone to go near it.

  If walls could talk

  And they do talk, if you know how to listen. If you know how to pay attention to the way a roof sighs, or a window slides open with relief, or a step creaks its complaints out. If you know how to hear what those walls are saying, you will hear unbearable stories, stories you would never imagine possible, stories we would rather turn away from. But we cannot turn away, for they will only follow us. They will find us, one by one, alone and frightened, and tear us apart if we try to stop our ears up.

  The Blank family is still with us. The Olivers too. And those poor dead girls from Pittsburgh still linger, how
ling through the night as we try to sleep. And Jonas's father, the gun cracking his life open like a pocket watch, to let all of the time spill out of him. And now Jonas, too. Wherever he is, we hope he's restful. And Rose. Poor Rose. We don't hear from Rose, though. She never talked to us. She only listened.

  * * * *

  "What We Know About the Lost Families of—House” was written after I'd left my rural hometown in Ohio and had lived in a variety of suburbs, cities and beach towns only to come home years later and find the same voice of that town speaking in its same rhythms about the factories and the farms and the fields and the families that worked them. Hearing that voice again made me understand I had crossed many boundaries in my life. I was the only child in my family to graduate from college, the only one to leave the town my parents themselves had been born and raised in to live in other places, to learn another language even, when I eventually moved to Japan where I lived and worked for two years. That town's voice was a touchstone to the family that made me, but also revealed how I'd crossed out of that rural working class family into a world where I was able to be an academic, a writer, a world traveler, and many other things as well. That voice, the collective “we” of the story that knows so much about its citizens and yet so little of their inner lives, reminded me that I was both of that place I was born to, but not of it now as well, that I stood on a border between the many places that have shaped me ever since. The town in “What We Know About the Lost Families of—House” was the first place to mark my passage through this world, and no matter where I live and who I become I will always stand on its threshold, with one foot in those fields and farms and the other in the whole wide world beyond.

  Christopher Barzak

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  Post Hoc

  Leslie What

  Her boyfriend dumped her two months ago, and so far Stella hasn't been able to trick him into answering his phone. Caller ID. She should sue the guy who invented it. Because they really need to talk. At least, she does. Christopher's already said what he has to say; he's made that clear. Their last time together, they fought over who should have remembered the rubber. “This is why it should have been you,” Christopher explained. He wasn't sure he wanted a baby. Neither was she, but now she's gonna have one.

  Stella calls and leaves another message Christopher won't answer. If he only heard her voice, his heart would soften with compassion. If he saw her now, he'd see her changed body, her tall frame slightly stooped on account of the cramps the doctor said were normal, her nipples darkened to the color of freckles, the flattering swell of her breasts. He'd take pity on what she has become. She stares into her phone and wills him to answer. It's not much of a contest. His will doesn't give a damn.

  She tries yet another foolproof tactic and speed dials Pizza Schmizza to order a pizza, their pizza, heavy on the sliced red onions, black olives, and anchovies. She knows she shouldn't charge things over her cell phone, because criminals could steal personal information, but a case of credit card fraud might be an improvement to this feeling that nobody is listening. She adds a five-dollar tip to motivate the delivery guy, in case there's any problem at the drop-off.

  She imagines Christopher's look of confusion when he opens the door and inhales the irresistible aromas of sweet tomatoes and mozzarella toasted to a golden transparency. Naturally, he'll think of her, and hesitate before accepting the box. He'll lock the doors, slide home the bolts, and lower the blinds before sitting on the couch to contemplate the wisdom of eating a pizza of unknown origin. He'll resist flipping open the box until the aromatic premonition of salt and tang and sweet makes his stomach growl. It will only be a matter of time before he succumbs. She pictures him opening his mouth, tongue darting out to lick up sauce that's fled the tyranny of cheese. He'll chew, and think of her. She'll seize the moment, call him again; this time he'll pick up. They'll work things out. They'll marry. Hilo for the honeymoon. Snorkeling and hiking. Her last chance wearing a bikini without stretch marks. They'll have to hurry, or it could be a second trimester wedding. Higher chance of stretch marks. The dress will cost more, too. Extra fabric. She'll bear their son, and the boy will look just like his father. Christopher Junior. Thick, dark lashes that old ladies will notice and gush, “Why is it that only the boys have long lashes?” A child of such intelligence and kindness he will bridge the widening gap between her and her family, who think she's made too many poor choices in her young life and are practicing a modified form of Tough Love.

  Only one problem with her fantasy: the very act of visualizing the pizza produces nausea and she spends the rest of the night curled around the toilet, bent over in a bathroom interpretation of the Swan Lake ballet, the chance for a perfect moment ruined by hormonal imbalances. She's so sick to her stomach she can't calm her nerves with a cigarette, just as well. The doctor warned her smoking was bad for the baby.

