Eidolon Avenue

by Winn, Jonathan

  She shook her head.

  “Poor Señor Sanchez.” Gran grinned, her thin lips smirking in the flickering light from the TV. “No one could ever figure out what happened to him, the pervert. Disappeared just like that,” she said with a snap of her fingers.

  Then Gran leaned forward, coming close to her, the smell of pee and bad breath and sticky, sweaty skin hitting her in one big breath. “But I know what happened. I saw what you did.” She drew back, tugging her housecoat close around her. “I couldn’t believe it, but I saw it and it scared the ever-loving shit out of me. That’s why I never came back.”

  Gran paused. Glanced at the TV. “If it wasn’t for the State kicking a little extra into the kitty each month for taking care of you, there’s no way in holy hell you’d be here.” She gave a quick laugh. “Got me off of cheap gin, let me tell you. Nothing but top shelf from here on out.” She pointed her long, skeleton finger at her. The nail was long and sharp and sorta yellow, the skin wrinkled and old. “It was you, Umbra. That day with Señor Sanchez. It was all you.” Gran turned away from her to look at the TV. “I could not believe my eyes. I wasn’t lit and I wasn’t drunk, but I saw what I saw and I heard what I heard.”

  In the light of the TV, Gran looked at her again, her eyes narrowing. “You know what you did. Yes you do. You asked for forgiveness from God. Later that night. I heard that little girl voice of yours whispering or whatnot. To God.” She turned her head away. “But you did that, you’ll never escape that, and it’s something you need to live with.”

  Umbra sat there for a long moment. She bit her lip and sniffled. There was a something in what Gran was saying. A something that said . . . she didn’t know. Something. But it was horrible and bad and super-secret and sat in her tummy like a rock and made her eyes hurt like she was going to cry. Again. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not in front of the old woman.

  She looked at her. Gran didn’t say a word, her attention on some stupid sitcom still set to mute. So, feeling like a ghost again, Umbra stood and gathered the crumbs in her napkin and headed to the kitchen.

  She stood at the counter for a long moment. She missed home. If she were home, she’d be in the kitchen, like now, but she’d be cleaning mac & cheese off her plate instead of dusting the crumbs off a napkin from yet another cheese sandwich. Or maybe there would have been Hamburger Helper. Or tacos. She loved tacos.

  If she were home, dinner would be done, Dad would be in the chair watching TV with the sound on and Mom would be out on the back patio drinking as the sun went down. It would be like it always was. At least before Dad died.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, real tight. She was tired of crying. She was so done with tears. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Onion Bagel Breath came back and took her somewhere else? Somewhere away from Gran?

  But her friend. The stain that wasn’t a stain. She took a deep breath. No, she was where she needed to be.

  Besides, she had no idea who Gran was talking about. Señor Sanchez? No idea. She folded the crumbs in the napkin and threw it in the trash. Besides, she didn’t remember playing in the dirt when she was a baby. Babies are babies. How are babies supposed to remember what they do, you know? But she kinda wished she could, even though it already felt like something wrong or bad. And, if that were true, she didn’t want to.

  She did remember her mom that last morning in the kitchen though, and that was enough.

  Mom sitting at the table in a dirty T-shirt and her underwear, so skinny and already “sloppy drunk and mean as a skunk” as her dad used to say. Remembered trying to ignore her as she’d slurred “Comere.” Remembered her mom getting mad and yelling at her as she’d tried to sit there quietly and eat her cereal without milk because they didn’t have any. “I’said comere!” The table jumping as mom’s hand slapped it. Tried to forget the sick feeling in her stomach as Mom tried to stand, and then lean across the table to grab her, her hand swiping nothing but air until, losing her balance—probably because she was too drunk to stand again—she’d sat back down. The table thumping when her fist pounded it.

  She didn’t want to remember the thoughts she’d had in her head. The dreams. Her mom peaceful and calm, healthy and happy. Her eyes bright and her smile real. Her arms not flapping around and her feet not stumbling as she tried to stand or move or walk.

  Her dream of a morning where no one fought, no one screamed, no one drank. Her dad in a happy mood as he joined them for cereal. Him kissing her on the cheek or the forehead or the top of the head as he sat, the whole family finally together at the table.

