by Mae Ronan
I know very well, you see, why Principal MacMillan made that telephone call. Last week in the girls’ locker room, Miriam Johnson cut off six inches of my hair, and laughed with her friends while I screamed. I told Clay, and, darling boy that he is, he went to Randy Allan – Miriam’s two-hundred-pound hunk of burning love – and told him that if Miriam ever bothered me again, he would shoot her dead. Randy gave him a black eye.
The next day, Clay and I posted ourselves beside the door to the stairwell, and paid a fleet-footed deaf boy five dollars to keep a lookout on the next floor. Little Ronnie rushed down the steps, and told us when Miriam and Randy were coming. We took up the bucket of vegetable oil we had hidden in my locker, tossed it quickly over the stairs, and dashed back through the door. Not five seconds later, there came the thud-thud-crash of the famous pair, slipping all the way down to the first floor.
But Ronnie must have gotten spooked; for Clay and I were called next day into MacMillan’s office, where we were prematurely charged with the six broken bones which resulted from our “escapade.” Of course they could not prove it – and who will believe a silly little deaf boy? They had no evidence. Never did I think they would call Lauren.
How pleased my Uncle Tom must be! In lieu of the bomb in the backpack, probably this is sufficient to wring an “I told you so” from his ugly white lips. “I told you, Lauren – I told you there was something wrong with her!”
But these thoughts are quick to fade; and I am so preoccupied with the task of pretending to sleep, that soon I fall into a light doze.
There is a hidden world, if you would like to know, that lies between heaven and earth. We can see it only when we sleep; for it is the world of dreams. There is a world, likewise, that lies between earth and the underworld. This is the world of nightmares.
To this world I descend tonight. An account of my journey follows, if you should like to read it.
My physical body lies still on the bed, far above, but the spectral form projected by my mind is entering a darkened room. I look about, in an attempt to determine where I am. It seems I am in a waiting room of some kind.
But that doesn’t seem right. Are those rooms not usually so bright? This room, though, is very dim, with shadows creeping in every corner. There are paintings on the walls, the cheap sort always present in waiting rooms; but I can’t see what they depict.
I notice another oddity. In addition to the lack of light, is the absence of chairs. What kind of a room is this?
I look around again, searching for a door. I look back; the door I came through has disappeared. The walls are smooth, save for the paintings. No doors.
The floor is made of dark, shining wood. My bare feet stick to it as I walk. In the low light, I can see the shimmer in the lacquered wood, moving as I move.
I look straight ahead, where an oddly-shaped receptionist’s desk stands. It’s like a wooden cubicle, black and hollow. It forms a large square frame round the receptionist. Really it’s little more than a fancy lemonade stand.
Is there any lemonade, I wonder? I’m awfully thirsty.
I stand for a long while, staring at the receptionist, who is busy scribbling in a large white ledger. Her black hair is pulled back from a face made stern with concentration, and her hands are small, fine-boned. The phalanges are slender and smooth, moving with speed and precision across the ledger.
Finally, she looks up from her writing. I see, even in the faint light, clear blue eyes staring straight at me. A deep cerulean blue, they illuminate the woman’s face, almost creating their own light.
The receptionist says not a word. For a few long moments, we simply stare at one another. The receptionist is neither old nor young. Her face is very pretty; but her eyes confuse me. They are empty.
She seems to be waiting for me to speak. I open my mouth to do so, but no sound comes out. I feel as though I will get only one chance, only one question to ask. I feel as though my life depends on it.
“What – what is this place?” I ask.
I do not mean to stammer. I want to sound calm; but I cannot help it. My heart is hammering, and my hands are cold and clammy. My entire body is perspiring. I brush the damp hair away from my eyes.
The receptionist continues to study me intently. Her eyes are x-rays. They cut like lasers through flesh and bone, to touch the thoughts and feelings inside.
