Shoot Me

by Lesley Crewe

  “What did I do?”

  “Do you know what a total of seventeen pounds of baby does to a woman’s stomach?” Elsie shouted.

  “Dear God. The girls are two decades old and they’re still to blame? Have you ever heard of sit-ups?”

  Elsie took the receiver and whacked it against the mattress several times. Then she put it back to her ear.

  “Stop hitting me on the bed.”

  “No.”

  “Dahlia just told me she wants to marry that guy. Did you know about this?”

  “I’ve kept it a secret for weeks.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t be stupid Graham. As if I wouldn’t tell you. I only found out myself five minutes ago.”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  Elsie snorted at him. “What do you think I think?”

  “I know you. You’ve just stuffed your face with a Coffee Crisp so you don’t have to think.”

  “Sod off, Graham.”

  She slammed the phone down.

  And waited.

  The trouble with Graham living in the basement was that it only took him a minute to run up three flights of stairs. She started to count. Twelve was his best time. She saw in her mind’s eye the neat-as-a-pin basement digs he’d fashioned for himself. That irritated her—not the fact that he lived there, but the fact that it was neat. She visualized him taking the stairs two at a time to reach the rec room, then up another flight before he emerged through the kitchen door, rubbing Lily’s head quickly as he ran through the kitchen. She imagined Flower jumping off the sofa in the sunroom at the sound of her master’s steps.

  Through the sunroom, past the library, down the wide hall with the grandfather clock, man and dog would turn right at the French doors and start up the wide staircase, right again at the first landing to emerge on the third floor of the great house and into the corridor, with its branching bathroom and bedroom doors. He’d rush past the door that led to the attic and arrive at her door, a little out of breath. He’d give Flower a couple of slaps on the rump for a job well done.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Guess.”

  Elsie was reminded of the fact that Dahlia and her father were two peas in a pod. Both airheads. Both unambitious. Both irritatingly carefree.

  “A spendthrift?”

  “No.”

  “The perpetual good guy?”

  “How about a worried dad?”

  “Enter.”

  Graham walked in. As much as she wanted to throttle him, her stomach always gave a bit of a lurch when she saw him. It used to be from attraction. Now Elsie put it down to jealousy. He’d kept in good shape, the miserable beast. That’s what being a plumber will do for you, all that stretching under sinks and reaching around toilets. She even resented his hair. It was still thick and caramel-coloured, curling around his ears like it did back in the eleventh grade when she fell in love with him. Why didn’t it just turn grey already?

  He sat in the deep armchair by the window and eyed her crummy bathrobe.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said.

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  She slumped into the pillows behind her back. “You didn’t have to.”

  He sniffed the air. “Did you have a bonfire in here?”

  “As a matter of fact I did. I burnt your love letters.”

  “What love letters?”

  She folded her arms. “My point exactly.”

  “What is it with you?” Graham shook his head. “You’ve got to let go of crap like that.”

  Elsie closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against them to ease the pressure that pounded from within.

  “Say what you’ve come to say and go home.”

  “Yes, I must run before the traffic gets heavy.”

  “She wants to get married, Gray,” she whined. “Aren’t you worried? You said you were worried.”

  “I am worried. About you. I know you Else. You’ll wring your hands and howl at the moon, but she’s in love with him, and it’s obvious he adores her.”

  “She’s only twenty.”

  “So were you when we got married.”

  She knew he’d play that card. She looked around her chaotic bedroom in despair and then back at him. “And look what happened.” Her hands flopped to the mattress.

  “What happened? We’re separated. You make it sound as if we grew up to be serial killers. At least we’re still civil to each other.”

  She screwed up her face. “Are we? You could have fooled me.”

  Graham leaned toward her, his large, calloused hands clasped in front of him. He gave her a steady look with his blue eyes. “I’m not happy about this either. She is young. But I won’t stop her because I know it won’t do any good. She’s always been headstrong and if you tell her how to live her life, she’ll bolt. Mark my words, Elsie. Is that what you want?”

