by Hamill, Ike
“Get. It. OUTOFHERE!”
I backed up with the bag pinched between my fingers. I almost dropped the thing again, but recovered and took it to the bathroom where I gently lowered it into the sink. The bone protruding from the skin and muscle didn’t look like it had been broken. It looked cut.
My mom’s adrenaline must have overpowered the wine and pills. She pounded into the hall while wrapping herself in her robe.
“Explain that thing,” she said. Her accusing finger pointed at me, not the bag.
“We found it in one of those cans behind the neighbor’s house. Remember how I said that he wasn’t using those cans for trash? How he uses plastic ones for the trash? We looked in the metal ones, and this was there. He has eight cans now. There’s probably more in them.”
“Why would you… What is it doing here? In my house?”
“Because we have to call the cops. They need evidence,” I said.
This time, she didn’t yell. She didn’t point or scream. Her voice sounded low and calm. With my mom, that’s when you really had to worry. Her deepest anger didn’t glow red, it turned absolutely black, absorbing heat and light like a black hole.
“Go to your room.”
(Life is unfair.)
Life is unfair.
Our monumental discovery was treated like a terrible, shameful secret.
My mother plowed us into my room and shut the door. A minute later, she pulled us out and took us into the kitchen. The bathroom door was shut. Some of the smell had leaked into the hall. She put my hands under scalding water and scrubbed my fingers for me until I was squirming and pulling, trying to get away. To my mortification, she did the same thing to poor Matt. He didn’t complain, but his face was wrinkled up like he could still smell the awful bag.
Then, with our hands washed and dried, we were banished to my room again.
Even with my head stuck out the window, I couldn’t see the front of the house. Matt saw the headlights sweep across the garage door.
“Somebody is here,” he said. He pressed his ear against the door and I did too. My mother’s voice came in rapid bursts. The police were calm and condescending. I could imagine the smug look on her face when she opened the bathroom door. After that, the police didn’t sound so calm.
Waiting was pure torture.
I wanted to open the door so badly.
“He’s going to know it was us,” I whispered to Matt.
Matt shook his head.
“Yeah. He’s gonna. When the cops go over there and look in the cans, who is he going to think turned him in?”
“So what?” Matt asked. “He’ll be in jail.”
“That’s not how it works though. Innocent until proven guilty, you know? They have to have a trial and that takes months or years. Until then, he’s going to be after us. He’ll get revenge on us for ratting him out.”
“You watch too much TV,” Matt said. I could tell he was nervous too. Then I really started to get scared. Usually, I was the alarmist and he was the one to tell me to settle down. When he was nervous, bad stuff was coming.
The door opened and we both screamed.
The officer pointed to Matt and then curled his finger, telling Matt to go along. I had to go to the bathroom really bad at that point, but what was I going to do? The bathroom was probably roped off as a crime scene. Besides, I hadn’t been granted permission to leave. I figured it all out in a flash—the cops were going to separate us, get us to turn on each other, and then pin a crime on one of us. The first one to confess would probably get off light.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I opened my window and let the fall wind roll in. It was the only way I could stop the feeling that I was about to suffocate. If they had made me wait another couple of minutes, I might have run for it. I pictured it as I stood there, drinking in the chilly air. I pictured slipping through the window, dropping to the ground, and sneaking between the police cars that were stacked in the driveway. I could be off and hitchhiking before they even raided the neighbor’s house. I would be like the Incredible Hulk, wandering from place to place, always in fear that someone would learn my secret.
I was about to try it when the door opened.
Matt came in, head down and shuffling. They called me three times before I eased my grip on the windowsill and went with them.
The questioning felt like it took hours. In retrospect, they were being incredibly kind and gentle, asking what happened without accusing me of trespassing. It didn’t help. I was so paranoid that they were trying to lure me into a trap that I answered everything with clipped, one-work answers. They got angry and left me alone.
Two officers stayed with us down in the TV room in the basement while the others rolled out.
They did a great job at terrifying us. If we told anyone what happened, it would weaken the case against the guy. That’s what they warned us. A single word about what we had found might put the guy back on the street. Nobody finished the thought—that if he was set free, he would immediately hunt after us for revenge. Matt and I had already pieced that fact together, so we swore our secrecy to the police and later to each other.
Neither of us said a word. Matt didn’t even tell his parents.
Months later, the story came out on the news and everyone claimed to know about it. The girl who lived across the street from the murderer was a couple of grades beneath us. She said that she watched out her window while the cops shot their guns through the walls and killed everyone inside. Her story lost credibility when kids looked at the house and saw that it didn’t have a single bullet hole in the siding.
Another kid said that his uncle was one of the victims in a trashcan. When he couldn’t come up with the uncle’s name, his story was debunked. By the time that Matt and I thought to tell our side of it, nobody believed us. Our story was one of many implausible tales that was circulating.
Our shameful secret faded away. Our contribution to the safety of society was never recognized.
