Traveling Left of Center and Other Stories

by Nancy Christie

  It might have been a story from a Dickens novel: abused child runs away from home, no one to turn to, no one to take him in other than even more abusive foster parents, reduced to living by his wits: begging, stealing, lying just to survive. He told it with no trace of self-pity—almost factually, as though it was a story he had read somewhere and retold just for her.

  “You know, it isn’t that hard to get into houses. People leave them unlocked, or they hide the key in a place anybody would think of,” Billy explained. “I could tell when people were gone away on a trip, too. They wouldn’t take their trash cans down on garbage day or the newspapers would be blowing all over the place.

  “No one ever caught me,” he boasted, twisting in his seat to look around the room. “It was easy.”

  She knew she ought to say something, tell him such behavior was wrong, and then call the police and send him away. But it was so dark now, so cold, and somehow, the house seemed less lonely with another person in it.

  “Would you like to stay here—for the night, I mean?” she asked, breaking the silence that had stretched out between them when his story was finished.

  He looked around again as though judging the value of the offer and then nodded his head before rising from his chair. “I’ll just lock the cellar door so no one else comes in. Okay?”

  While she washed the plates and cutlery, Agnes was conscious of Billy, drifting around the room. He picked up a high school photo of Brad and looked at it critically before putting it back. He fingered the television remote and then moved on to the radio sitting on the end table. Once or twice, she thought he was on the verge of opening a drawer or checking inside a closet but surely she was wrong. He was just bored, killing time until bed. That’s all.

  “Well, what should we do?” she said, putting away the last dish before joining him in the living room. “Or perhaps you’re tired and you’d rather go to sleep.”

  “Not me—not yet anyway,” he said, coming over to stand by her—almost too close. She found herself stepping back a bit but then, embarrassed by her instinctive recoil, put her hand on the back of the chair as if she just needed to steady herself. She didn’t want him to think she didn’t trust him when of course she did. He was just a child, after all. Somebody who needed to be watched over.

  “Well, then,” she said, and casting about for something to do, she caught sight of the domino game on the bookshelf. “Do you know how to play dominos, Billy? My husband Roger and I used to play every Sunday evening—” and she stopped, her throat suddenly full of grief.

  Billy glanced quickly up at her and then crossed the room to retrieve the game from the shelf. “Come on, then,” he said leading the way to the table. “Let’s play.”

  The rest of the evening passed quite enjoyably, even though Billy turned out to be an adept domino player, winning game after game until the clock chimed eleven. A few times she wondered if he were cheating—the light wasn’t especially bright and her sight was not as good as it used to be. It was difficult for her to make out the number of tiny black dots even on the ivory background, and although Billy couldn’t help but notice how closely she peered at each one, he never volunteered to tell her how many were there.

  Or maybe she was just being unfair. After all, he was young—how was he supposed to know what it was like to be old, how the sight failed until it was almost impossible to tell exactly what one was looking at?

  “I won again,” Billy announced, but with no trace of victory in his voice. How different from Roger, Agnes thought, who would take an almost childish glee in beating her game after game. But she didn’t mind losing. She wasn’t playing to win, just for company.

  “Yes, you did,” Agnes agreed, adding up her numbers before pushing the tiles into one large pile. “Now why don’t you help me put these away and then we can have something to eat before bed—some cocoa and cookies, I think. Would you like that, Billy?”

  He looked at her—a gaze she was hard put to identify—and then smiled winningly. “Yes, cocoa and cookies would be nice” almost, but not quite, mocking her.

  Yet it was nice, the two of them sitting on the sofa, munching slightly stale cookies and sipping the cocoa made from packets. So nice, in fact, that she was disappointed when he took his mug over to the sink and set it down. Billy, it seemed, was done with his bedtime snack and if she didn’t hurry, he might change his mind and leave her.

  Agnes gulped the rest of the hot liquid, burning her throat in the process, before pushing to her feet. “I’ll show you to your room,” sounding like an over-anxious hostess who is afraid her guests will leave before the party was officially over. “Just let me check the doors—”

  “And set the alarm,” Billy added with a slight laugh.

  She glanced at him quickly, not certain if he were making fun of her, but then decided it was just a harmless tease. “Yes, and set the alarm.”

  Once upstairs, she led the way to Brad’s old bedroom. “You can sleep here. I’ll get you a pair of my husband’s pajamas to wear. They’ll be large but at least you’ll be warm.”

  “The bathroom is down the hall,” she said, pointing in the direction away from the staircase, “and my room is that way, just before the steps. If you need anything, just call me.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll manage,” Billy answered. “And thanks so much for letting me stay. You know, most people wouldn’t let a stranger, even a kid, stay in their home like this. You really ought to be more careful.”

  Agnes shook her head and smiled. “That’s what my son keeps telling me. But, after eighty years, I like to think I am a good judge of people,” she said. “You seem like a good boy, Billy, who has just had some bad breaks. What you need is someone to look after you and keep you from going in the wrong direction.”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I guess I do need someone to watch me” and with that, he gently closed his door.