  “But a massage therapist?”

  His voice became dangerously low. “You say that like he’s a plumber.”

  Elsie felt her insides knot. “Don’t turn this into you and me. This isn’t about us.”

  He didn’t say anything for a good minute. “If it’s going to happen, it might as well be with him. He’s a nice kid…good and kind, with a steady job. We should thank our lucky stars he’s not a biker type. He could have been a drug dealer.”

  She shook her head and peered at the cobwebs draped around the ceiling fan. “Slater? A drug dealer? He’s too stunned to be a drug dealer.” She knew that was harsh but she didn’t care.

  “He’s an innocent. He’s not stupid.”

  Elsie was starting to feel bad about the remark. “He reminds me of an overgrown puppy.”

  “I thought you loved puppies,” he smirked.

  “Not when they jump in your lap and lick your face.” She gave him a solemn look. “Don’t try to jolly me out of this, Gray. I need to grieve. My baby girl wants to marry a boy who outweighs her by a hundred and thirty pounds. The thought of them together is like…a St. Bernard with a Chihuahua.”

  “Oh for the love…”

  Elsie started to cry.

  “Will you please control yourself? It’s not the end of the world.”

  “My baby wants to get married,” she choked. “How am I supposed to react?”

  “Slightly better than this.”

  “Go jump off something.”

  “I think you’re menopausal. That has to be it. Or mental.”

  She threw a pillow at him. “Go down to your dungeon and leave me in peace. Why do you always have to make me feel stupid?”

  He stood and walked to the door. “Get a grip, my dear. This is Dahlia’s moment. It’s about her. Not you.”

  With that, he opened the door and shut it in her face. And as usual, made her feel like she was the spoilsport ruining everyone else’s good time.

  Graham could hear the girls in the pantry reading the pizza box ingredients. He pulled up to the table and waited for them to stop their argument about trans fat, mad cow disease and the evils of dairy products. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “If frozen pizza is the poisonous concoction you say it is, why don’t you eat celery?” he shouted from his chair.

  They emerged from the pantry holding the object in question.

  Dahlia stated the obvious. “Celery doesn’t taste like pizza.”

  “And you have to wash it and cut it up.” Lily opened the oven door and threw the pizza on the middle rack.

  Graham tried not to stare at Lily’s hair. He knew his daughter very well—any hint of disapproval, and she’d keep it that colour forever. But after six months with the new do, he was desperate for her to get rid of it. Perhaps if he tried reverse psychology.

  “You look very pretty today, Lily.”

  “Nice try, Dad.”

  “Girls, sit down a minute. I want to talk to you.”

  He saw them glance at each other before they sat opposite him at the
old pine harvest table Elsie loved so much. He’d brought it home for her years ago, after coming across it in a farmer’s cow barn. The old fella was thrilled to get rid of it, in lieu of a plumbing bill. When she saw it, Elsie jumped up and down before smothering him with kisses. As he recalled, they’d had a great night.

  They used to have a lot of great nights in this big old South Ender. They were surrounded by large, attractive homes on Cambridge Street, but their house stood apart. Elsie’s grandfather had been a sea captain and his travels all over the world shaped the look and beauty of the house. There were shutters and trim from Norfolk, England, and wrought-iron fencing from Italy. A massive oak door that he’d shipped from France graced the front entrance. He even brought home a bronze dragon-shaped door-knocker from Thailand. Family lore had it that his wife had a hard time explaining the creature at her IODE meetings.

  The first time Elsie brought Graham home, he was overwhelmed. His family lived in an upstairs apartment off Robie Street. Few of his neighbours had a yard—their porch steps and front doors were smack up against the sidewalk. And even if they had a small back garden, it was usually filled with old cars, bikes, and dustbins. He and his friends hung out on The Commons, a large expanse of grass that filled up on summer days with kids horsing around and people walking their dogs. In the winter months, he played hockey and tobogganed on Citadel Hill.

