“What are we supposed to do about it?”
“Bend.”
“What does that mean?”
Again she shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
Betsy seemed to be having a jolly time rolling peas around her highchair’s tray and dipping into her pile of sliced bananas while her parents picked at yet another meal in virtual silence.
6
The days were bad enough, but the nights could be absolute torture. Maybe I should have let Richard bring the TV down from the guest room upstairs, but there was no cable hookup so it would have been DVDs only, and jumping up and down every couple of hours didn’t seem all that appealing at the time. And now the whole thing was moot.
My stomach growled loudly. It had been sixteen hours since I’d eaten a couple of slices of toast, but sustenance could wait. I struggled to sit up and every muscle in my body seemed to scream, thanks to my encounter with the tombstone earlier that day. I ground my teeth together and turned on the bedside lamp, then made sure the baby monitor was switched off before allowing myself a painful groan. I had to wait long moments for things to settle down before I could grab my crutches and get up. Next on the agenda: pants—or at least shorts. If I fell I didn’t want to be caught in my skivvies. It wasn’t easy, but I got them on, found my left shoe, grabbed my keys from the top of the dresser and, with no hand to hold them, bit the leather strap attached to the ring to hang onto them, and headed for the butler’s pantry and the back door.
The night air felt damp and chilly as I shuffle-hopped across the expanse of driveway toward the garage. Once there, I leaned against the siding, retrieved my keys and sorted through them, thankful the light over the garage came on at dusk. I unlocked the door, reached around to turn on the light, and looked up the steps. Fourteen steps. I swallowed. A stairway to heaven—or at least freedom.
Again, I bit the leather tab and, with crutches held with my right hand, pivoted and fumbled for the bannister. One, two, three, and with a bent left knee, dropped back, juggling the crutches and awkwardly swinging from the bar until my ass hit the second step. My broken leg did not like being jarred, but since the rest of me didn’t either, I tried not to pay attention to the pain that radiated through it.
I sat there for a couple of minutes to get used to the idea of what was yet to come: those other twelve steps. The plan was essentially the same as what I’d done to get to Alice’s monument. Keeping the bad leg elevated, I dug in with the good leg and pushed up. I was glad there was no one around taking video, because traversing those steps were not my most dignified moments.
I was two steps from the top when I lost my grip on the crutches. They slid down the steps, making a terrible racket. Feeling heartsick, I sat there, sweating from exertion and had yet another decision to make. Go after them, or carry on.
I carried on.
Once my bony ass hit the landing, I let go of the keys, thankful I hadn’t dropped them, too, and unlocked the door. The scant light coming in through the big living room window cast the room in shadows.
“Mrrow?”
“Herschel? Stay back.” The last thing I needed was for my cat to escape; after all, I hadn’t been able to shut the door at the bottom of the stairs. The keys went back in my mouth and I turned onto my belly and began to crawl. I managed to get inside and close the door, then turned over, grabbing the handle on the closet door to help pull me up into a sitting position. I reached over and locked the door. I couldn’t reach the bolt, but at least I was inside and safe in what I’d come to think of as home. But for how much longer?
It seemed like all I’d done most of the day was sweat, and I felt pretty ripe about then, but it didn’t seem to bother Herschel, who walked onto my lap, head butting my chin, and purring like a well-oiled machine. “Hey, buddy; I missed you, too.”
I sat there for a few minutes, petting him, until Herschel looked like he might want to plop down for an extended visit, but I had too much to accomplish before I could allow myself to enjoy his company. First up were lights. I needed to see any obstacles in my way. I’d left the apartment before eight on the morning of the accident, with dishes in the sink and the bed unmade. There were probably clothes lying on the bathroom floor, too. I wrinkled my nose. Brenda had been feeding Herschel, but so far hadn’t changed the litter box. As I recalled, the twenty-five pound bag I bought once a month had one change left in it, but I wasn’t sure I was up to changing it then. And how was I going to get my trash down to the tote in time for garbage day?