I suppose it was for the best. Rumor has it that the man wasn’t acting alone. He was working for organized crime or something. Mobsters supposedly ordered a killing, my neighbor fulfilled the order, and the mobsters would eventually come to remove the trashcans. Maybe it was just another tall tale. Just in case it wasn’t, it’s a good thing that nobody knew about the two boys who cracked the case.
(What is that noise?)
What is that noise?
“Is anyone home?” I shout. I swear I heard a noise—a groan or something—from inside the house just as my shout is fading out. What are my options? I want to go home and forget about all this. I can’t do that. I suppose I could go home and call the police. That’s a really unappealing idea. First, I would have to track down the non-emergency number, right? You can’t just call 9-1-1 because somebody left their door open on a hot day, right?
Also, there’s a voice that lives down in the darkest part of my heart, and that voice whispers, “You won’t get credit.” That sinister voice is still upset that I never got credit for being right about the neighbor across the alley. Matt and I had discovered a murderer and nothing good ever came of it. I mean, aside from taking a monster off the streets, nothing good ever came of it.
I reach out and pause just before my fingers touch the door. It would be rude—maybe even illegal—for me to push my way into a stranger’s house. Maybe if the door were wide open, there would be no harm in my wandering inside to check on…
As I ponder the legality of walking through an open door, I reach out with my toe and swing the front door the rest of the way open. Now I can see everything inside.
There’s a sign on the wall over the bar.
“Work is the curse of the drinking class.”
Through the doorway to the left of that, I can see a counter and an oven that has to be decades older than I am. Stairs run almost up the center of the house. Leaning in, I can see what might be a dining room on the left. This place is nothing like my uncle’s house. The floor pla
n of this house seems completely intentional. Uncle Walt’s house, in comparison, accreted around some tiny nugget of a dwelling that was planted two-hundred years ago. In his kitchen, the pine floorboards still wrap around the original hearth that’s no longer there. I suppose I should stop thinking of it as “Uncle Walt’s House.” It’s mine now.
“Mr. Engel?”
Is it the echo of my voice, or was that another moan?
Entry
(Something changes when I cross over.)
Something changes when I cross over.
I shift from concerned neighbor to busybody. One might even call me an intruder.
Usually when I enter a house I take off my shoes. It’s not something I ask my guests to do, but I almost always do it when I’m visiting. I don’t even consider doing that now. It seems inappropriately intimate to walk around Mr. Engel’s house in my socks without him there to grant permission. Besides, I might have to leave in a hurry.
“I’m coming in. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Hot, humid, and suffocating. The air inside the house barely seems breathable.
There’s a glass on the bar with a tiny ring of brown in the bottom. Whatever was in there has evaporated. Next to it, the TV Guide doesn’t have any dust on it that I can see, but David Schwimmer and Jennifer Aniston are on the cover. The magazine has to be at least twenty years old. I lean forward to see if Mr. Engel has collapsed behind the bar. Somehow I can picture it—the old man has a heart attack while he mixes a drink and gets ready for an evening of watching Friends. If that’s when he went, the body will just be a skeleton in overalls.
Nothing.
I let out a relieved sigh.
My hand is resting on the bar. I use the bottom of my t-shirt to wipe off the prints, exchanging fingerprints for DNA, I’m sure.
“There’s no dust,” I whisper. “He has to be alive.”
With one more step, I’m crossing the threshold to the kitchen.
“Mr. Eng…”
I don’t finish the name. He’s on the floor in front of the sink.
(I rush to him.)
I rush to him.
My knees slam down to the vinyl floor and I reach for his hand. The man is so wrinkled and dried up that I’m afraid I’m too late. Maybe this is just a desiccated corpse, turning into human jerky in the heat of the kitchen. He’s on his side and facing towards the cabinets. I can’t see his eyes. A tiny moan escapes him when I touch his hand and he starts to roll towards me.
“Mr. Engel, are you okay?”
What a stupid question to ask.
What’s he supposed to say? “Why, yes, good sir, I’m just taking a quiet nap on the sticky-hot vinyl of my kitchen floor. I often lounge here in the summer. Please forgive my sleep moans.”
I help him roll to his back and his eyes scan the ceiling. The one closest to me is milky white. The other is yellow and brown. His good eye locks on me for a second and then slides off again. His lips smacks and he works his tongue around like he’s trying to form words.
“Mr. Engel, you hold on, okay? I’m going to call for help.”
I pull out my phone. Even though I don’t get any signal here, I still slipped it into my pocket when I got out of Uncle Walt’s truck. No bars are showing on the display. It’s time to test out the idea that 9-1-1 will always work.
It doesn’t.
My phone complains of no signal. There’s a message I’ve never seen before, informing me about emergencies. I don’t bother with it.
“Where’s your phone, Mr. Engel?”
All I can think about is the phone in my Uncle Walt’s house. I know precisely where that is. If I jump back in the truck and drive about five minutes, I could call from there.
He looks like he might not last that long.