  She needs another plan. Enough with the candygrams and e-cards, even an off-duty process server hired to deliver her proclamation of love. She's running out of options and there's only one thing left: mail herself to him. It's all done online now. Takes five minutes and ta-da! Insuring herself for the fifty dollars costs a buck thirty-five. The price doubles for each additional fifty. Since she's broke, there's no sense fretting about true value when the minimum is enough to ensure special handling. She arranges for her postman to pick up. Good thing she's doing this now, as the rates go up in another week. Some things never change, but postage isn't one of them.

  She prints Christopher's name, address, and postage onto a label, and recycles the shiny backing, a bit prematurely, as now she must wrestle with the sticky label and think about where to stick it. She checks the mirror to see if applying the label to her chest or forehead is more dignified, dignity being hard to come by when you're mailing yourself to your boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. At least, according to him.

  Forehead it is.

  Stella waits on the porch and at noon, her carrier—Joe—arrives, and hands her a catalogue from the community college she attended for one semester. Also a past due notice from the medical lab. Three rabbits, all dead, but she had to be sure. Joe notices the address label on her head and takes two seconds to understand what she's up to. His nod is sympathetic, patient. He says, “Gotta put you in back until I'm done for the day."

  "You do what you have to,” Stella says, disappointed Joe has made it so obvious she's not the first to resort to desperate measure.

  The postal van idles at the curb. “While you're at it,” she says, “would you mind taking my outgoing mail?” There's a postcard she's been meaning to send and a trial subscription to Working Mom.

  "Be happy to,” says Joe. He hoists her down the driveway and opens the swinging doors at the back of his van.

  She squats inside a nest of media mail lining a white plastic tub, one of many white tubs with slots cut out in the sides for easy lifting. Some of the tubs are small and filled with a toss of Number 10 envelopes and some are large enough to hold microwave ovens. On the side of each tub is a modernist silkscreen USPS blue eagle, a reminder there is order in chaos.

  Joe takes his seat in front, on the right side, and putt-putts up the street. “Feel free to read magazines,” Joe says. “Just don't tear out recipe cards, or I'll get complaints.” He pauses at the next mailbox, picks up a bundle of mail, and gently taps it home. He drives on. On the floor by his foot sits a copy of Post Office by Charles Bukowski.

  She pretends she's on her honeymoon, that she and Christopher are walking over warm beach sand, the fine, dry kind that doesn't stick to your skin or get trapped in your butt crack. She breathes into her sleeve to escape the mushroomy odor of newspapers, exhaust, and detergent samples. She is smelling for two, and it stinks.

  Joe finishes his route by five. He parks in the post office alley and transfers his white tubs onto a conveyor belt. He stamps Stella's cheek, Hand Cancel with red ink. “Oops,” he says, and wets his thumb, rubs small circles across her skin. “D
idn't mean to smudge."

  "It's okay,” she says, a little embarrassed by the personal attention.

  "Got it,” he says, and stops rubbing. “Have a good night."

  "I will,” she answers before disappearing behind a rubber flap that separates the natural world from the post office. The echo of footsteps tapping concrete punctuates the buzz of sorting machines that spit out stacks according to zip code. The conveyer belt transports her through the cryptic and industrious night world of the post office. There are no windows and no doors. It's a lot like being on one of those theme park rides, where you're told to keep your hands and arms inside the boat. Stella expects to hear the “It's a Small World” song cycle endlessly until it's a meme she can't get out of her head without deprogramming. She can't find a comfortable position, and in order to lie down in her box she must twist her body like a Möbius strip or her forearms and calves jut out from the sides. The night passes slowly and she considers giving up and going home, but she's too lonely to want to be alone. She watches the clock, counts the seconds. The shift supervisor takes note of her insomnia. “Let's see what we can do,” he says. He unlocks a cabinet, removes a thick roll of plastic, tears off lengths of bubble wrap and cushions her white tub with doubled-over sheets. “Double bubble,” he says.

  Memories of that sickly sweet pink chewing gum scent make her want to throw up. Her eyes are so dry the lids won't close without great effort. She's almost too tired to sleep. Her mind is still sorting facts, just not into neat stacks, and it's obvious that her life lacks the zip codes to make everything fall into place.

  The night shift supervisor says, “I have an idea,” and covers her tub with another just like it, building a cabin, of sorts, more of a box. The opaque plastic lets in the light, provides privacy and space to sit up. Her cabin is cozy enough, though you're never as comfortable as in your own bed. She dozes, wakes, dozes. In the morning she's processed alongside the rest of the local mail. They date stamp her elbow and cancel her lips. She bonks her forehead against the scanner, but as long as the address is still readable, she's told she's good to go. She's transferred to a crate containing other mail requiring special handling. There's a taxidermy skunk with no return address, a ripe pork sausage—casing ready to burst—with a note that says, “Thinking of you,” an oil-stained cardboard box labeled “Blubber from Alaska.” It's as if they are in this together, a frightening thought.