I shook myself. First things first. I needed something to eat. The light switches were out of my reach and I had nothing at hand to use to flip them. If I could maneuver to the kitchen, I could open the fridge and that would give me some light—then I could make my next decision. So I crawled on my belly across the carpeted floor to the breakfast bar and into the kitchen. I pried the fridge door open and blessed the light that spilled out.
“Let there be light; and there was light; and it was good!” I told Herschel, who had no problem seeing in the dark. He seemed to think it was well-past time for a kitty snack, but I ignored his strident hints. Hopefully Brenda had fed him, whereas I’d missed two meals that day.
The fridge didn’t have much in it, but a bottle of beer was within reach and I grabbed it. “Liquid bread,” I told Herschel, who seemed skeptical. I twisted the screw cap, tossed it in the direction of the sink, and took a long gurgling swig of that beautiful Labatt Blue. Since I’d left my pain pills back in Brenda’s craft room, those fine bottles of fermented malted barley might be the only thing between me and misery for the next few hours. I knew I should probably try to eat something, but most of my staples were located in the higher cupboards. I rummaged around and came up with a box of Ritz crackers with an unopened sleeve and tore into it. If only I had some cheese….
Okay, I had food and drink, now what should I do? Watch TV? It didn’t appeal to me. I could check my email on my phone, but hadn’t thought to do that earlier in the day. The computer desk sat against the living room’s west wall. I found a tray in one of the cupboards, placed the opened beer—and another unopened one—on it, along with the crackers and flipped onto my stomach once again. I moved a couple of inches, dragged the tray along, and crawled yet again. It took me three or four minutes to reach my destination before I realized I probably wasn’t going to be able to climb into my computer chair.
Screw that! I yanked the keyboard and mouse cables, glad I’d never gone wireless, and hit the PC’s ON switch. While it booted up, I drank half the bottle of beer and ate a handful of crackers. I admit, it wasn’t exactly convenient to try to read the screen way up above me, but the light it shed helped illuminate the room. Still munching crackers, I logged into my email account to catch up on stuff. There were way-too-many Facebook announcements, which I quickly deleted, and an email from Bison Bank. Probably an advertisement for yet another of their services. Still, I clicked to open it and read with growing puzzlement that my checking account was overdrawn. No way! I had overdraft protection from my savings account, which had a little more than two grand in it. I’d been saving a big chunk of my tips from the bar for … well, I didn’t really know what. Maybe a better car, or a vacation with Maggie—or maybe just a rainy day.
I typed the bank’s URL into the search box, and when the screen came up added my log-in and password, then waited for the single-use code to arrive in my email. Once logged in, I wasted no time in checking my balances: zero and zero.
What the fuck?
Both had been emptied the day before I’d left the hospital—the same day my credit card had been compromised.
I stared at the zero balances once again and felt my throat constrict. I’d been hit by hackers—and a honking big SUV—while those I held near and dear felt used and abused because I wasn’t in a position to take care of myself. And why had Maggie made herself so damned scarce?
I grabbed the beer bottle and drank the rest of its contents down in mere seconds, but as soon as t
he last swallow had gone down, I wondered if it all might come right back up. I tossed the empty bottle aside as the reality of all that had happened started to sink in. If I thought I could escape the Alpert penitentiary with the little I’d managed to save during the previous two years, those hopes had been unequivocally obliterated.
What the fuck was I going to do? How in hell could I survive? At that moment, I had no one to depend on and nothing to fall back on.
Nothing in my past—not even being mugged—prepared me for the overwhelming sense of futility and finality that swamped me.
“Brrrpt!” Herschel said, and sashayed past me, rubbing his head and marking my cast as his personal property before heading into the bedroom.
