Come to Dust

by Bracken MacLeod

  “I like yours too. It’s like mine,” Sophie said, pulling at one of her own curls. “Build a pyramid,” Sophie commanded, holding out a handful of blocks. Liana smiled at the precociousness of a four-year-old who demanded pyramids like a miniature Nile queen. Without complaint, she started stacking, and even though she couldn’t get the tribute to the toddler’s magnificence more than a second layer high before Sophie dashed it to pieces with a little hand, she kept trying, the both of them laughing. She played and when the sitter came back with dinner, Liana gave the child a big hug and said, “We’ll see you later, hon.”

  Mitch was definitely in love.

  • • •

  In the car on the way to dinner, she never asked about the girl’s absent mother. She didn’t comment on the state of the apartment—littered with the debris of a young girl at play and semi-neglected by a man who worked full-time, parented the rest of the day, and was too tired to pick up every night. Instead, she told him about her own niece who was going to be starting middle school in the fall. She talked about how important family was, and that she respected a man who stepped up for his blood, even if she wasn’t his. “Not enough brothers take responsibility.”

  “I’m not sure I qualify as a brother.” He held out his arm showing the blue veins visible under his pale skin.

  She feigned shock. “Whaaaat?” Backhanding him playfully again in the chest, she said, “You know what I mean.” He wished she’d touch him again, even if it was just to hit him.

  Dinner at the taqueria was good. The movie was better. Scary in all the right places. And she grabbed his arm at the big reveal at the end, sending his stomach tumbling again with anxious pleasure. He hadn’t felt this way on a date since he was fourteen and thought he was a high roller because he’d paid for his date’s dinner and subway fare. Walking out of the theater, he reached over and slipped his hand into hers. And she didn’t pull away. In fact, she held on and gave his hand a squeeze. He thought about how nice that felt. About the long loud nights in MCI Concord, lying in his bunk staring at the cinder block ceiling, unable to sleep, and listening to someone yelling just to be yelling. Listening to the snoring coming from the bunk three feet below, and still feeling perfectly alone, as if the years ahead were an insurmountable gulf of time and he’d never feel the affectionate touch of another human being again. Something as simple as holding hands with an adult woman made him want to cry and thank the universe for pulling him out of the hole into which he’d thrown himself. Of course, the universe had done no such thing. It cared about him as much as it cared about a speck of dust floating in the void forever. Which was to say, not at all. Still, he felt grateful for the chance to hold a hand.

  “I suppose we ought to go relieve the sitter,” she said. He didn’t want to admit it, but it was time. Liana was nice, smart, and attractive. Best of all, she seemed to have had as good a time on their date as he had. Still, it was time to wrap the evening up and head home. He was butting up against the amount of money he could afford for a night out, even accounting for the free movie tickets and Liana driving instead of taking a cab or the train. While Sophie had been out of his thoughts during much of dinner, she was in them increasingly at the movie. He’d tried not to be obvious about checking his cell phone for messages from Meghan. When he’d pulled the door shut behind them on the way out, Sophie was crying and begging him to stay. It tore at him to go, but he did it. He remembered her doing the same thing the first few times he’d dropped her at daycare, despite their elaborate parting ritual that included a hug, kisses, high-fives, fist bumps, and a tickle. She’d eventually come to love day care and stopped crying every time he left her there. But he hadn’t spent an entire night away from his niece since his sister had abandoned them both. He’d gotten the knack of her day to day needs quickly (he had to), but an evening for himself? That required a further adjustment. Leaving her at home was not the same as taking her to Khadija’s, and she was freaked out, asking if he was coming home. Of course, he assured her, he was. But still, she cried. She made both him and Liana promise to come in and say goodnight to her when they got back.

  He looked down at his hands and huffed out a half-hearted laugh. “So, that was... awesome.” Liana reached over and put a hand on top of his, he felt his chest tighten and breathing became a little harder. Dating wasn’t quite like riding a bike. His confidence was atrophied and his concern for Sophie kept him distracted and wobbly.

  “I had a good time too,” she said.