  She didn’t want to remember how she’d always hoped for peace and quiet. How she just wanted to eat her cereal. With milk. How she wanted her mom to not drink. Or, if she had to, to not drink too much. Maybe even have her try to be normal or something. She didn’t know what that was like, to have a nice, happy mom.

  She remembered seeing out of the corner of her eye—it was best to never look at mom when she was like this—the glass with the brown liquid at the bottom rise into the air for another drink.

  She’d hated that glass. Hated whatever was in it that made her mom mean and nasty and smelly. Whatever it was that made her angry and sad. And made her cry and hug and hold and then push away and punch and slap and scream.

  She’d tried to forget that glass. And the sight of that glass touching her Mom’s lips. And watching her throat gulp, gulp, gulp as she swallowed from that glass. She remembered wanting that glass gone. And wanting Mom gone. Of just wanting Mom quiet and normal. Somehow.

  That’s when it’d started. Mom belting back the last of her Jack and Coke. Mom smiling as she’d taken that first bite of glass. The crunching as she chewed. And her sitting there with her cereal without any milk, not knowing what to do. Feeling like somehow this was, in some way, her fault, though she’d never ever imagined this. Never.

  And then another bite, and another, mom’s eyes wide, like she was confused. The broken glass cutting her bottom lip so bad that it peeled and hung there and swung, sticking to her chin. She remembered seeing her mom’s gums and bottom row of white teeth because the lip had fallen away. She remembered how the pink had been stabbed by little shards of glass as she opened her mouth wide for another bite of glass.

  She remembered how she’d sat there and felt bad. And then how she’d just finished her cereal. Almost like whatever had happened was a dream that was part of something else. Something she didn’t quite know or understand yet. Like it was a something that came from her heart. A something that told her it was okay and this was right and everything would be fine. And so she’d said nothing and done nothing.

  That, she remembered.

  Now, in Gran’s kitchen, she tried to forget the blood. All that blood. The sight of it, the smell of it. Even how she thought it must feel as it dribbled from her mom’s mouth, onto her chin and down her neck to the space between her boobs. The red looking sticky and gross as it stained her shirt while she sat there, looking so confused and so helpless and still so drunk, biting and crunching and chewing and swallowing the sharp pieces of broken glass.

  That, she remembered, too. That, she’d never forget. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that the something was a thing to trust. And she was trying. But this Señor Sanchez? This man Gran had mentioned? She had no clue.

  She left the kitchen and, head down and as quiet as a mouse, tried to sneak past Gran’s Lazy-Boy with the stuffing coming out of the rips and the arms wrapped with old pieces of duct tape.

  “Ah ah ah.” Gran grabbed her arm. “What do we do?”

  Holding her breath, the smell of pee-pee and old sweat making her stomach sick, she pressed her closed lips to the old woman’s cheek. “Thank you for dinner, Gran.”

  “You’re welcome.” Gran paused, her eyes narrowing as she looked at her, her thin lips curling into a grin as she grabbed her shirt in her fist. “Señor Sanchez. In the front yard. In the dirt. In the dirt, Umbra. Hmmm?” Gran dipped her head, tucking her chin to h
er chest as her eyes looked at her. “Think about it. It’ll come to you. I know it will.” She released her and gave her a small shove. “God help you.”

  ***

  “I think the words in this one are too big.” She sat cross legged on the floor, a book on her lap. “Maybe I should just talk . . . or something. And you can learn words that way, okay?”

  She’d been reading to it for weeks. Had gone to the library and scrounged around, finally finding those big, slender books that had page after page filled with large pictures and easy words. “This one?” the librarian had said. “This is much too young for you. You really should be reading at a much higher level by now, don’t you think?”

  I do, she’d wanted to say to the skinny woman with the white flakes in her hair and the glasses that slid down her nose. But this thing in my bedroom, it’s learning, okay? It’s new. It needs my help. And these little kid books are perfect, so just mind your own business, lady.

  But she’d said nothing. Just shrugged and looked at the squished library card in her hand, wanting to hurry up and get home, have her cheese sandwich and teach her silent friend to speak.