  The young Graham didn’t recognize Elsie’s world. He remembered not being able to eat his dinner for fear of spilling gravy on the cloth napkins. He knew better than to mention the cloth napkins to his mother, but his fascination was such that he bought her some for her birthday one year. She thanked him with a tight voice and put them away. Maybe she threw them away. He never saw them again, in any case.

  He realized Dahlia had spoken to him. “Sorry…what?”

  “I said, you’re not mad at me too, are you?”

  “Of course not,” Graham assured her. “And your mother’s not mad at you. She’s frightened.”

  “Of Slater? That’s ridiculous,” Dahlia frowned.

  “It’s not about Slater. You’ll always be three years old to your mother. You know that.”

  Lily picked at her thumbnail before she chewed it. “She treats everyone like a baby, which must be exhausting. When you mother the whole world, you’re an enabler, in psychological terms.”

  “How about ‘crazy,’ in ordinary terms,” her sister said.

  Graham folded his arms in front of him. “Your mother’s not crazy, but I think she is tired. Do you girls help out around here?”

  They gave him indignant looks.

  “Y-e-s-s-s,” they said together.

  Graham beckoned with his hand for more information.

  “I clean my room and wash my own clothes,” Lily huffed first. “I’m not helpless. But I do have piles of assignments. You don’t want me to flunk out in my third year, do you?”

  “And I’m not responsible for my schedule,” Dahlia informed him. “They’d have me down in that salon day and night if they could. Did you know they sprang three perms on me at the last minute yesterday? I didn’t get home until eight o’clock.”

  Dahlia looked at her sister and Lily tsk-tsked at her sympathetically. Graham recognized the tactic. It was called “confuse the old man with senseless information until he stops the interrogation.” He was about to call them on it, when the girls burst forth with “Guess what? Aunt Hildy’s coming home to die!”

  Graham was always spooked when they spoke in tandem like that. Their news didn’t help either.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s true,” Lily squealed. “Can you believe it? Mom got a letter.”

  “How sick is that?” Dahlia cried. “I don’t want her to die in my house. Why can’t she die somewhere else?”

  “Because we’re her family.”

  All three of them jumped.

  Graham turned to look at Elsie in the doorway. In that old bathrobe with her damp curls gathered on top of her head she looked just like Lily. She seemed vulnerable and sad, the weight of the world on her shoulders. He didn’t know whether to shake her or give her a hug. “You can’t be serious, Else. You’re not going to let her stay, are you?”

  Elsie got herself a glass of water before joining them at the table. “Of course I am. She’s my mother’s only sister. I can’t throw her away.”

  “You’re hardly throwing her away,” Graham said. “She has enough money to buy her very own old folks’ home. Not to mention an entire hospital wing, should she need it. Why on earth does she want to push her way in here? I know this house is big, but it’s a hovel to someone like her.”

  Elsie took a sip of water. “What business is this of yours?”

  His head jerked back. “Pardon me. I forgot I’m not supposed to care what happens to you anymore.”

  “No. You’re not. Do me a favour and let me sort this out myself.”

  “You have enough on your plate as it is…”

  “Graham. Listen to me. I can’t let my elderly aunt die alone. She’s ninety-one years old. I’m all she’s got.”

  Graham stood and chose to ignore the girls’ worried looks.

  “That’s nonsense and you know it. You have two grown sisters who are perfectly capable of shouldering some of the responsibility. But of course, that would mean you’d have to get out of the way and actually let them do something.”

  Elsie stood too. “Excuse me. Why am I being yelled at in my own home by someone who’s not really my husband anymore?”

  Graham wiped his hands down his pants in a deliberate effort to calm himself. He didn’t want to be sucked into another fight in front of the girls. “Don’t let this miserable old woman do this to us again. She comes here, turns the place upside down and then goes on her merry way.”

