Dead Echo
Page 57
*
He stopped writing and looked up at the clock. Almost noon. His stomach was beginning its first tenuous rumbles and he thought about getting up and putting a frozen pizza in the oven. He was usually a light eater and that would be enough for the whole day the way his nerves were acting up lately, but he wasn’t quite ready. His exercise this morning (because that’s what he called this daily writing process he so religiously devoted himself to) had opened up new avenues in his mind.
Lately he’d begun to fear for his soul. Strange, this, from an atheist. It would have been laughable had it not been true, but there it was. Out in plain sight and twice as ugly. He’d never been religious for a scant moment in his entire life, even when Debbie died, he’d never once prayed for peace or redemption or whatever the hell it was believers did for solace. He’d simply written it out, let his mind string out all its uncertainty and woe in letters and phrases. Making real what had until that time been merely loose strings floating aimlessly around his mind. Even the finger had not changed that. But it had not been the sudden insight of affirmation of God that he found then, but the terrible realization that His Other could prove infinitely more lethal. And as things turned out, more terrible than he could ever believe.
It had been a Thursday, a little over a year and half ago. Debbie had complained the night before of a “fierce headache” (her exact words) so when he’d awakened to get ready for work the next morning he wasn’t altogether surprised that she wasn’t feeling well. But she was a good employee, hadn’t taken a sick day in all the six years she’d worked in the clothing store. He’d gotten her some Ibuprofen, kissed her on the forehead, whispered something sweet into her ear as he’d prepared himself for the day. She’d smiled wanly and told him she’d see him at dinner and he’d patted her face before leaving for work. And that had been the last time he ever touched her while she lived. Of course he wasn’t a callous man, his job forbade such an attitude because, let’s face it, in the insurance business, if you can’t at least feign concern for others’ troubles, your tenure would not be long. He never feigned anything and had been in the business for the better part of twenty years. He called several times from his rounds that day, with every attempt receiving nothing but the quick cut-over to the answering machine. He left messages, blew her kisses through the line. He even managed to leave the office at 4:30, even then with a small drift of papers on his desk demanding attention, waving off until tomorrow a request from a fellow adjustor (a new guy on the job, Bob Wilson, fresh out of college and as green to the world as a chick in its nest) to help him straighten out some twist he’d managed to entangled himself in.
He pulled into his driveway nineteen minutes later (that was another thing they’d liked about the house, its proximity to both of their workplaces), not at all surprised to see her car where he’d left it this morning. He let himself in with the key, holding another small drift of papers from the mailbox in his other hand, and placed them on the counter just below the hook where they hung their keys. And yes, there were Debbie’s. But that bit of normalcy didn’t damp his growing concern a second later. The kitchen was a mess, untouched from the previous night, which was strange. Debbie was a fastidious cleaner and even on the days she felt punk, it was seldom enough to keep her from her rituals. But no, dishes were piled in the sink, the floor still needed mopping and she’d made a comment about that yesterday with the headache. A vague sense of disquiet snugged up close to his chest.
“Debbie?” he called. No answer. He left the kitchen/dining room and passed into the living room. She hadn’t been on the couch; there were no blankets or pillows. The remote control for the TV was still right where he’d left it the night before: on top of the Sony. “Debbie?” he called again and this time he thought he heard something from down the hall. Slippers, maybe, on the laminate floor. But no answer.
His breath came a little shorter.
He entered the hall from the living room and the distance to their bedroom door had never been greater. He knew now, in hindsight, that it had been the rest of his life spread out before him, receding into a nothing future. Running the gauntlet of the beast. Sometimes you had to admit you were beaten, let’s face it. He hadn’t called her name again, not until after he saw her, and then only in disbelief. The last couple of steps had been the hardest, that too, he had to admit. He’d known. Of course it had shocked him but he’d known right at that moment, halfway down the hall. Everything had coalesced into shape. The rest inevitable.
The door had not been shut but it was pulled-to enough so he couldn’t see the bed from the hall. All he could see was the window, its shades still pulled tight against the sun outside. And that was bad too, just another little aside that everything was not all right, that pushing the bedroom door full-wide would change the rest of his life. Debbie was (had been, his mind kept chiming in) a sun-worshipper and Miles had always thought if you had to worship something, the sun was probably your best bet. Debbie had sure thought so. She’d rather vacation on any beach than enjoy the poshest indoor resort. She’d affirmed a hundred times that the sun was healing, and here the shades were drawn. Like a viewing chamber in a mortuary.
He saw his hand at the end of his arm reaching out. Touching the cool surface of the bedroom door and for just a moment freezing there. All power left him and he saw the blank surface of his remaining life, all shades of gray and black, an extending impenetrable darkness. For a moment he thought he heard the skittering footsteps behind him in the hallway, perhaps terrible things (the things in the attic! his mind screamed though he ploughed ahead) coming up from back there to sink their fetid nails into his back, to drag him through a bloody hole in the floor to everlasting darkness. But he did not turn.
He pushed and the door fell back with a tiny whine.
He was still surprised he had not gone crazy then, blanked out and ran along the streets in a wild-eyed daze, screaming, tearing his eyes out. But there were worse things. Because many days now he wished he had. Just gone tearing out of that house like some certifiable maniac to fall somewhere in the arms of control, somewhere where he’d never have to decide another thing for himself again. At night now, that was a pleasantness, a sweet idea that scorned his cowardice of the moment. Someone would have had to take him away, and in that probable padded room everything would have ended. There would be none of this…. But he hadn’t.
Debbie had been right where he left her. The room was demolished, the bedside lamp splintered at the foot of the bed. The valise he hung his clothes on likewise. Wet, bloody masses dotted the walls, seeped down on the floor. And then he had Debbie, framed perfectly in the madness. The sheets had been stripped from the bed and she was nude. Her legs splayed out to the corners, her arms limp at her side and placed in synchronicity along her thighs, a broken doll. Scratches covered her chest, legs, tufts of her hair were scattered on the bare mattress. But her eyes were the worst. Even from his distance at the doorway her eyes remained aghast in their sightlessness, unable it seemed, to distance themselves from the enormity of the horror that had been visited upon her.
He tried to move forward. Couldn’t. Closed his eyes and opened them slowly and found nothing had changed. Tried to speak her name and choked. Fell down to his knees. Felt his heart constricting in his chest. Pulled himself back down the hall, bright stars flashing in front of his eyes, through the living room again, finally into the kitchen. Fought the phone from its cradle. Dialed 911 in a fugue. Remembered nothing else until he was gently shaken awake by a paramedic sometime far in the future.