Never Wake

by Gabrielle Goldsby

  He could picture Desdemona sitting at the desk and writing her letters while watching the comings and goings of her neighbors. He wondered what she’d thought of Troy Nanson. Since they lived across the street from each other, they had to have interacted. Did Desdemona bake her cookies? Or did she call the police if Troy so much as glanced toward her mailbox? Maybe they just waved to each other in the same “I don’t want to get involved” way he and Teresa did with their neighbors.

  Abe stood up, and his hand went to his lower back where he kneaded the tense muscles there. His stomach complained as it had done off and on for the last few hours. He wished that he had stopped to get food on his way in. Rather than risk missing Troy, he’d had to make do with the one edible thing in Desdemona’s house, popcorn. Not the microwave kind. Desdemona just had the kind you popped yourself, using a pan or skillet. Besides, she had no microwave. He had read the directions twice, but still burned the first batch. The second came out white and fluffy. It was apparent that Desdemona worried about her salt intake because he had to settle for No-salt and unsalted butter. Still, he had to admit it was better than the microwave stuff he treated himself to when Teresa wasn’t around to throw out comments about the small bulge that had appeared where his flat stomach had once been.

  Abe grunted. He had passed the annoyed stage hours ago. Where in the hell was she? They always went home, didn’t they? It made no sense to him that this Troy Nanson could screw up his study on his first outing—unless… He stared at the darkened cottage. Could she have come and gone while he was sleeping? He had dozed off twice and awakened to the sound of his own snoring.

  Maybe she’d seen him. No, that wasn’t possible. He’d been too careful. Even if she’d been home when he was breaking into Desdemona’s place, he would have seen her leave by now. He had been watching for three days and in all that time there hadn’t been any hint that she had ever come home.

  This was not going as he had planned. Jake Ostroph and Emma Webster were not the least bit interesting. He thought for sure that Troy would be worth his attention, but he couldn’t even find her.

  “Where in the hell…”Abe left the sentence unfinished. Crying about it would do him no good. He would just have to find her. He had waited long enough. He walked out of Mrs. Bernard’s house, and the woman who had been his sole companion—even though she didn’t know it—for the last three days was dropped from his mind like the unimportant memory that she was.

  The one person capable of holding his interest had been Troy. Why she had taken on a more important position than the others he didn’t know. But there was something about her that intrigued him. He felt she was the key to the answers he was seeking. The others meant nothing to him now, backups, if necessary, but not worth the time it would take to observe them.

  Abe tested the doorknob and smiled. Of course she hadn’t left the door open. That would be too easy. He thought about putting his foot through it, but instead went around the side of the cottage to look for a less obvious way in. Like he’d done at Mrs. Bernard’s. Troy’s bathroom would be small and prone to mildew if not aired properly and, sure enough, as Abe rounded the corner and walked down the two-foot walkway on the side of Troy’s cottage, he spotted the open bathroom window. Also, like Mrs. Bernard, Troy’s view was of brown siding that had seen better days twenty years before. The bathroom window was small, but Abe was tall, and contrary to what Teresa thought, still quite thin.

  He landed with a thud on the floor and lay there, struggling to catch his breath. What if she was in the house and he had just alerted her, like an idiot, to his presence? Abe forced himself to lie still even though his elbow smarted and the small of his back felt like someone had just pummeled it. His raspy breathing sounded loud in the tight quarters. Abe pulled himself to his feet with the help of Troy’s pedestal sink and opened the bathroom door. He heard the hum of an appliance, but nothing else.

  As he had suspected, Troy’s floor plan was the same as Mrs. Bernard’s, but it was obvious that Troy was not a believer in making things homey. From where he stood, he could see the living room and most of the kitchen. The living room consisted of hardwood floors, a black futon, a chair, a TV and TV cart, and dark brown walls that had no evidence of ever having pictures on them. Desdemona had too much furniture and Troy seemed to have too little. His groaning stomach dictated that he find something to eat before he allowed himself to look around further.