  And so, wrapped in her PJs, a blanket around her shoulders, her feet warm in a pair of socks, she’d read, her voice small in the low-ceilinged room, the rain pelting the window. For hours, she’d sound out the words, careful and slow as night fell and her bedtime came and went. Hoped that somehow it’d learn enough to tell her what it is and what it wanted and if it, like her, was lonely and sad.

  “Does this story make sense?” She looked at the stain. Searched for a response. A sign that what she was doing was working. “Are you following it?”

  It didn’t respond.

  She took a breath. She was being a grown-up about this. Nice and patient. Not like how she felt with Mom and Dad, or even Gran. With this, her friend, she was working hard and letting it take as long as it needed. “You know, learning words isn’t easy,” she said. “It took me a long time, too, way back when I was a baby.”

  It sat there, doing nothing.

  “But my teachers were patient and sometimes nice.” She gave it a small smile. “And I promise I’ll be patient and nice with you, okay?” She closed the book and put it down. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” She stood and stretched. “I don’t know you,” she said. “But you don’t know me either. Would that help? Knowing more?”

  She drew near the stain and took a long look at it, wondering where to begin.

  “My dad was an accident.” She waited for some response. There was nothing. “I’ll tell you about it, if you want. But know that it wasn’t supposed to happen. I kinda thought of it and, I don’t know, I guess it got away from me.”

  She stopped, wondering what it was hearing. Wondered if it heard anything. Decided it did. “I’ll tell you, okay?”

  She placed her palm against the wall. Near the stain, but not on it. “I’ve never told anyone. You’re the first. You’re special.” She inched her fingers near the brown circle. “To me, you’re special. Something I can tell my greatest secrets to.”

  A deep breath to calm down. “Okay, he was in the garage working on the car. Not our car, but another car. One he’d found in the junkyard that had no wheels or anything. And I sat there with my sandwich and watched him because Mom was ‘sloppy drunk and mean as a skunk’ and throwing things in the kitchen, and he . . . ”

  She was never quite sure what, exactly, had happened at this point. Whatever it was, though, it had made her uncomfortable and feel a little less safe. Like it was almost something that had happened before but it was all cloudy and weird. But she’d always felt safe with her dad. Had always had him as someone to run to when Mom got mean. So this, what she could remember, had always felt wrong.

  “He saw I wasn’t wearing, you know, my undies. I was wearing a dress, like, for the fifth time that week because nothing was clean and we didn’t have the powder soap for clothes or even the squirty blue one for dishes. So Icouldn’t even do the laundry if I wanted to. And I wanted to because I had no clean undies.” She felt her cheeks grow red. “I kept my knees together. I did, but I think I forgot for a quick moment and Dad saw my, um, you know, my um . . . ” She cupped her hand around her mouth as she whispered. “My private place.” A quick glance at the door. “I mean, I don’t know, I think he saw and, anyway, he made fun of me being smooth like a tiny little baby.”

  That sick feeling in her stomach came back as she stood with the stain. The burn in her cheeks and that tight feeling at the back of her jaw that made her grit her teeth really, really hard. That feeling that made her want to go into a really dark corner where no one could find her and just stay there forever. “I didn’t know what he meant. Really, I didn’t. I still don’t—”

  She stopped and looked to the door again. She thought she’d heard something. Maybe Gran was listening in? Like way back when this stupid Señor Sanchez thing supposedly happened? She considered going to the door. Opening it. Making sure she was alone and not being overheard. But Gran wouldn’t be there. She’d be in front of her TV watching a show with the mute on. She knew it.

  “Honest. I didn’t know what he meant, calling me a tiny little baby.” Her eyes watched the stain as she moved closer and whispered. “I still don’t. Honest. Even though Onion Bagel Breath tried to tell me when I sorta mentioned it which I should not have done, by the way, but he’s dead anyway so it’s not like it matters.” She shook her head and closed her eyes real tight. “But she did say that what he said was wrong, though she wouldn’t tell me why, exactly. Which was stupid. And that him peeking was wrong. But I already knew that. I knew it was somehow wrong and somehow mean, or something, and it was a thing he shouldn’t be saying or doing or whatever.” She shrugged. “Nothing happened, you know. It was like a joke or something. I dunno. I was just so embarrassed and so ashamed that my one pair of underwear was too dirty to wear and he’d caught me or something.” She took a deep breath.