“How old are you?” she asks. Her voice echoes in my head, reverberating round the walls of my skull, till I am nearly deaf – deaf as the fleet-footed, tattle-taling Ronnie.
“Sixteen,” I answer loudly.
“You’re too young to be here,” she says, returning to her ledger.
“Where is ‘here’?”
The receptionist answers, without looking up.
“Liberty Hospital.”
I look around again; and ask, “How do I leave?”
She continues to write.
“You can’t.”
“Is there someone else I can talk to?” I peer inside the cubicle, into the darkness behind it. “Is there a doctor, or a nurse?”
The receptionist remains silent, jotting away in her blasted ledger.
“Excuse me,” I say, as I try to blink back the tears that are forming in the corners of my eyes. “Excuse me, ma’am? Can’t you please help me?”
The receptionist finally lifts her eyes; and there is something in them, now, that was not there before. But it’s impossible to know what it is.
“Please?” I repeat. A tear rolls down my cheek. I am almost begging now.
“I can’t help you,” the receptionist says softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Can you bring me to Elijah?”
“He isn’t here.”
“But this is where he died!”
“He’s gone now.”
“Where is he?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
I choke back a sob, as the room begins to swirl around me. Everything is moving; nothing is steady but the face of the receptionist. I watch the dark colours churning round my head, that face before me all the while, those piercing eyes fixed in an unblinking gaze. I shiver and shake, squeezing my eyes shut tight as the remains of the world spin in short, quick circles. My stomach clenches, and a scream rises up in my throat, as the spinning grows faster and faster. I am thrown off balance; I crash down to the floor; I bounce as if I have hit a trampoline. I hurtle towards the ceiling.
Instead of hard plaster, there is something soft, something that accepts me soundlessly. I lie still for a while, my breath rapid and shallow. When I open my eyes, I find myself in bed, surrounded by cream-coloured walls. Cream in the daytime, but silver in the moonlight; the moonlight that flows through the open window.
I am home.
I rise to my feet, shivering in the chill night air. I close the window, and run back to the bed, drawing the thick blanket up over my head.
“Erica.”
I suppress a scream, and toss the blanket aside. The receptionist stands directly over me, looking down with that stern face, and those laser-like eyes. But now the face softens; and the eyes change. She reaches out to me.
I shove myself back against the pillows, my mouth rounding in a silent shriek.
“Erica!”
That voice! I lean forward a little, and squint my eyes.
“Aunt Lauren!”
She sits down on the edge of the bed, and takes my face in her hands. She smooths the hair back from my brow.
“What’s wrong, honey? I heard you screaming!”
“It’s nothing, Aunt Lauren,” I answer. “Just a nightmare.”
“My goodness! But you were screaming bloody murder!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh – don’t be sorry!” She puts a hand to her heart, and takes a deep breath. “I only thought that there was something wrong.”
I smile thinly. “I’m all right – you see?”
She tries to smile in return. “Yes,” she says, “I see. Now come here and hug me
.”
I sink very happily, for a moment, into her arms. Again there is that lovely aroma of flowers. But at last I pull away, and say that I must get back to sleep.
“Of course,” says Lauren, as she rises from the bed. “You sleep now. But no more nightmares!”
“I promise.”
She leans down, and kisses my forehead gently. I nestle down in the covers, and make a good show of falling back asleep; for I can feel Lauren there, standing in the doorway, watching me. Finally the door closes softly, and the hall light vanishes.
I imagine I hear a cough. I look instinctively to my right. Elijah’s ghost is there sleeping; but there are no more pills in my drawer.
Mikey
(2001)
I.
The night was so far advanced, the coming morning was considerably nearer than the beginning of the darkness. That darkness was nearing its endpoint; and I felt now the pressing necessity of finding a place to hide. So I dashed up and down the streets, stomping in and out of cold mud puddles, and criss-crossing this way and that over an array of soggy lawns. They were laid out like a cleanly cut map, with black dots placed here and there which labelled their names and capitals. Ever and anon my foot struck down upon a dot, and my leg pulsated with the vibration of the contact. Even if I closed my eyes, I could see those lines running this way and that, separating each house from its neighbour on the map.