  A wet bar and a bank of cabinets were all that separated the narrow kitchen from the living room. The kitchen was a perfect rectangle. It had a gas stove at one end, and the refrigerator whined from its spot against the wall. The refrigerator was similar to one his nana had when he was a kid. By age fourteen, he could prop his elbow on top of it if he wanted to. Abe snatched an open bag of pretzels from the top of the refrigerator and wolfed them down as he walked into the living room. A bicycle frame leaned against a wall near the front door, and a poster tube leaned against another wall. Abe’s eyes were drawn to the black futon again. He walked over to it and sat down, his lower back protested as he leaned back. A pillow and a folded comforter had been left at one end. She’d sat here, maybe slept exactly where he was sitting.

  Abe sighed. “How depressing.” His voice sounded sharp and cruel in the empty room. A pair of shoes, slim with some kind of rubberized spikes on the sole, had been left on the floor.

  He was a bit disappointed by Troy’s home. He had expected pictures or chatchkas that would give him more insight into her personality. Ha, you think you know this girl from watching her for two minutes? Abe stood up; there was no point in spending too much time dwelling on it. There were two other doors to look behind before he had to leave with his tail tucked between his legs. With any luck, one of them would hold a clue to Troy’s whereabouts.

  The first door led to a closet that looked like a graveyard of bike parts. Frames, wheels, and seats had been stashed in every available space. Four bike chains hung from the clothing rod and the scent of motor oil or something similar assailed Abe’s nose.

  He closed the closet and opened what he figured would be Troy’s bedroom. He fought down his initial disappointment and walked in. Although her living room and kitchen were both neat, this room looked as if it hadn’t been lived in. Abe looked at the bedspread, the two end tables, the bureau, the curtains, and then he looked back out into the drab living room. It was like a movie he had once enjoyed on cable TV where two kids were sucked into a black--and-white TV show. This is odd. Abe rifled in his pocket for a small silver box the size of a cell phone. Did she create this, or is this how she lives? Abe walked over to the end table and started to sit down on the bed. He paused and instead of sitting down, he slid open the small drawer on the nightstand. Troy had placed a paperback book, two rings, a small locket, a newspaper clipping, and a tri-fold flyer inside. The clipping was an obituary. Pictured in the obituary, Patricia Rose Harvey, age thirty, had her head thrown back and seemed to be laughing at something the photographer was saying. The tri-fold flyer was Patricia Harvey’s funeral program, but it made no mention of Troy Nanson as surviving relative or friend, although it mentioned others. But who was she? A relative? A roommate? Not with one bed—.

  Abe sank down on to the bed. “I’ll be damned.” He tried not to notice the disappointment, but it was there. But why wouldn’t Raife Paterson mention that she was gay? Abe had assumed that there had been a relationship between the two. Abe closed his eyes. He had made the cardinal mistake. He had assumed. His stomach quailed and the pretzels he had consumed threatened to come back up.

  His attraction to Troy Nanson had been so textbook that even he had known what it stemmed from. She was his creation, his triumph: walking, talking, strong, and beautiful. It made perfect sense that he would love her. So what if she looked nothing like the women he dated before and after his marriage? So what if she would never look at him twice on the street? Abe had felt something when he watched her flee the hospital, even though she hadn’t known what she
was running from.

  And now this.

  His anger startled him so much that he laughed out loud. So what if she’s gay? It’s not as if you had any real thoughts of ever starting something with the girl. Abe placed the obituary back in the drawer and noted the cemetery where Patricia Rose Harvey was buried, then closed the drawer. Abe stood and smoothed the wrinkles out of the bed, on the off chance that Troy did return home. He had a feeling she would know someone had been in her home. That is, if she missed the fact she had broken glass all over her bathroom floor.

  *

  She didn’t look the way she was supposed to. Or at least not the way Troy had imagined her. Of course, she’d also assumed that when they met face to face, there would be eye contact, but she had gotten that wrong, too.

  Troy felt unkempt. She always did when she met new people. The fact that this Emma, this woman she didn’t even know, could make her feel like she wasn’t worthy made her angry.