I wasn’t sure what I should do next. I could struggle to get up on the couch and crash there, or crawl into the bedroom and try to make it to the bed. Maybe I’d fall asleep and when I woke up everything that had happened during the past week would prove to be nothing but a bad dream. I’d dress, drink a cup of coffee, and wait for Dave to arrive and go on a ride—but this time I’d change the destination. And like a scared kid, I’d ride my bike on the sidewalk—not the mean streets of Buffalo.
I considered opening the other bottle of beer, but decided against it. I didn’t bother shutting down the computer and rolled onto my belly to begin the long crawl to my bed, but when I got there found I didn’t have the energy to try to climb my way onto it. Instead, I nearly popped my arm out of its socket yanking the bedspread off, grappled to snag a pillow, and billeted myself on the floor beside it. Herschel appeared from somewhere out of the darkness and nestled his warm body against my chest, purring happily. I envied the little guy. At that precise moment, I was sure I’d never be happy again.
* * *
Richard was often the first one up in the Alpert household. Okay, maybe he should amend that to say the first adult up in the household. He got up, showered, dressed, and found his baby daughter awake in her crib, telling herself some far-fetched story in a language he didn’t understand. He picked her up, kissed her dimpled cheek, and changed her diaper before taking her down to the kitchen, settling her in her highchair with a cup of Cheerios before he started the coffeemaker. He liked to let Brenda sleep in, since she’d taken on more than her fair share of the household and childcare chores, as well as being Jeff’s primary caregiver.
He took a couple of mugs from the cupboard, as well as a bowl and the box of rice cereal for Betsy’s breakfast, then puttered around getting everything ready. He’d feed the baby, and then take a cup of coffee into Jeff. Well, that is if Brenda came down fairly soon. He didn’t want to leave the baby alone in her chair for even a moment, even though she was strapped in.
But then he looked out the kitchen window and his heart skipped a beat. The side door to the garage—and also Jeff’s apartment—was open, and it hadn’t been the night before.
“Da-Da,” Betsy called. She was such a happy little girl that she never failed to make him smile…at least until that moment. He made sure she was securely strapped in before he headed for the butler’s pantry. He didn’t need to go farther, since he could see the door to Brenda’s craft room was open and the day bed was empty. Was Jeff in the bathroom?
Richard practically ran the short distance. The bedside light was lit, and the tiny bathroom was empty.
“Holy Christ,” he muttered and reached for the cell phone in his pocket. He called the landline as he made his way back to the kitchen. It rang five times before a sleepy Brenda picked it up. “’ello.”
“Brenda, get up—now!”
“What?”
“Jeff’s gone—and the door to his apartment is open. I can’t leave Betsy to—”
“Where are you?”
“In the kitchen.”
“I’ll be right down.” She hung up.
The coffeemaker continued to chug.
Betsy tossed a handful of Cheerios on the floor, laughing with delight.
Richard’s gaze darted to the window and then to the hall beyond—back and forth—until a sleepy Brenda finally appeared, tying the belt of her pink chenille robe around her middle.
“I’ll be right back,” Richard said, although he expected it was an empty promise and flew toward the back door, exploded from it, and jogged across the driveway, trying to decide if it was worry or anger he felt.
Not only was the door open, but Jeff’s crutches blocked the first couple of steps. He grabbed them, setting them aside and hit the stairs two at a time. The apartment door was locked, and he fumbled for his keys, thrust the proper one into the lock, and wrenched it open.
The apartment was deathly quiet. A beer bottle lay strewn on the floor, with another tipped over on a tray on the floor with a nearly empty packet of crackers next to the computer’s keyboard and mouse.
“Jeff?”
No answer. He walked inside, checked the kitchen and the bath—found no one—and headed for the bedroom.
A huddled form lay on the floor wrapped in the bedspread. The black cat sat next to him, practically up his nostrils—reaffirming the urban legend Jeff had scoffed at—purring its brains out.
“Jeff!” Richard called sharply.
The form started, disturbing the cat, which jumped to its feet, whipped around, and then disappeared under the bed. “What the hell are you doing on the floor?”