  Later that night, Agnes awoke to the sound of footsteps passing her door. She thought at first that Billy had forgotten the way to the bathroom, but when the staircase creaked (the third step from the bottom—the one that Roger had planned to fix and Brad never had time to look at), she knew he had gone downstairs.

  She pushed herself up from the bed and, pulling on her old terrycloth robe, she followed him. Perhaps he felt guilty about trespassing on her kindness. Perhaps he wanted to leave without making a fuss. Whatever it was he planned, she had to stop him. He was too young, too vulnerable, to live alone, by his wits. She was older—she could protect him, give him what he needed.

  But when she turned on the kitchen light, she found that what he needed—or wanted—wasn’t someone to protect him, unless he thought that someone was to be found in her silver chest. His hands were full of knives, forks, spoons—tarnished wedding presents from more than a half century ago.

  “Billy?”

  He looked up at her, no trace of guilt or remorse on his face. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

  There was no doubt in her mind that he planned to steal the items. And while she realized that she knew nothing about the boy—nothing except what he told her—she was suddenly too tired to cope with the disappointment. Tomorrow—tomorrow she would have a talk with him, the kind of talks she used to have with Brad when she caught him doing something wrong. Then he would understand and they could have a pleasant day together.

  “Put the silverware back and go to bed, Billy. We’ll talk about it in the morning,” her tone the same as when she would chastise Brad about some minor infraction.

  Billy carefully set the pieces down in their appointed slots, and then closed the chest.

  “You know, you really ought to polish these,” he remarked, as he passed her on the way to the stairs. “They’re nice pieces, but they need to be cleaned” and with that he climbed the stairs to his room.

  Agnes watched him go, feeling a trace of foreboding. Perhaps she had been too quick to give him a place to sleep. After all, she really didn’t know anything a
bout him. And the papers were full of stories about old people murdered in their beds by kids on drugs, looking for fast cash to feed their growing habit.

  “But Billy isn’t on drugs,” she said to herself, slowly climbing the stairs. “I would know, I’m sure. Any mother would know these things.”

  The next morning (after a restless night punctuated by dreams of being lost in an unfamiliar place), Agnes came downstairs to a veritable feast: scrambled eggs, toast spread with butter and jelly, even fresh-perked coffee—a treat she no longer allowed herself since Roger died. A pot of coffee was a waste, she had decided, since she drank only one cup a day.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Billy said, smiling up at her.

  She smoothed her hair and pulled the sash of her old robe a little tighter—the age-old feminine reaction to the presence of a male. And if, in some corner of her mind, she realized that the incident with the silver was not going to be addressed, she let it go. That was then, this was now. Perhaps this meal was Billy’s way of apologizing for abusing her trust.

  “Thank you” and she sat down, while he poured her coffee and set the sugar bowl and creamer within her reach. “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I already helped myself,” he answered, watching her. “I thought I would go to the store and get a few things—that was the last of the eggs, you know. And then maybe sweep the walk. The leaves can be very slippery. I wouldn’t want you to fall outside.”

  She stirred her coffee, blinking back the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes. It had been a long time since someone had looked after her. Once he had a stroke, Roger hadn’t been able to take care of himself, let alone do anything for her.

  She blew her nose before answering. “Thank you, Billy. Let me finish this wonderful breakfast you made for me and I’ll get you some money for the store.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said, slipping on his jacket—or was it Roger’s? She couldn’t tell without her glasses. “I have what I need” and with that, he was gone.

  In his absence, the breakfast lost its flavor. Agnes took only a few more bites of her toast before carrying her dish to the sink. Was this what she had come to—needing someone in her house to make meals worth eating, life worth living again?

  Slipping on her too large coat hanging on the back door hook, she walked out onto the small back porch, to throw what was left of her bread out for the birds. And it wasn’t until she came back into the house that she realized the alarm hadn’t sounded—there was no buzzing sound to alert her that a door had been opened and shut again. Surely she had set it last night before they had gone upstairs. She remembered Billy teasing her about it.

  Or had she forgotten to do it, distracted by having someone in the house? And if it had been on, then who had disarmed it?

  “I did,” Billy explained later when he returned. “I was going in and out, taking out the trash and things, and I was afraid that it would wake you up so I shut it off.”

  If she was surprised that he knew how to operate it, somehow had guessed the code, she didn’t let on. But for the rest of the day, as Agnes watched Billy sweep the walk and wash the dishes and haul the accumulation of newspapers and magazines out to the trash, she was torn between a sense of unease that this was all wrong and a fear that he might leave—that once he did everything he wanted to do, he would walk out the door and leave her here alone.

  That night, when she heard the footsteps on the stairs, she turned away from the sound. She didn’t want to know what he was doing; she didn’t want to confront him. She was afraid of what he might do. She was afraid he might leave.

  The next morning followed the same pattern set by the day before, except that Agnes changed out of her nightgown and into her Sunday dress before coming downstairs. The least she could do was dress a little nicer since she had company.

  Once again, Billy had made breakfast—pancakes, this time, topped with blueberry sauce, taking his seat across from her while they ate together. Instant coffee, though, she noticed, a little disappointed. But she didn’t want to ask why they weren’t drinking brewed. That would make her sound ungrateful, especially after he had made such a nice meal.

