by Joel Arnold
He felt detached, like he was watching this from somewhere else. Like he was dreaming.
He pulled out of the dirty white fluorescence of the ramp and became engulfed by the night’s blackness - the blackness of the alleyway, surrounded by brick buildings that disappeared beyond the stretching point of his neck. Surrounded by the city of Milwaukee.
He only knew he had to breath once again.
The sheriff’s voice interrupted Andy’s thoughts. “What do you want to do?”
“Guess I’ll tag along with you.” He grabbed his duffel bag and threw it in the back of the patrol car, sliding in next to it. The sheriff slowly pulled away from the side of the highway. Andy glanced back at his stranded vehicle and watched it diminish over the horizon.
He was in Minnesota, but didn’t remember crossing over the border.
Minnesota. It seemed like there was something about Minnesota he should’ve remembered. Something his mother once told him.
Was it some relative who lived here? Seemed to ring a bell. An aunt, wasn’t it? Aunt Mae?
“Mom, who was Mae?”
“Mae?”
“Was she your friend?”
Andy, twelve years old, had been looking through a junk drawer for some rubber bands and had come across a picture of his mother as a teenager, hugging a younger girl. Actually, it looked as if the younger girl was being asphyxiated by the tremendous bear hug his mom was giving her. Under the picture, it said, “EDNA and MAE.” Edna was his mother’s name.
“No, she wasn’t a friend.” Edna flicked dish suds off her hands and grabbed a towel.
“Was she your sister? How come you never mentioned her before?”
“She’s someone I’d rather forget about.”
“So she’s your sister?”
“She wasn’t much of a sister.” Edna paused, looking into the deep blue sea of Andy’s eyes. “Look - as far as I know, she was dead and buried a long time ago.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t want to talk about this, okay?”
“But she’s your sister,” Andy said. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is this place?” he asked, holding up the picture.
Edna’s eyes glazed over. “Ellingston.” She spoke in a monotone. "Ellingston, Minnesota, where I - ” She paused.
“Where you what?”
She snatched the picture out of Andy’s hand and tore it in half. “Where I grew up,” she said.
Andy was curious.
“Are we very far from Ellingston?”
“About twenty miles. Why?” The sheriff glanced back at Andy for a moment, and then turned his eyes back to the road.
“I think I have an aunt who lives there.”
This time the deputy turned around, speaking for the first time. “I’m from Ellingston. What’s her name?”
Andy tried to remember his mother’s maiden name. “Stone? Mae Stone? That’s what it used to be, anyway.”
The deputy laughed. “Sounds like you really keep in close touch with your relatives.”
Andy’s face reddened. “Have you heard of any Stones there?”
“Yeah, sure. I know who Mae Stone is. She’s your aunt, huh?”
Andy couldn’t believe it. He leaned forward. Nodded. “Yes, she is.”
The deputy turned to the sheriff. “You remember Miss Stone, don’t you? She’s the one who had that fire a while back.”
The sheriff nodded. “Not much of a fire, though. Appears some kids broke into her basement and lit her cat on fire.”
“Her cat? Was anyone hurt?” Andy asked.
“Oh, no.” The sheriff’s mouth turned up into a crooked smile. “She apparently smelled the cat’s fur burning right away. She called the fire department, but before they got there, she already had the fire out. She didn’t keep much in her basement, although there was a two-gallon container of gas down there. That cat would’ve been wallpaper if he’d gotten anywhere close to the thing. But I’ll say this; that poor cat is gonna be awfully cold this winter with his fur all burned up like that.”
Andy imagined the cat, running around in a near empty basement, its fur throwing bright orange flame into the darkness.
“We’ll take you to Ellingston if you want.”
Did he really want to meet his aunt that bad? Did she even know he existed? But his car was in no condition to drive, that was for certain, and the garages wouldn’t be open until tomorrow. He couldn’t think of anyplace else to go. He didn’t have enough money for both a motel and a windshield.