  He turned his hand over, expecting her to pull away. Instead, she laced her fingers with his and said, “So, can I come in and give Sophie a kiss good night like I promised?” It was after eleven and if Sophie wasn’t asleep, Mitch knew he’d never be able to get her up in time in the morning. Still, he loved the idea of bringing Liana in to check on the girl. Keeping promises was important.

  “I could fix you a cup of coffee,” he said, stuttering over “cuppacoffee.” “It’s kind of my thing. Coffee.” She laughed and turned the ignition off. The car’s engine pinged and clacked a little before settling down. Like his heart.

  “I just bet. I’d love some, if it’s not a trouble.”

  “Trouble? I can practically brew it in my sleep.” He wasn’t lying. He was a barista at the flagship Brogdon & Palmer Coffee Roasters Café across town and more often than not, he dreamed about work.

  Mitch waited for her on the walk, while Liana circled around the car. She slipped her hand in his as they walked up the cracked pathway to the front door, and he almost tripped over his own feet. Jesus, man. You’re twenty-eight, not eighteen. Stop being so squirrelly! That was easier said than done, however. He had as clear an intention of making a cup of coffee as she had of drinking one. And the thought of what just might happen if he didn’t screw it up was twisting his insides like a wet washrag.

  Pausing at the door, he looked in her face, searching for reassurance—a sign he wasn’t misinterpreting some innocent intention and the evening was about to go horribly wrong. She smiled again. A couple of light wrinkles formed at the corners of her eyes. Her brown irises were so dark they looked almost black in the starlight. She was younger than him, but not much. Still, she had character in her face, a few laugh lines that suggested evidence of a rough youth. Something else they had in common. She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth, her tongue probing lightly at his lips. Her kiss was warm and tasted like wax. She was naturally gorgeous and wore more makeup than she needed, but how she adorned herself wasn’t his business. She did what she did to feel like herself. He knew how to look through the armor people put on. Wearing such a heavy suit of his own gave him insight.

  Her tongue darted into his mouth and he tasted her breath. She’d chewed Altoids compulsively during their date. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. Her middle finger rubbing against his palm. His pants fit a little more snugly. Pulling away, she delicately wiped at a small, glistening line beneath her lower lip. Embarrassment burned in his mind as he realized he was salivating like a St. Bernard. “You have your keys?” she asked when he didn’t move to open the door. He fumbled in his pocket, trying not to draw attention to his throbbing crotch, and unlocked the deadbolt.

  Inside, Meghan’s mother, Faye, stood in the middle of the living room holding a bottle of beer, swaying on her feet slightly. He lost his erection. Despite the pungent odor of smoke that clung to Faye’s skin and clothes, the air around her also smelled like she’d had more than a few bottles. “Where’s Meghan?” he asked, trying not to lose his temper and shout before knowing all the facts. Keeping it together was also new to him. He was getting better at defusing confrontation, but still, his first impulse was always to protect himself and what was his. And he only knew how to do that by balling up his fists. He took a breath like his mandated anger management counselor had taught him and asked his question again, only slightly more forcefully.

  “Huh? Oh, Sophie? She’sh fine,” the old woman said. “Wen’ right ta bed at eight like you said
so to do.”

  “No. Meghan. Your daughter. She’s the one who’s supposed to be here taking care of Sophie.” Mitch felt regret creeping into his guts. How could he have been so wrong? So irresponsible? The old woman was a wretched soak, and her daughter... she was nowhere to be found. He looked at Liana, silently giving her permission to slip out and head home. She shrugged and stepped into the kitchen archway to wait.

  Faye turned and said, “She had a... some... I took over becaush she hadda thing she forgot.”

  He pushed past her and went to check on his niece. Peering over the crib with the light from the hallway spilling into the room, he saw her lying on her side, sleeping. He tried to take a breath and calm down. But he still felt like he might be sick. Everything’s okay. She put Sophie to bed and then got drunk. Sophie’s okay. It’s not a crisis. Be cool.