  Then, he went out. To do what? Agnes wasn’t sure and wasn’t going to ask. Instead, she put beef bones on to boil to make soup for lunch, and then rummaged through boxes in the attic to find some items of Brad’s that might fit the young boy. And later that night, after a dinner of meatloaf and canned corn and applesauce, she and Billy played dominos again.

  “You watch too much television,” he had said half teasingly when she had reached for the remote. “And there’s nothing good on anyway—just a lot of stories about crime. Come on, it’s time for our game.”

  Obediently, Agnes set the remote down and took her place at the table where the tiles awaited. It wasn’t until the next day, when the time came for the Judge Ruth Jones show, that she realized the television wasn’t working anyway. No matter which button on the remote she pushed, the screen remained stubbornly blank and unresponsive, the way Roger was at the end.

  “Billy?” she called, waiting for him to answer from the basement. He had said he was looking for a screwdriver—why, she didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. He was quite handy and no doubt, something needed fixing. Something always needed fixing in this old house, it seemed. And too many times, things were left unrepaired, because she didn’t have the knowledge or energy to take care of them.

  “What’s up?”

  She was startled. She hadn’t heard him approaching. She handed him the remote and gestured toward the screen.

  “It won’t work,” sounding for all the world like a little child with a broken toy. “I tried and tried but it won’t turn on.”

  Billy fiddled around behind the set and then emerged, his face slightly flushed.

  “I think the power supply is shorting out,” he said, not quite looking at her. He unplugged the television and carried it to the back door, and then set the remote control on top of it.

  “I’ll take it to someone who can fix it. Okay?” and without waiting for her answer, he slipped on his coat, propped open the door, and carried the television outside to the porch. Then he returned, carefully closing the door behind him.

  Agnes chose not to ask where he was taking her television or why the remote control had seemed unusually light in her hand—almost as though the batteries were missing.

  Instead, she went to the freezer and took out a package of chicken pieces.

  “I’ll make breaded chicken for dinner,” she decided, “and mashed potatoes”—even though she would have to mash them by hand. The stand mixer she had had for years was unaccountably missing, as was the percolator she would use to brew Roger’s coffee each morning—the same one Billy had used just the other morning.

  That night, Billy easily won all the domino games, partly because he really was very skilled, and partly because Agnes was too preoccupied to pay attention.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, as he returned the tiles into the box. “You’re not talking as much tonight,” and the look of concern on his smooth-skinned face warmed her heart and almost stopped her from what she was going to say.

  But a mother must look out for her young, she told herself. “No, Billy, but I think we have to talk about your future,” she said carefully, not looking at him, “I mean you can’t stay here forever, you know. Someone will be looking for you and I could get into a lot of trouble, keeping you here without permission.”

  He closed the dominos box and set it on the shelf, right where the silverware chest used to be.

  “Billy?”

  “Tell you what,” he said finally, “let’s talk about this in the morning. We’ll get it all straightened out then.”

  “My son is coming tomorrow,” she said, surprising herself. It wasn’t like her to tell falsehoods but somehow, she felt it was important for him to know she wasn’t alone—not really—although Brad hadn’t come to see her in months. “We’ll need to explain
it to him.”

  “Go to bed, Agnes,” Billy said gently, and, turning her toward the steps, he gave her a slight push, the way a parent might send a recalcitrant child off to sleep.

  The next morning when Agnes awoke (far later than usual), there was an unaccustomed quiet to the house. No noises from the kitchen, no aroma of breakfast wafting up the stairs—and when she came downstairs, she found the house deserted.

  Billy was gone. And the grocery money she kept in the kitchen drawer and the silver tea set she and Roger had received from Brad on their fiftieth wedding anniversary and the mantel clock Roger had brought from England when he came back from the war. And even the domino set—although she couldn’t imagine it had much value on the street.

  They were all gone. She was left with nothing, no one.

  Agnes walked to the back door and looked out, watching, watching, even though there was nothing, no one, to see—even though she didn’t really expect to see Billy.

  “Billy?” she called, and then louder, “Billy?”

  But no one answered.

  She shut and locked the door, and then walked over to the alarm panel. Four zeroes and the alarm was set.

  She knew she ought to call the police, report the theft, provide them with a description of the young boy. Or, at the very least, she ought to call her son, tell him how foolish she had become in her old age, agree that a nursing home would be the best place for her before something really bad happened.

  Instead, she put on some water to boil for instant coffee and, when she couldn’t find the toaster, settled for buttering a slice of cold, bread.

  And then sat down to watch for Billy.

  The Healer

  “Just let me touch you. Please—just one touch. The tip of my finger, then. Please, can I touch you with the tip of my finger? Please? Just for a second. Please!”

  Begging. Pleading. The voice of desperation. Cassie had heard it so many times before and, in the beginning, in the early days, had found it impossible to ignore. So she would stand there, let them touch her, stroke her face, cut tiny pieces of faded cloth from her shirt, her jeans—once, even a strand of hair from her head, done so quickly that she couldn’t shield her skin from the sharp blade of the scissors. And with each touch, she felt more of herself being taken, being lost.