But finally I came to a place where the lines disappeared; where there was no labelled dot, and no markings anywhere. I stood for a while in the yard below this house, and looked up with great interest at its ancient grandeur. It was very tall, very wide, and very dark. Blackness seemed the only thing that inhabited the deep porch. Yet I went up into it anyway, and ventured towards the door, which was locked fast. But I am a person, I will have you know, who knows a thing or two about passing into any close, tight, secure space which may perhaps be better left alone – for I never seem to have any doubts concerning said passing, which would render the leaving any easier than the coming.
So I always come; and before I go, I am sure to find each and every thing that is at all worth finding.
With a particularly smooth and pointy instrument, obtained from a lint-depression in my pocket, I soon facilitated my entrance into the house. I shut up the door quickly behind me, and fastened the lock I had only just manipulated. But I had no fear of anyone else giving a repeat performance of the feat; for I was well aware of the superiority and uniqueness of my own personal skills in housebreaking.
It may not be much for certain people to take pride in – but it was, at that time, the very most I had with which to achieve any real height in my own dignity.
As I unhooked a tiny lantern that swung off my belt, and made use of a match to light the wick above its oil (I had no money, of course, for battery-powered lamps), I drew the thick curtains carefully over the windows of the wide entrance hall. Why they were not already closed I had no idea. To the street, now, at any rate, I was invisible; and to me the stars were nothing.
I turned around, and began meandering softly down the hall. Mother would be asleep by now; and Uncle would be fallen down on the floor beside his bottle, with the television sounding loudly above his head, and every light in the house burning bright. About midnight, Mother would rouse herself as if by instinct, and go around extinguishing all the lights. Then she would stop off in the basement, to turn off Uncle’s television, and toss a thin blanket over his sleeping form. Then she would return to bed, whence she would depart at precisely six o’clock. She would come to my little room, to look in on me before she quit the house; and this would be only one of many mornings that I was not there. Perhaps she would swear; perhaps she would sigh. In any case, she would be off straightaway to set her coffee brewing.
Uncle would remain in the basement till around eight, and then heave himself slowly up the creaking stairs, till he reached his own bed. There he would stay till noon, upon the striking of which hour he would fall with a thud to the floor, and then crawl down the hall to the shower, which he would set flowing with a strong jet of icy water; and after which he would take up his thermos (armed with some suspiciously strong-smelling stuff), and head off for several hours to the quarry, where he operated (perhaps somewhat less than either safely or efficiently) a big yellow dozer.
And where would I be? Well, I suspected that I would remain where I was, at least until after Uncle had gone away. I would gather up a few supplies from the house, before my mother returned home; and would be gone before she even had the chance to see my face. Perhaps this would please her; perhaps it would not. Really I had no idea. I knew only that Becky Harrow (said individual being myself, of course), resident of 155 Ames Street, would reside most infrequently at that place till the summer had turned, and school came again into session. Then Uncle would return to his indoor work at the gun factory, and go to live for the winter with his second sister. He would be dead to me till June – when again I would take up my adventurous, vagabond habits.
But for now I was walking through an old, dark house, with the floorboards groaning ever-so-grumpily under my feet. It was clear that they wished me to leave; but even clearer that I would not comply.
When I came into a large sitting room, I threw an old handkerchief over my lantern, with only the smallest crack left open while I went about the room, drawing all the drapes. I stopped again to wonder, why the drapes would stand open inside a vacant house; but the question, engendering so few truly interesting scenarios (I feared nothing of robbers and murderers – for if anything, I was confident that it would be I who plundered them, before perhaps dousing their wicked life-light) that the subject faded quickly from my mind. So I cast my eyes about the room, and went to lie upon a cushy old day bed pushed up under the corner window. A thick quilt lay spread over its foot, and though it smelled strongly of must and boiled cabbage, I used it to cover my chilled and shivering limbs. I propped up my lantern on a low coffee table, and blew out its light; and then dropped immediately off to sleep.