His sleep-fogged brother blinked up at him. “Sleeping. What the hell do you think?”
“Why are you here?” Richard demanded.
Jeff groped to find a handhold to pull himself into a sitting position. “I live here. Or at least I used to.”
Richard held out a hand. “Come on; I’ll help you up.”
“And then what?”
“We’ll go back to the house.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine where I am.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, I do,” he said belligerently.
“You can’t even get off the floor on your own.”
“If I had my crutches, I might be able to do so. Maybe you’ll bring them up to me before you go home,” he said pointedly.
“You can’t do laundry. You can’t cook for yourself.”
“I’ve got a full bottle of ketchup and a twenty-gallon tank of hot water,” Jeff grated.
Richard’s fists clenched as his memory flashed back twenty-two years when he’d found out Jeff had been starving himself after Richard’s grandmother had humiliated him by telling others he stole food.
He had to take a couple of breaths to quell his anger. “I’m not going back without you.”
“And I’m not going without Herschel. It’s a deal breaker.”
“What do you need a stupid cat for anyway?”
“He doesn’t get pissed off and let me know I’m a burden, and he’ll never cheat on me, either.”
The first insult was aimed at him—the latter at Maggie.
“You cannot take care of yourself!” Richard yelled as the unreasonable anger he felt reached new heights.
“Look, I love you guys; I love Maggie; and I love Herschel. Everyone gets the same amount—and I’m sorry you don’t get it.
“Is that your final word?” Richard asked, fearing he might explode.
“Yes.”
Richard stared at his brother for long seconds, before he pivoted, and stalked out of the room, heading across the carpet for the door, and slamming it behind him. At the bottom of the stairs, he bypassed the crutches still standing against the door to the garage, and slammed the one that led to the driveway.
He walked halfway into the driveway and stopped, angry with himself for losing his temper, and angry at Jeff for being so damned stubborn. He stood there, staring at his feet for a long time before the back door opened.
“What are you doing?” Brenda hollered.
Richard let out a breath and started for the house.
He met his wife at the door. “I lost my temper with Jeff. I was trying to calm down before I came back inside
and took it out on you or Betsy.”
“Richard Alpert, you have never taken your anger out on anybody. What happened that got you so upset?”
“He won’t come back without the cat. It’s a deal breaker.”
Brenda sighed. “Is that all?” She turned back for the counter and claimed one of the cups that was only half filled with coffee. She poured another cup, handing it to him.
“I don’t want that cat here.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“I don’t like cats.”
“No one says you have to like them.”
“No, I mean it. I really don’t like cats.”
Brenda studied his face for long seconds, and then her eyes widened. “Oh. You mean, you’re kitty phobic?”
He let out an anxious breath. “The clinical term is ailurophobic.”
Brenda leaned against the counter. “But you’ve been over to his apartment hundreds of times and seen his cat.”
“It usually hides from me.”
“As Jeff keeps reminding us, Herschel is a him, not an it.”
Richard’s hand was shaking as he took a sip of his coffee, slopping it onto the tile floor. “I can’t have that thing in my house.”
Brenda reached for the paper towel rack, tore off a sheet, and stooped to mop up the spill. “Where did all this come from?”
Richard shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Dogs don’t bother you. I mean, you seemed to enjoy Maggie’s dog, Holly, when she stayed with us that week.”
“Maybe it’s the pack mentality. But cats ….” He shuddered involuntarily.
Brenda tossed the soiled towel in the trash and moved to take her usual seat at the table. Betsy banged her empty bowl on the tray before her and Richard set his cup down, took the bowl from her, and refilled it with dry cereal.
Brenda sipped her coffee, looking thoughtful. “Jeffy can’t stay there on his own.”
“I know that. He slept on the floor because he couldn’t get into bed. He’d been on his computer. The keyboard and mouse were on the floor.”
Shattered Spirits Page 7