Maybe she’ll be grateful to see me, he thought. Being able to catch up on her sister. Besides, it might be kind of fun, meeting a relative he'd never known.
Andy nodded. “Let’s go.”
TWO
It was dark when they arrived. Their first stop was at the pay phone outside of Al’s Gas and Grocery. A carload of teenagers wearing Ellingston Eagles letter jackets looked them over and turned their car’s stereo down when the patrol car pulled up to the phone. The sheriff walked over to them for a chat, while the deputy looked up Mae Stone’s number.
It was a small town. Quiet for the most part. No traffic lights. Andy could see where the business district ended, the glow of the street lamps reaching only a few blocks in each direction. Most of the residential area was behind the row of buildings across the street; a bank, a V.F.W., a couple bars, a Ben Franklins’. A white banner fluttering above the gas station announced that Johnny Appleseed Days started next week.
The deputy gave Andy a dime. Punched the numbers in for him. When Andy heard the phone ring on the other end, his mouth went dry. What was he going to say?
He heard the carload of teenagers pull away. Watched the sheriff walk back to the patrol car. Saw the clerk inside Al’s stare at him over the glossy pages of a magazine. He smelled fresh gas and felt a bond of sweat form between his hand and the phone. He couldn’t think. What was the point of this? He didn’t know this person. This was ridiculous.
Someone picked up the phone.
“Hello?” It was a female’s voice.
“Is this Mae Stone?”
“Yes?”
His mind went blank. He felt the deputy grinning at him only a few feet away. “Hi.” He cleared his throat. Stared at the phone’s coin slot, wishing he could squeeze into it and disappear. “My name is Andrew Byrd, and my mother’s name is Edna Byrd. I believe she’s your sister.”
“Yes?” she replied.
He gripped the phone with both hands, his lips pressing lightly into the mouthpiece. “I was in the area and I got into an accident. A deer smashed up my car pretty good.” He took a deep breath. “I was wondering if you could put me up for the night.”
“Edna?” Mae whispered. “You’re Edna’s son?”
“Look, if you’d rather not, I understand.”
“My God,” Mae said.
The deputy took the phone from Andy and nodded into it, saying, “Yes, it’s all true. Yes. Yep. Are you sure? We’d check first thing in the morning. About eight o’clock?” He gave the phone back to Andy.
“So you’re Edna’s boy,” Mae said, sounding more composed.
Her voice sounded younger than Andy expected. In the short ride in the patrol car, he’d formed an image of Mae as an elderly spinster, but hearing her voice for the first time shot that all to hell. Andy’s mother was fifty-three, so that would make Mae fifty-one? Hardly an old spinster, now that he thought about it.
He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Mae spoke up again. “I suppose it’s all right if you spend the night. There’s plenty of room. And I’d like to hear about Edna. Could I talk to Mr. Jacobson again?”
Andy held out the phone. “She wants to talk to Mr. Jacobson.”
The deputy took it. “I’m here.” He paused and nodded into the phone, saying yes and uh huh and sure, then saying, “Eight o’clock, okay?” He hung up the phone and turned to Andy. “Looks like you’r
e in luck.”
They drove past the reach of the streetlights where Main Street transformed into a two-lane highway. About a mile out of town they turned right into a long, gravel driveway. At the end was a large house. A window on the second floor lit up from inside. The patrol car’s headlights converged on the front door.
“This is it,” the deputy said.
When Mae Stone emerged, she was momentarily blinded by the brightness. She squinted, shielded her eyes with the back of her forearm, peering out from beneath, anxious to get a good look at Andrew Byrd. She saw his silhouette turn towards the brightness, giving the headlights a wave of the hand, signaling the patrol car to leave.
The car stood still, its engine running. It gave a honk on the horn. A voice cut through the harsh lights. “Will you be all right, Ms. Stone?” It was the sheriff. She waved, closing her eyes against the glare.