***
When I woke, the big room was tinged with a soft yellow light, which was diffusing itself with some trouble through the small parts in the curtains. I sat up on the little bed, and pushed the smelly quilt away, looking all about at the multitudinous furnishings, decorations, and portraits. Everywhere there were deep armchairs, narrow sofas, pewter and porcelain knick-knacks, and picture frame upon picture frame mounted over the ample wall space. I took a few moments to study the contents of these frames; but I found quickly that most of their subjects were rather gloomy, rather angry, or rather ugly; and so put a stop to that occupation.
I raised my sleeve to check my watch, and discovered it to be no more than seven o’clock. So I lay back on the bed, and settled my head against the cushions. I was just nodding off again, when I felt a certain wet something touch against my hand; whereupon I bolted upright, and flew up onto my feet, to investigate the alarming situation. I was full surprised to see a dog standing by my feet.
It was a great yellow dog, with a handsome face, and beautiful big brown eyes. It nuzzled its snout once more against my hand, and I began to pet it cautiously.
“What’s your name, dog?” I asked, running my hand over the soft fur of its head. “Where did you come from?”
Quite naturally, the dog said nothing. It only sat down upon its haunches, and began a rather intense study of my face. Of course, I did not know what it was thinking; but certainly it seemed to be thinking something; and something mysterious and complicated, at that.
I sat down again on the little bed, and passed the morning beside the dog, which did not for the entirety of that first hour take its eyes from my face. Every now and then, it leaned forward for a pet; and I obliged it graciously. Several more attempts I made to ask its name, thinking a little more each time that it would tell me; but it never did, and after a while I announced that I would call it “Mikey.” (I once had a brother named Mikey, who fell down the basement steps and
died. But never did I suspect, as my mother did, that he had tripped; for this accident occurred during one of those long summer-periods wherein Uncle lived with us. Mikey was found at the bottom of the steps, with a twisted neck and a bloodied head, right beside Uncle’s chair; and I personally believed that my poor brother had had the ill fortune to tread just beneath Uncle’s feet, at just the wrong time, thereby becoming a victim of his careless, cruel, steel-toed boots.)
I could not tell whether the dog favoured this name; but I persisted in its usage anyway. I pulled open the curtain just behind me, and invited the dog up on the bed, to look with me out into the bright street. From time to time a car passed by, with the sun shining harshly upon its hood; and the dog sat beside me all the while, quiet and content. But finally it came to be afternoon, and I deemed the time appropriate for my departure.
“Goodbye, Mikey,” I said. “Maybe we’ll meet again sometime.”
Now, I would not have sworn to this – but in that moment, just after I bid the dog farewell, I had the most sincere impression of its nodding at me. Afterwards it seemed almost to smile.
II.
At Ames Street I showered, and ate, and packed a bag for the night. I brushed my hair, and bound it up under my hood. I cleaned the dirt from my boots, and tied them up tight round my ankles. Lastly I sharpened the hunting knife I kept on my belt, and freshened the oil (stolen from one of Uncle’s cans) in my little lantern. I slung my bag over my shoulder; looked out the kitchen window, as Mother stepped out of her car, and started up the driveway; and then slipped quietly out the back door. I closed my eyes as I hurried across the yard, holding tightly to Mother’s soft, shining face. Her dark hair fell down around it, and blew lightly in the summer breeze. But, just as her eyes began to turn – turn, turn, towards the window where I stood, I disappeared.
Did she know I had stood there, even though she could not see me? Did she sense my presence, so recently drawn away? Perhaps she did; perhaps she did not. Really I had no idea.