  Dahlia raised her hand. “Apparently after this visit, she’s off to the funeral home, so maybe it’ll be easier this time.”

  Everyone looked at her.

  “Well, it’s true,” Dahlia sulked.

  “Where’s she going to sleep?” Lily asked suddenly.

  “She asked for her old room back,” her mother shrugged. “What can I do?”

  “You can’t be serious. Why my room? Why not the guest room?”

  Elsie shrugged again.

  Dahlia stood and put her hand on her hip. “Hey, wait a minute. This will seriously affect my wedding. I don’t want her to die while I try and plan a reception. I mean, that would totally ruin the mood, don’t you think?”

  Graham took a step back. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Well, think about it, Daddy.” Dahlia grew teary-eyed. “What if someone throws me a surprise shower and wrinkly old Aunt Hildy just sits in the corner and moans about death? I mean, that would be so unsexy.”

  “What about my room?!” Lily cried. “Isn’t anyone else besides me bummed about that?”

  Elsie put her head in her hands. “Will everyone just stop? I can’t think.”

  Graham reached over and put his hand on Elsie’s arm. “This is nuts. You work long hours at the hospital and now you have a wedding to plan. Besides which, that leech upstairs sucks you dry at every opportunity. Do you really need this? Think about how this will affect us.”

  Elsie raised her eyes and looked at him. “That’s the second time today you’ve said, ‘us.’ But there is no ‘us.’ Remember?”

  She might as well have slapped him.

  Just then the phone rang. Elsie jumped and made a dash for it. “Hello? Yes, I’ll accept the charges.”

  She turned away and he knew in an instant it was Aunt Hildy.

  “Yes, it’s me!” she shouted. “Hello, dear. Where are you?” There was a pause. Elsie stared at the ceiling. “Where?…Botswana! Why on earth are you there?”

  She turned to look at the girls and mouthed “Africa.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful.” She twirled the cord and looked uncomfortable. “Yes. I got your letter. No. No trouble. We can’t wait
to see you. When’s your flight?”

  Graham noticed Elsie’s body stiffen. There was another long pause. “All right. Yes, don’t worry. We’ll be there.” She nodded several times. “I’m losing you dear. I better go. See you soon. Bye.”

  She hung up slowly and kept perfectly still.

  “Elsie?”

  “What?”

  “When?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  “When?”

  Elsie put her index finger to her temple and pulled an imaginary trigger.

  Chapter Two

  Faith sat at her desk in the attic. It was late—the best time to write. The only time really, since Elsie and the girls had a contest earlier in the evening to see who could slam a door the loudest. Little did they care if creative genius was being interrupted.

  She stretched her arms over her head and cracked her knuckles. Picking a lit cigarette off the overflowing saucer she used as an ashtray, she took three deep drags for good luck before stubbing it out. Finally she was ready.

  Her hands hovered over the keyboard. Deep breath. Slow exhale. Now.

  She typed.

  “It was…”

  A mouse scurried across the floor.

  “Oh, for the love of…” Faith picked up a slipper and threw it in the critter’s general direction. Jumping up from her desk, she grabbed the broom she used for just such occasions. She knelt down and picked up the flowered, rubber-backed slipcover that was draped over the old couch in front of her.

  “Come here, you little bastard,” she said through clenched teeth, sweeping the broom from side to side until her forearm cramped. All she managed to unearth was an old TV Guide and an empty pack of gum.

  “Nuts to this.” As she rose from the floor, her knees cracked in unison. “God, it sucks to be old.”

  Back at her desk, she started again.

  “It was a dark and stormy night.”

  Shit. That’s been done to death. Okay then. Highlight. Hit delete.

  “It was a bright and sunny morning.”

  Shit. Doesn’t sound spooky enough. Okay then. Highlight. Hit delete.

  “It was a drab and dreary afternoon.”

  Shit. Sounds as dull as dishwater. Okay then. Highlight. Delete.