  Emma glanced at her and then back at the floor. Her eyes are weird. Not quite blue, more a steely, grayish-blue and they look dilated. Is she high? No, has to be a trick of light. Troy thought about taking a step closer, but one look at Emma’s frightened face told her that it was best she stay where she was.

  “Sorry about your window.” Troy hated how gruff her voice sounded.

  Emma looked up at her then. Troy was so disappointed to realize that Emma’s eyes were, indeed, normal, everyday blue that she almost didn’t register Emma’s words when they came.

  “I don’t have any food,” Emma said.

  Hot licks of anger warmed Troy’s ears. “I don’t want your food. Is that why you think I came up here? To try to steal your food? Wake up, lady. Food is pretty much ripe for the pickings out there. Why in the hell would you think I’d sit on that damn curb for three days—?”

  Emma stepped back to escape Troy’s anger. “I meant,” she said, her voice soft and steady as if she were talking to a rabid dog, “I meant to ask if you had any food?”

  She’s scared shitless. She wouldn’t have let me up here if she hadn’t been hungry. The realization froze any angry words before they left Troy’s lips. “When’s the last time you ate?” she asked.

  Emma looked toward her kitchen as if it could give her the answer. “What day is it?”

  “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Troy started toward her.

  Emma’s face went slack and pale. She held up her hands and took another step back.

  “What’s wrong with you? Oh, my God.” Her laugh sounded harsh and mirthless. “You’re not going to tell me you have a problem with black people, are you? ’Cause last time I looked, fifty percent of the viable populace of Portland is black,” Troy pointed to her chest, “and the other fifty percent,” she pointed to Emma, “has no right…” Troy stopped speaking as Emma’s face went from shock to disbelief and then anger.

  “I am not prejudiced,” she said as if Troy had just accused her of being a Republican.

  “Good,” Troy let her bag slide to the floor, “glad to hear it.” She stooped and fished around inside the bag. Her eyes burned, her head ached, and she felt like someone had punched her in the kidney. She set each item on the floor, one by one. A can of Slim Jims, a large bag of peanuts, a bag of potato chips, and two packages of cheese and crackers. She looked at the stash feeling like she had just asked a date to share her kid’s meal. She picked up the chips and held the bag out to Emma. “Sorry, none of it’s good for you. I wasn’t thinking about nutrition when I took it.”

  Emma stared at Troy’s outstretched hand. “You just—took all that?”

  Troy looked from the junk food to Emma. What is she, nuts? “Yeah, I took it. Why didn’t you…?” The rest of the sentence wedged in her throat as she took in the condo and Emma’s appearance.

  Although she did have a lot of books, they fit neatly on her bookshelves, and there were no towers of old newspapers, nor did she see or smell twenty-three cats or sixteen Chihuahuas. But from what she had just gleaned, this woman had not left this condo even after she had many clues that something was wrong outside. What would she have done if Troy hadn’t ridden by?

  Troy dropped her hand to her side. Emma was looking down at the snacks lined up on the floor as if she didn’t know what they were. Great. I find someone else awake, and she’s a fucking nut.

  “I’m not crazy.”

  Emma’s voice sounded so sad that Troy regretted the direction her thoughts had taken her and then felt silly. “I didn’t say you were.” Troy held out the chips. Emma looked as if she wasn’t going to take them. But then her hand came up, and Troy pressed the bag into it. Her fingers brushed against Emma’s soft palm. Troy met Emma’s eyes and shoved her hands in her pockets. Emma parted her lips to say something but didn’t. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t look scared.

  “Why’d you wait three days to let me come up?” Troy asked before Emma could further protest.

  “I didn’t want to…”

  “You didn’t want to let me up. Right, I get that. Why’d you let me sit out there all this time if you never intended on letting me in?”

  Troy expected her to rip into the snacks, but she hadn’t. The chips seemed forgotten in one hand while the other hand gripped the cane so hard that her knuckles looked white and shiny. Her hands, like the rest of her, were slim, but she was by no means emaciated. Even if she was hungry now, Troy didn’t think she had been for very long. “How’d you get food before?” She kept her voice quiet, her hands in her pockets.