Finally, the patrol car turned away and left Mae and Andy in the dark. They watched the tail lights dissipate into the night, leaving an illusory red streak floating in the air.
With a CLICK, Mae illuminated the front steps with a floodlight, which hung above the door.
“Andy,” she said, barely audible, as if tasting the name. “Andy,” she said again, her eyes darting over him. “Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand.
“You, too.” Andy wasn’t sure whether to call her ‘Aunt’ or ‘Mae’ or ‘Aunt Mae’ or just ‘Miss.’ He set his duffel bag on the step and shook her hand.
“I’m sorry,” Mae said. “You’re shivering. Come in.”
Mae flicked on light switches as they walked through the house. They passed two closed doors in the hallway, one on either side. A third doorway, open, showed stairs going up, which ran parallel to the hallway. There were empty coat pegs sticking out of the wall on the left. Flowers in terra cotta pots were set on the floor on either side of the hallway like runway lights.
The hallway opened to the dining room. A single woven placemat sat on a round oak table. A lone chair faced a window peering out into the night.
As each light popped on, Andy squinted, feeling for the first time the tiredness in his eyes. His lids felt weighted, and he stifled a yawn.
“Would you like something to drink?” Mae asked as they headed into the kitchen. “I’ve got milk, water, apple juice, beer. Or I could mix up something.”
“Water would be fine, thanks.”
The kitchen was clean and well lit, the floor made of white tile, the cupboards painted light blue. Mae motioned to one of the blue vinyl chairs tucked up to a small kitchen table.
“Have a seat.” She turned on the faucet and stuck her finger under it, waiting for the water to turn cold. She watched Andy’s reflection in the kitchen window as she spoke.
“I must admit, I haven’t kept in touch with your mother much. I sent her letters every once in a while, but I never got any replies.” She filled a glass with water and handed it to Andy. “It kind of discouraged me, to be honest with you, so I haven’t sent her anything in the last few years. Did she ever show you any of my letters?”
“No,” Andy said.
Mae opened the cupboard above the refrigerator and took down a bottle of gin. She poured some into a Styrofoam cup and swallowed it.
“Does she ever talk about me?”
“Well, sure. She’s mentioned you.”
“You don’t sound too sure. What do you know about me?”
“I’ve seen some pictures of you when you were younger.” His mouth remained open; he hoped another sentence might produce itself, but all that came out was the tip of his tongue. It flicked at his lips.
Mae poured herself another shot. “But has she said anything about me?”
“Not really.” Andy stared at the tiles on the floor. His face felt hot.
Mae looked at the kitchen window. Her reflection stared back at her above the thick leaves of an aloe plant. “It’s too bad.” She took a sip of gin. “It’s too bad how when things go sour, people let them stay sour. Especially among relatives.” She held the bottle out to Andy, but he shook his head. “Sometimes that’s the worst.” She took another sip. “Why do you think that is?”
Andy shrugged. What the hell was she talking about? Perhaps coming here hadn’t been such a great idea after all.
Mae leaned toward him and caught his gaze. “I forgave her a long time ago.”
She took a swig straight from the bottle and screwed on the cap. She sighed, grinned sheepishly, blinked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how tired you looked until just now. Why don’t I show you to your room.”
She got up and put the gin away, then leaned back against the refrigerator door.
“Tomorrow you can help me plant tulips if you want. I think it’s wonderful how they emerge in the spring, no matter how hard the winter may have been. You can tell me all about yourself then. Catch me up on how your mother’s doing. How does that sound?”
Andy nodded. “That sounds great.”
He followed her back through the dining room and through the front hallway. They went up a flight of stairs, the walls lined with photographs and brightly painted landscapes framed in gilded metal and old, painted wood.
Mae opened up the first door at the top of the stairs. “Here you go. Would you like a wake-up call?” she asked.
“No, that’s all right.”
Mae watched for a moment. Andy said, “Mae - thanks for letting me stay here. Really. I appreciate it. I mean, you don’t even know me.”
