Entangled Moon

by E. C. Frey

  He stepped to the door, avoiding the blood splatter and brain matter.

  Before exiting the apartment, he cocked his head and stared at her open eyes. He could still see the moment of surprise lingering in the hollowness of her death. It was like that flash in the moment when a light is turned on and then quickly extinguished. He often thought of taking a picture afterwards, but that would be reckless. The last thing he wanted was there to be definitive proof. No, it was far better to simply remember, to allow the imprint on his brain to sustain him. Besides, he had her hair. Once he had it safely hidden away, stored under dehumidified conditions, it would not fade or decay in his lifetime.

  He shut the door quietly and joined his employer in the hall. Together, the two men descended the worn steps.

  He watched as his companion stopped at the bushes, pulled his zipper down, closed his eyes, and stroked himself until his hardness wasted itself, then smiled and pissed long and hard into the thicket.

  Thunder grumbled closer.

  He laughed. “Shall I get you a cigarette?”

  The other man smiled, and they both slid into the car and drove away.

  He stirred in his hiding spot. The smell of hot piss mingled with the wetness of the air. Everywhere, the stench of urine and wet earth mixed until he thought he would throw up. He was getting soft. He wondered whether the bird’s husband had anything to do with the gunshot that had brought out a sole neighbor, who quickly shut her door after opening it. The husband was long gone, but the men who left must have been hot on his heels to get to her apartment so soon afterwards.

  He needed to get far away. No bushes could hide him when the police arrived.

  He crouched and ran through the streets until he was clear.

  A flash of light, followed by a crack of thunder, split the air.

  He listened to the sirens in the distance. They were closing in.

  He continued through the trees until his sides burned. Then he found a dark corner of the park and unsheathed his needle and syringe. Another flash of light and another crack stirred the air and he felt the hairs on his skin lift.

  Deep darkness descended.

  His hands trembled as he set up the old spoon, lit the lighter, and melted the rock. A strong storm was brewing, and he didn’t want to be caught out in the open.

  He thought of his bird. Heather. He would have to tell her the truth of the woman’s death. Her husband had betrayed her, but that was his only sin. Someone else had pulled the trigger.

  “Heather,” he whispered to himself. He would have to find her. Yes. He would have to tell her.

  He slid under a musty, ragged-edged picnic table and found soft ground. He let the liquid slide through his veins until it found his place of forgetting, and he let his head and eyes roll back. The storm would have its way.

  He let go.

  2 Heather

  This house, my home, used to be my sanctuary. When I was tired or the world became too big, I could shut the door and something magical happened. The world became less big and I, surrounded by walls, could hear the tempo of my heart, my mind free from its own noise. But now this house no longer holds me. Instead it closes in on me, and I cannot hear myself. Relentless demands fill my ears until I cannot bear it anymore. It is as if all the past lives of captured flies haunt me, surround me, drown me in their swarm, the buzzing and whirring reducing me to nothingness. I am becoming nothing. I am stuck here waiting for the plumber. He, too, will reduce me to nothing.

  My nails click impatiently on the counter. Click. Click. I clasp my hands together. Knuckles white with effort. But why should I stop? At least it reminds me I am still here. Or perhaps it is disembodied noise and I, gone, only hear the echo. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand. Blood seeks the surface and reddens the paleness.

  I am still here.

  “Where is that man?”

  He was supposed to be here twelve minutes ago. Twelve minutes of torture. Twelve minutes from a rare lunch hour. Uselessness turned into nothingness. What was his name? Ralph. Ralph and Sons. The plumber. His name, not even highlighted in the yellow pages, proves I am disappearing. I am reduced to hiring no-name no-box plumbers. The growling in my stomach echoes in my ears. I snap on yellow gloves and retrieve the bleach. Everything has its place. Even me.

  The intensity of the smell, pungent and antiseptic, soothes and repulses me. Mother loved its virtues. Mother! Bleach washes away all manner of sin. It also necrotizes. But water never eradicates evil. Evil just sits there and stinks up the high heavens. Heaven being the place you could get to if only you could apply enough bleach to all your transgressions. A good scrub helps but all the sodium hypochlorite in the universe is not enough. There is not nor was there ever a cure for wickedness.

  I never understood the point of getting on with it, except, I suppose, Mother didn’t want to have to tell people why her daughter had disappeared. Or maybe she just needed an excuse to buy bleach.

  I’ve been shrinking my whole life, but it wasn’t until a night long ago that even I noticed. It was a night of promise that turned into a night of fire and rage. An end to trump the best of beginnings, but the end was only the beginning. I went home to be fully baptized in the horror. Baptized in the full contents of the undiluted bottle of bleach, all ninety-six fluid ounces, each an ounce of torture, the liquid flowing into my open cuts, burning and cauterizing the moment, sealing it deep inside my heart. Mother watched me as the faucet spewed water into the bathtub. My tomb. I tried not to squirm, not to breathe, to become invisible, but she knew better and pulled the plug on the next bottle. My defiance enraged her. Her fists tight, she pummeled my head, careless of the bruises others would see. She broke her own rules. It was in that moment that I learned to watch. Like Mother. Outside, the fire burned the hill. We both watched the amber glow lick and shudder at the shadows. It is in the watching that one shrinks into the darkness.