I see it. The phone is mounted on the wall right next to a door that must be a closet or pantry or something. It’s one of those old, heavy, rotary phones with a long and curly cord. I lay his hand down gently and spring to my feet. When I dial the nine, it feels like it takes an entire minute for the huge dial to rotate back around. My adrenaline is pumping so hard that everything is moving slowly.
The line clicks and buzzes and then an angel answers.
“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”
“My neighbor has collapsed on his floor. I think he has heatstroke or something. Maybe a heart attack. I don’t know.”
“What’s your address?”
I give her the road number. I don’t have any idea what the address is. “Tell them it’s the white house on the right before the end of the road. It’s the only other house on the road except for my uncle’s. Mr Engel—that’s his name. I don’t know. Can you look it up or something?”
“Absolutely,” she says.
She could have said a lot of things. “Stay calm,” would have been appropriate. I love her for choosing that word instead.
“Now, how is Mr. Engel? Is he breathing? Can you feel a pulse?”
I don’t want to return to him. I’ve handed off this problem to the angel on the phone. It’s unfair that I have to go back to him and again violate his personal space as well as my own. I have to do what the angel says though.
I lower myself to my knees, barely tugging the phone cord. This is the kind of cord that could reach all the way to the front porch if required. The angel waits while I lean close to listen for his respiration. She says, “Good, good,” when I count off Mr. Engel’s pulse.
“Do you have water handy? Can you wet a towel and begin to cool him off.”
“I will. Someone is coming, right?”
“Yes. Help is on the way.”
I tuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder and grab the dishtowel that’s hanging next to the sink. There are two big knobs—one for hot and one for cold. The tap squeaks as I rotate it and the water sputters from the spout between blasts of air. Below me I can hear the pipes chatter and groan. The sound is matched by Mr. Engel.
“Sir?” the angel asks.
“It’s the pipes. The pipes are making that noise.”
“Are you still there sir?”
“Yes. I’m waiting for the water to cool a little before I wet the towel.”
The intermittent stream from the spout is warm. It almost feels oily or something. It’s too slick between my fingers.
“Sir? Are you there? I’m going to stay on the line. Are you…”
The phone clicks several times and then the buzzing dial tone comes back.
With another blast of air, I finally get some cool water from the tap. I soak the towel until it’s dripping and then shut the water off. The receiver is still buzzing in my ear as I kneel next to Mr. Engel again.
“Here,” I say, lightly dabbing the wet towel on his forehead.
It was better when the angel was in my ear. It was like she was possessing me—working through me. Now, it’s just me and Mr. Engel again. I can’t disconnect from the reality of the suffering man in front of me.
His dry lips are cracked and split. In the bottom of deep chasms I see dark red that must be muscle tissue. The hand I’m holding resembles tissue paper draped over bird bones. Mr. Engel could blow away in a stiff breeze.
The phone is still buzzing for a moment and then it clicks again. I set down the receiver and the cord recoils it back towards the wall. It’s retreating before another strike.
When I dab his face and forehead, he blinks and swallows.
“You’re thirsty,” I say, a little too loud. “Hold on.”
I push to my feet, thinking of Kimberly. Until now, I have been desperately trying to not think of her. They only let me give her ice chips. From the panting and rhythmic breathing, her lips had been dry too. They were nothing compared to Mr. Engel’s lips, of course, but Kimberly had asked me to put ice chips against her lips while she battled the contractions.
Mr. Engel’s refrigerator is shaped like a giant tombstone. There is no freezer door, from what I can see. When I open the fridge, the handle
rotating on a hinge to release the latch, I see that the freezer door is inside the compartment. Inside it, I find a metal tray with cubes. I free a couple and return to Mr. Engel.
He swallows reflexively when the cold hits his lips. He squinches his face—maybe the ice stings him. Then his tongue chases the cube when I pull it away. I lay it across his lips again.
Behind me, the phone begins to squawk.
Mr. Engel’s eye follows me as I jump up and return it to the cradle.
I dial again.
It rings and rings and doesn’t connect. I hang up and try again.
“I can’t get them to answer,” I tell Mr. Engel. When I look down, I’m startled to see that he has turned his head so he can watch me at the phone. I put the phone back and return to his side. With the towel in one hand and ice in the other, I dab and soothe.
“They said they’re on their way,” I said.
He blinks.
His eye assesses me.
“I’m your neighbor,” I say, in case that’s what he’s wondering. “Walt’s nephew? My uncle left me his house.”
He makes a sound through his parted lips.
“Sorry to barge in on you,” I say. “I came by to make sure you were okay in the heat and your door was open. I thought I heard you calling for help.”
He makes a low moan and I nod.
I pull the ice away.
“Are you… Are you trying to say something?”
His teeth come together and he makes a tiny hissing sound.
“Ice?” I ask.
It’s a good guess. He nods a fraction of a fraction of an inch.
I put the ice back to his lips.
(He was on the floor.)
He was on the floor.
I have to assume that he fell. Given that, I have to assume that he might be injured. Given that, I’m not sure I should move him. I want to take him outside, where there might be a chance of air moving around. I’m sweating so much that my own lips are beginning to feel dry. It almost hurts to blink.