Mae smiled. “No problem. I admit I was quite shocked at first, but I’m glad you thought of me, even if it was for just a cheap place to spend the night. Gives me a chance to touch base with family again.” She started to back out of the doorway.
“By the way,” she said. “This used to be your mother’s room.”
She whispered good night and closed the door.
The room was small, with only a single bed, a wooden dresser, and a closet. The bed was bare with a set of folded sheets and a pillowcase sitting in the middle of a stiff, frayed mattress. On top of the dresser was an ancient box of tissue paper. Andy traced his finger along the edges of the dresser, scraping at some of the peeling white paint. Probably some good solid oak under there, he thought. He opened up the drawers one by one, which were all empty, save for the bottom one, which held a folded afghan.
My mother’s room. Wow.
He got up from his kneeling position, wincing at the sound of his creaking joints. He went over to the closet and opened it. Inside were five summery dresses, each with a different flower print, hanging from a wooden rod. Did these once belong to his mother?
It was strange to think that she used to live here. Strange to think she had some other life before giving birth to him. A life he knew nothing about. A life she never bothered to share. But to be fair, he never pried very deeply.
Thin, green curtains outlined the room’s lone window. A white shade was pulled over it and a bare light bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling.
Andy wondered what the room was like when she had lived here. Certainly not as sparse as this. He tried to soak in some feeling of her presence, but he couldn’t. Did she have pictures on the wall? Did she leave clothes scattered on the floor?
I should call her, he thought. Let her know where I am. He was sure Cathy had called her by now. Not that they were close friends. In fact, it was rare they ever said more than two words to each other. But he knew Cathy, knew she’d want to call Edna and let her know her son was far from perfect.
Shit.
He started to make the bed. First the sheets. Then the pillow. He pulled out the afghan from the dresser. He could already feel a chill settling into the house for the night.
He pulled the sheets back. They were clean, but smelled musty, like they hadn’t been used for years. The pillow was stuffed tight and fat with little bits of feathers poking out here and there. Andy hoped he wasn’t allergic. He went to the light switch and put his hand up to it, making a mental picture
of the room before turning it off.
The pillow felt nice as he laid his head back. He closed his eyes, closing out the darkness of the room, of the house - closing out the day.
Jesus, what a day.
He was here in a house foreign to him with a person who might as well have been foreign to him, sleeping in a bed he’d never slept in before. Last night this was the last place he ever expected to be.
He listened to the creaks and groans of the house, listened to the wind play it like a musical instrument. It’s an old house, he thought. I’ll get used to it. The noise would eventually become an ordered rhythm, then a drone, then a hum, then silence.
And soon he started to think about Cathy.
He started to dream about her.
He was penetrating her again, and her screams pierced his ears. He held a knife to her throat with one hand, and with the other, he slapped her, trying to get her to stop screaming.
“Make love to me, Andy!” she screamed.
Soon she was no longer Cathy; instead she was a young girl with a summery flower print dress hitched above her waist. Andy’s knife disappeared from his hand.
She cried, and Andy breathed heavily, loudly, to drown out her cries. He didn’t know who she was, but he wouldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.
Stop it, you’re hurting me, she said. Stop it, Ed. Go play with your dolls.
And she became a doll. A rag doll, and he kept pumping into her, sliding himself into her, not wanting to stop. But her opening was dry, made only of coarse wool. Andy’s cock became raw from the friction, the skin peeling back, the nerves burning painfully. The doll’s stuffing started spilling out, and Andy’s stuffing spilled out, too, as he lost himself inside of her. His cum was old rags and yarn and cotton. There was a frown on the doll’s face.
Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made me grow and grow, and where I stop, nobody knows.
Stuffing continued to pour from Andy’s erection, filling up the doll, making it grow, expand, enveloping his entire body until he couldn’t breath, until he was suffocating in her rag guts, he was dying, he -