  He composed himself and returned to the living room. Passing between the women who were staring at each other with a low simmering hostility, he yanked open the front door and through gritted teeth told Faye to, “Get. Out.” Faye took a few awkward staggering steps to the door and stopped, holding out her hand for payment. He wanted to yell and shove her out into the night, slam the door, and yell some more. Instead, he held it together. Despite his attempts to assuage his anger by reasoning that since she’d raised her own daughter, she could probably handle a single night with Sophie, regret and anger and shame fought for dominance over his emotions. This was his fuck up. He should have postponed the date until he could have gotten Khadija or vetted a real sitter. He had to own this failure. He withdrew his wallet and silently counted out the last of his cash. No tip. Faye took it with a sun-withered hand that stank like cigarettes and spilled beer. She smiled at him crookedly, glanced over at Liana, and winked before staggering out of the house. He watched her walk down the path, turn and nearly miss the gate that led into her own front yard.

  Mitch’s head dropped and he turned to say good night to Liana and show her out to her car. I’ll just tell her that it was nice, but I need to get some sleep and...

  She was gone.

  He closed the front door and peeked into the back to see if she’d ducked into the kitchen or gone to the bathroom. Instead, he found her in Sophie’s room standing over the crib. He walked up beside her, reached down and brushed some of the hair out of his niece’s face. He rested his hand on her shoulder, feeling her warmth. She didn’t stir.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she whispered.

  “It’s my fault for not finding a better sitter.”

  “Everything seems all right, though.” The hand on the small of his back felt like an electric charge. It moved the pit from his stomach up into his throat.

  “Yeah. I suppose she’s good,” he said. “You know, I really need to—” Liana turned him around and gently kissed him again, this time rubbing her hands up over his chest and shoulders and around the back of his neck. She held his head and kissed him, and he felt like the whole world was floating away.

  She pulled away and said, “Everything’s all right. Let her sleep.” Stepping back, she took his hand, leading him out of the child’s room. He followed as she pulled him into the other bedroom. She didn’t blink at the way it was appointed like a young woman’s room, with a flowered duvet and a stack of decorative pillows and stuffed animals thrown onto the floor. She pulled him over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. “Now, about that coffee,” she said, undoing his belt.

  5

  Morning came as it always did: unwelcome and intruding on his rest like a house guest who wakes up too early and fumbles around noisily, not knowing where anything is. Mitch rolled over and looked at the clock, wondering if he could get a few more minutes rest before Sophie began summoning him from her crib. “Get out now? Out now?” she would call until he got up and wearily rescued her from her pink Ikea prison.

  The clock read 10:00 a.m.

  Mitch sat bolt upright. It was hours past when they normally had to get up. He jumped out of bed and scrambled for the door forgetting that he wasn’t wearing his pajama pants. He wasn’t wearing anything. He looked back at the bed, remembering the night before, looking for Liana. She was gone. On her pillow was a piece of notepaper folded in half. He snatched his cast-off boxers up off the floor and slipped into them while flipping open the note.

  Thanks for a great time last night. Sorry to sneak out. Didn’t want to confuse Soph. CALL ME!!!

  He smiled and dropped the note back on the pillow, intending to come back throughout the day and read it again and again. Maybe he’d carry it with him when he went to work. Work. Ten o’clock! He was so terribly late for work.

  “Sophie! Sophie! It’s time to get up, sweetheart.” He sing-songed as he walked into her room. She was still lying on the side she had been the night before. “Sweetie. Come on. We’re late. It’s time to go to play with kids.” He shook her shoulder gently, expecting the girl to groan and launch into her normal slept-too-long crankiness. Instead, she did nothing.

  Mitch bent down and rolled her over onto her back. Panic seized him, holding him in place like a leg caught in a bear trap. “Come on, Sophie! Wake up. Oh god, wake up, please!” His vision narrowed down to a slender tunnel. His breathing quickened in pace with his heartbeat and he felt sick. She didn’t move.

  He ran back to the other bedroom to phone for help. The dead receiver sat in his hands silently reminding him that they’d shut off the service for non-payment two months earlier. He ripped his cellphone out of the jeans he’d been wearing the night before and tried to wake it. The blank screen refused to respond. Dead battery. “Fuck! Shit! Fuck!”