  That was the first night I carved it into my screaming skin, Death moon. The red drips of blood seeped into and were caught by the dead and peeling skin left from the bleach bath.

  Twenty minutes late. I empty the bottle and the kitchen sink glistens white in the high sunlight. I open the cabinet to toss the bottle, but the smells assault me and my eyes cloud. I retch, swimming in the heavy mixture of memories and trash smells. Rancid cereal milk, rotting banana skins, decaying fat trimmed from last night’s steak, old potatoes from the dark pantry, tomatoes with wrinkled skins and oozing middles, all the detritus of domesticity. Life is ugly like that. The bleach gone and my handiwork ruined. I rinse the sink, but it is soiled beyond redemption. It isn’t like water can save me from the stench. Darkness oozes into the hairline fractures of the porcelain and spreads like blood pumping through tiny spider veins. I cannot stop it. It threatens to travel the floor, the walls, the ceiling, until the house is covered in veins of filth.

  I flip the garbage disposal switch and yank at the gloves, pulling each finger free from its rubber confines.

  The whirring halts and the echo of its finale reverberates through the house.

  Twenty-five minutes and I am still alone.

  I have always done everything that was asked of me; I have never deviated from the course others have chosen for me. I’ve watched my own life. Here’s Heather. And I have always waited the way I am waiting now—for someone else. This time, it’s for some random plumber to come tell me what has to be done to fix my bathtub faucet. For this man I have never laid eyes on to come into my house and put his banged-up wrench to the faucet I spent hours poring over magazines and shopping home decorating stores to find so I could get the look just right, so I could be absolved of all criticism. Waiting. Disappearing.

  I disappeared into the business program at my father’s alma mater. In Georgetown, 3,000 miles away from my posse and 3,000 miles from my art. My life was mapped out for me before I walked, before I knew my name. At school, all that reminded me that I still existed, that meant something, that spoke my heart, was silen
ced. Each art brush wrapped in a salvaged piece of tissue paper, the old cardboard box the only protection from the assailing dust of decay.

  It was in Georgetown that I married Brandon Collings. Handsome and self-assured, he was everything I wasn’t. He could not free me from my watchfulness and he could not make me visible. I shrank instead. Mother adored him.

  Twenty-seven minutes. I again snap on the gloves and empty the contents of an abrasive cleaner into the sink, the powder airlifting and assaulting my airways. I cough and my eyes burn, but I have to clean. I scrub and still the filth creeps. I need more bleach.

  Twenty-nine minutes. I flip the garbage disposal on and off and listen as the whirring dies, but footsteps fill the void. My ears thrum with the noise of blood. Go away. How long have the footsteps been moving? Was someone watching me as I scrubbed with my back to the house?

  The stairs creak.

  The doorbell rings and the house stills. Dust swirls and settles where the sunshine streams through the window. The doorbell rings again.

  The stairwell is empty, but someone has been there. You know when something has been there even when it no longer is.

  I open the door before the bell can ring again. Ralph Smith and Sons Plumbing. Is it Ralph or a son?

  “I’ve been waiting thirty minutes.”

  “Um-hmm.” He sighs and hitches his tool belt. His eyes travel to my Playtex-covered hands and then to my suit.

  I remove the gloves and throw them on the nearest chair—my most elegant chair in my most elegant foyer.

  The plumber shrugs.

  I am shrinking or my house is stretching.

  “It’s your dime, ma’am.”

  “Fine. It’s this way.”

  The thickly carpeted stairs are silent as we ascend. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. What made them creak a moment ago? Ralph or Son is behind me, but I still don’t feel safe. It is the same feeling that has been following me all day.

  The bedroom floor is even and quiet as we cross it. Still, someone or something has been in here. It is as if the air has rearranged itself.

  Ralph or Son unscrews the faucet filter and fiddles with it. “Your water is high in minerals. Your filter is clogged. You need to rinse and clean it unless you want to put in a water softener.”

  “Do you install water softeners?”

  “Yes, but it really is very easy to rinse the filter. You’ll still need to even if you put in a softener.”

  “Right now, I prefer the softener. I simply don’t have time to rinse the filter.” I need to get out of here.

  We need to go.

  Quickly.

  The man produces a rag from his pocket, shifts his weight, and wipes his hands. “All right. We’ll need to figure out the type of softener.”

  Do I have a choice? All the noise he makes will keep whatever it is away. I calculate the time needed, more time away from the office, now the entire lunch hour. “Fine. I’d like you to do it now, please.”

  “It’s not quite that easy. My wife can call you with your options and make an appointment.”

  “I can’t do this another day. I’ve already taken up my entire lunch hour. Can’t you just get one from your truck and do it, whatever it is you need to do? I wouldn’t know one softener from another.”

  His brow wrinkles and his eyes contain a hint of disdain. It is ridiculous. I have a more important job than he. I know my place. Clearly, he doesn’t know his. Or maybe he does and I don’t.

  “Ma’am, I don’t keep softeners in my van,” he says. “My wife can call you. I’m sorry.”