  A twitch began at the side of Emma’s mouth. “Kirkwood delivers it to me. I placed two orders, but nothing came. I was going to try another store when you rode by.”

  “You didn’t know the rest of the world was asleep until I rode by and told you?” Troy couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice. “How in the hell could you not know?”

  “I…suspected. I don’t go out much.” She held out her cane. Troy studied her, and Emma looked away. She looks the way white folk look when they don’t want to see themselves as you see them.

  “What are we going to do?” Emma asked.

  “What are we going to do?” Troy repeated. We are going to leave you to your suicide while I continue with my own plans. “I don’t know. Like I said down there, I have no idea what the hell’s going on or why it’s happening. I do know that, other than you, I haven’t found anyone else awake in the last three days.”

  “Did you try a phone?”

  Troy nodded. “On the first day. I spent hours trying different numbers, 911, long distance, the international operator. No one ever answered.”

  “So you’re saying…you’re saying it’s not just Portland?”

  Compassion flooded through Troy. She’d had almost four days to digest what had appeared to have happened, and it was still a hard thing to swallow, but she had accepted it somewhat. Emma, it seemed, hadn’t. At least not yet.

  “There’s no one?”

  “Not that I’ve found. Just me. And now you.”

  “How about the newspapers? Maybe we should check a few weeks back—”

  “Checked all that the day after I woke up. I was hoping to find some passing mention of, hell, I don’t know, a gas leak in some third-world country that ended up being worse then anyone realized, but,” Troy shrugged, “there’s no mention of anything out of the ordinary. What ever happened out there must have happened too fast.”

  Emma turned away from her and sat down on a built-in seat beneath the window. She sat there watching me. Troy should have been embarrassed, but she wasn’t.

  “All sleeping?” Emma asked again, mulling it over. Troy didn’t say anything. She had told Emma as much days ago, but for some reason Emma just now seemed to be taking in the full ramifications.

  “Did you see any accidents?”

  “Accidents? What, you mean like car accidents? No, no, I didn’t. I was so—” Troy paused as she relived the horror of finding the city comatose all over again.

  �
�I understand,” Emma said. Their eyes met and Troy had the feeling she did understand.

  That’s crazy. How could she, when she’s been in her safe little hidey hole. Troy pushed away her resentment and asked, “When did you first notice things weren’t right?”

  “When my groceries didn’t come the second time. I also noticed that the building cleaning crew didn’t come on their normal day.” Emma flushed again. “I wasn’t sure, though. It’s real easy to lose track of what day it is.”

  Troy wanted to ask how a woman Emma’s age could be capable of losing track of days, but she pointed to the desk in the center of the room instead. “May I?” Emma hesitated and then nodded. Troy walked over to her desk and picked up a pen and paper. “When did you say you noticed?”

  “At least four days ago.”

  “Uh- huh, June seventh. That’s the day after I woke up in the hospital.”

  “You were in the hospital?”

  Troy looked up. “Yeah, everyone in the place was out cold. I thought I’d been in an accident.” Now it was Troy’s turn to feel heat surface on her face. “I didn’t have money for the hospital bill, so I skipped out.”

  “What hospital was it?”

  “Small place out near Southeast Thirty-First Street.”

  Emma frowned. “Must be new.”

  Troy shrugged. “I don’t know. All the staff was asleep. It was kind of creepy, so I left. I thought it was weird, until I found the rest of the world was the same. Man, I never knew it could be that quiet.”

  “That must have been hard to deal with.”

  Troy shrugged again. “It was what it was. I dealt with it fine,” she said, and then wondered why she felt the need to lie to someone who was so afraid of her own shadow that she was willing to starve rather than leave her own home.

  “What about fires? Did you see any fires?”

  “Fires? No, no, I didn’t. I see where you’re going, though. If people just fell asleep you’d think they would—I don’t know—burn themselves up with cigarettes in their hand or food left on stoves or something. I didn’t see any of that. If they had warning or time to turn off stoves, there would be something on the Net or in the newspaper.”