  The sun blasted his sleep-weary eyes as he flung open the front door. The world outside moved as though nothing was wrong. People drove by in their cars, honking at perceived slights only they could see. Across the street, a bus pulled away from the stop in front of the shuttered Blockbuster Video store. The riders aboard stared down at their phones and books, earphones in pumping out the soundtrack for their travels and blocking the rest of the world. His cries, muffled in the noise of the city. He scanned the neighbors’ houses. The Melendez’s truck was gone. It was always gone. Carla and Hector worked like machines and were off before sunrise. Breaking free of the paralyzing normality of the morning, he ran toward the only other neighbor he knew. He ran to Faye’s house.

  He banged on the door and shouted for her to open up, to help him, to call an ambulance. “Sophie won’t wake up,” he screamed. Faye didn’t come to the door. He looked down the driveway and saw her car was also gone. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. Mitch kicked against the jamb, but the door didn’t budge. It would take more work and time to break the molding holding the deadbolt firm, and even then, he wasn’t sure if it would give, this being the real world and not some fantasy movie where door frames were made of balsa. He ran around the rear of the house. Although the kitchen door on the back deck had a sturdy deadbolt installed in it as well, the lock only provided the illusion of security. He picked up a potted plant from the rotting deck railing and threw it at the window pane in the top half of the door. The pot exploded as it shattered the window, raining dirt, terracotta, and glass on the filthy kitchen floor. He waited a half-second, expecting to hear a shout of “What the fuck?” from Faye. When it didn’t come, he reached in as carefully as his panic allowed and unlocked the bolt.

  Although he stepped cautiously as he could around the pot shards and broken window glass, he felt a piece of something jab and slide up into the ball of his foot. He suppressed the instinct to scream and drop to the floor to tend his wound. Instead, he pulled the shard out, throwing it into a far corner where it broke against the wall. Then, with strides as long as he could manage, he lunged clear of the debris and headed for the living room to look for the telephone leaving a trail of crimson footprints behind. Twice, he almost slipped in his own blood on the linoleum until reaching the worn rugs thrown down on the rough and ruined hardwood floors.

  The smell i
n the front room choked him. Faye’s house stank like a bad fridge filled with cat shit and used ashtrays. He found the phone on the wall by the hallway to the bathroom and yanked the handset off its cradle. A dial tone never sounded so good. He punched three numbers and waited.

  “Nine one one, what is your emergency?” The woman’s voice on the other end was calm and efficient. It belied the nature of the conversation he was about to have and unsettled him. How can she be calm? How can she sound like nothing is happening? His mouth dropped open, but his throat and lungs and lips all refused to comply with his racing mind. He choked out a weak, half-strangled cry for help. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” the dispatcher said. “You’re going to have to speak up. What is your emergency?”

  And then it came. He gave voice to the terror, invoking the worst fear he could imagine, giving it life by speaking its name. “It’s Sophie! She won’t wake up! I tried getting her out of bed but she won’t open her eyes! Please help!”

  “Calm down. I’m sending an ambulance. How old is Sophia?”

  “Sophie. She’s only four. Please help us!” Tears spilled down his face and he wanted more than anything else in the world to hang up the phone and go back to the girl’s room. He needed to go back. She was alone in the house and needed him. He knew she had to be awake now, after all that noise, and frightened. He had to get back to her.

  “Okay. Tell me your name.”

  “My name? Mitch LeRoux. I live at 325 Rutledge Ave. on the first floor. Please come now!”

  “Are you the girl’s father?” the dispatcher asked.

  Time stopped.

  He’d told no one about his sister or his niece, knowing as soon as he did, DCF would get involved and he’d lose her too. The state would stop sending their Section Eight vouchers and refilling the EBT card and they’d take her. Everything that kept them together and alive would be yanked out from under them. He could lie, like he’d done for the last year and say her mother wasn’t available. She was at work—he was baby-sitting—she was visiting a friend. But they’d find out. He’d lose his niece and let down the very last person who depended upon him before she was even old enough to know how he’d failed her.