  “I see. Fine. Call me tonight.”

  He shifts his weight again and continues to wipe his hands slowly. “My wife will call you tomorrow—”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow. I work for a living.”

  He sighs. “Ma’am. She can call you at work.”

  “Oh.” I write the number on a piece of paper. The cold is moving in. I shiver. It’s time to go back to work. There is nothing that can be done here. Ralph or Son is unhelpful and would no doubt be equally so if my stalker were to emerge. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, but I still feel the panic. Sour saliva spills across my tongue. I can’t heave here. Not in front of this man.

  The man shifts his weight again and looks around. “Can I use your table to write the invoice?”

  “What? No. I need to get back to work. I would prefer it if you billed me or let me pay you when you come back with the softener.”

  “I don’t do business that way. There’s no guarantee you’ll go with me to do the softener. I have to do my invoices at time of service. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too, but I have to get back to work.” I need to get him outside. We have to get out of here.

  I grab my purse and walk to the door.

  He gives up and follows me. “All right. My wife will call you and we’ll settle up later?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I take one last look at the empty stairwell. It is bigger.

  I pull the door shut but it squeaks open before I can lock it. There is movement upstairs and the distinct smell of smoke enters my nostrils. A haze creeps with it. I grab the door, slam it, lock it, and move a little too quickly. My heel catches a pebble and there’s no chance to catch myself. I lie there like an idiot, sprawled on the asphalt in front of Ralph or Son. He moves to help me, but I quickly get up.

  Something is watching me. My hose are torn. I have another pair at work.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Do you want me to help you back into the house?”

  “What? No.”

  “But your hose are ripped.”

  “That’s fine. I have more at work.”

  I hate the look on his face. If only it was acceptable to slap a stranger. Fiona can. She always could. I wrap my arms around myself, but it is more than just this man. It is whoever is watching me. It is as if I am naked, my bones rattling inside a bag of skin. I scratch my nails along the skin of my arms, but I can’t feel anything even as furrows of red materialize.

  “I’m fine. Really. I have to go.”

  It is time to get an alarm system. Everyone in Fairfield County has an alarm system. How else does one keep the riffraff at bay? One simply can’t live on the Gold Coast of Connecticut without one.

  The keys dig into the palm of my hand as I unlock the car door. Pain is merciful. I can feel. I am still here.

  I raise my hand in farewell as I pass Ralph or Son. He too will soon be gone from the property. What will happen then? Will the house come alive with whatever or whoever is in it? I will know by nightfall. For all I care, it can burn down like all those houses from so long ago. The flames reminded me of monsters the way they jumped at will and growled and snarled like dragons.

  I take one last look in the rearview mirror. There is no helping it. Some unseen force bids me. An upstairs curtain flutters as a shadow moves across the interior space. The windows are sealed. This I know. I would never leave a window open, even when the forecast says there’s a zero percent chance of rain.

  I ease up on the accelerator and look hard for something more solid than a shadow. I will it to show itself. I have the safety of distance. What is the point in resisting if you don’t know what you are up against? Even with Mother, I at least knew. I could usually see her fists before they got me even if I couldn’t move fast enough to avoid them.

  The shadow halts and returns the stare.

  The door to Ralph or Son’s truck slams and startles me. Does he know someone is watching him too? Can he feel it? But no, he doesn’t look, just slips behind the wheel.

  I peer back at the house. The outline of something lingers, then turns and vanishes into the shadows.

  It would be pointless to call the police. They would think I was crazy. I would have to wait while they investigated and then stick around to answer questions. Then they would twist everything around like they always do. They would accuse me of see
ing things, or worse, they would accuse me of doing something—to myself, to my home. They would look accusingly at the nail lines along my arms or the scars on my hands or the hint of something etched in my skin peeking out from a hemline and they would whisper things to each other, shake their heads in acknowledgment, and snicker as they returned to their cars. They would pause long enough to write something in their little notepads. “Crazy woman spins lies again.” And they would return me to Mother.

  Things are always worse after talking to the police. No. I have to get back to work.

  I don’t really want to know what is in the house anyway. And it definitely doesn’t want to present itself to anyone but me. Otherwise, it would have been there when Ralph or Son was clearing the faucet filter, when he was stooped over and his back was turned to the door. No. It is better not to be there.

  Brandon, my knight in shining armor, can deal with it. He, too, has accused me of making things up. Let him see it.

  I grab the steering wheel and floor the accelerator.

  Better yet, I can take Shannon somewhere after daycare and we can arrive home well after Brandon. Just in case he decides to work late.

  Shannon. My miracle. Her name alone softens the edges around my discomfort.

  I pull into a parking space at company headquarters. I slide my identification badge through the reader and press through the turn-stile. Nothing can get me here. There is too much concrete and there are too many witnesses. I would scream. They would have to hear me. They would have to acknowledge that I am visible. And there is security.

  I wave to the guard. He barely glances and nods. But he would have to do more than grunt if I were attacked.

  The elevator doors open and a mass of people spews out, but I stand my ground. I am tired of waves passing over me. They are nothing more than non-exempts anyway. They and the cafeteria are the first defense against the world.