  “And so I just . . . I just wanted him quiet. And I remember looking at the thingy-ma-bob holding the car up and seeing the car had no wheels, not yet, anyway, and I remember kinda thinking ‘If that were to fall, he’d be flat as a pancake.’ And before I knew it, that’s what happened.”

  She felt her lip tremble. Her face started to flush. And her nose crinkled and was getting stuffy. Her throat felt tight. But she wouldn’t cry. She didn’t want to. She was tired of crying. Was tired of her throat hurting and her face feeling heavy. She swallowed and then bit her lip. Bit until it hurt, but it was too late.

  The tears came.

  “I didn’t mean to do that. Believe me, I didn’t. It was an accident.” She was crying now, her voice hurting as she talked, her shoulders rising with hiccups as the tears ran down her cheeks and the snot dribbled out her nose. “I saw his insides. They smooshed out of him when the car landed. I saw his head split open and the big bone in the head, the skull, like, crack open and I could see his brains. And all that blood and stuff, like green and yellow or something, all that stuff came close to me. Came close to my shoes.” She wiped the snot from her top lip. “And I had to stand and go real quick through the kitchen and then out the back door to the neighbors, the ones with the loud dog on a chain that barked all the time at everything, and ask if they’d call 911 because my dad was dead. He was dead.” The tears were so thick she could barely speak now. “And it was my fault. He left me alone with her and it was all my fault. I did it and I didn’t even mean to.”

  She stopped and caught her breath. Wiped her face, wiped her nose again. Wiped her hands on her PJs. Took another breath. “I’m horrible.” She sniffled. “You’ve probably never seen anyone as horrible as me. You probably can’t even imagine doing something as horrible as I did. What I still do.” She took a step back. “I’m sorry.”

  And having nothing more to say, she grew quiet, afraid she’d lost her friend.

  “I didn’t mean to do it. Really, I didn’t.”

  She stopped and listened. Co
cked her head and held her breath, sure she’d heard something again.

  Was Gran at the door? She sighed and closed her eyes, hoping the old woman hadn’t heard anything about her thoughts or her dad or what had happened.

  The sound continued. And it wasn’t the sound of someone listening in. Of someone shuffling near and leaning close, their ear pressed to the door. This noise was strange. And it wasn’t coming from the other side of the door.

  She turned from the stain and walked across the room. Pressed her ear to the door. The sound was still there. But there was no one on the other side. Whatever it was came from farther away. From the living room. For a moment she thought Gran might be choking, but no. That wasn’t it either.

  She listened. It wasn’t the wheezing of Gran’s breath. She knew what that sounded like and this wasn’t it. And it wasn’t a cough. Or a sniffle. And she knew it wasn’t the TV. It was something sticky and wet. And there were voices, too. A mumbling? A murmuring? Whatever it was, it wasn’t a something that was quick, like Gran clearing her throat or coughing into her tissue. It was a something, a weird something, that wouldn’t stop.

  She opened the door and, because it was late and she wasn’t supposed to be up, and she didn’t feel like getting yelled at again, crept around the corner.

  Gran sat sleeping in the chair, her chest rising and falling. A line of drool stained the side of her mouth, her lips spotted with flakes of dried spittle. Her thin hair stood in little tufts of fluffy white. In the light of the TV they kinda looked like the little devil horns you see at Halloween. But these were white. And hair. Old person hair. The picture on the screen—some stupid sitcom or something—jerked and bent and twisted as the signal struggled, their voices silenced by the mute button.

  And in that jerking, bending, twisting light she saw them.

  In what looked like a wispy cloud of cigarette smoke, they stood. Flashes of arms and bits of leg. Skinny shoulders and round stomachs. Gran’s housecoat lifting and moving as these weird hands touched her body. Her hair moving as fingers ran through it to feel her scalp. Mouths coming out of the air and pushing forward to press against Gran’s forehead and cheeks. Pink tongues lapping at the smooth skin behind the ear and along the back of the neck. Lips kissing her temples and slobbering on her thin lips. The smoke showing the white of teeth tasting and nibbling and sucking. The sound very quiet and very wet. A greedy, hungry sound.