Nightscript 2

by C M Muller

  But he had been unable to shake off a peculiar sense of instability since moving into the apartment—an oddness of proportion or geometry. As if he were slightly too tall or his legs slightly too long to move around the space comfortably. And it seemed as if his lungs could never quite take in enough air. He didn’t want to go outside until he had solved the puzzle of his environment—he didn’t feel safe. He thought he might fall at any moment, and he knew what sometimes happened to elderly men who fell. Was he actually elderly? If he had the thought then perhaps he was.

  So the first time someone knocked on his door Tom felt slightly frightened, especially since the knocks seemed to have some urgency behind them. He wondered, briefly, if the building were on fire. But wouldn’t the smoke detectors have gone off? There were smoke detectors, weren’t there? He knew there had to be, but he’d never noticed them.

  The woman at the door appeared young, with her dark black hair. But she had the skin of someone older. He’d never been good with ages, and that lack of skill seemed to become more evident every year. Why did he even care about her age? He felt embarrassed, and he hadn’t even said a word. She brushed past him and sat down on the couch.

  He hesitated, not sure whether he should close the door or not, but fearful that someone else might force their way in, he shut and locked it.

  The woman sat on the edge of the couch fiddling with the hem of her skirt and squeezing her knees together. “A family used to live here, the Blakes? Did you know them? Well, of course you didn’t. That was years ago. They were a very nice family.”

  Tom couldn’t imagine why she was here. But even if she were crazy she must have a reason. “I didn’t know them.” What else was there to say?

  “No, I said that—there was no reason you should know them. They were a very nice family—that’s all I meant to say, really. Is it just you here, by yourself? No family?”

  “I have a son, but he’s an adult now—he lives in another city.” No need to tell her which city. No need to tell her he was a widower. He still wore the ring, and he saw her looking at it. But he’d put on weight since he first married and now the ring was too small to get off—he hadn’t taken it off in years. He wasn’t trying to be mysterious, or to convey a false impression, but taking his hand somewhere, getting the ring sawn off—that was a major step, wasn’t it? He didn’t even understand all the implications of such a deliberate decision. And wouldn’t that be a bit of a betrayal, to deliberately damage the ring that way? He should put a Band-Aid over it until he could decide what to do.

  “A lot of unattached people live here. I’m unattached. You’ll fit right in.”

  Tom doubted it. When was the last time he’d fitted anywhere? He couldn’t remember. “I haven’t met anyone yet. I’m just getting—acclimated.”

  “Well then, I’m your first.” She smiled, but it was a weak smile, as if she were somehow ill and simply trying to be brave. “But I’m not going to tell you my name. I’m going to let you guess it.”

  He avoided the couch and sat down in the burgundy armchair opposite her. Was she flirting? Tom couldn’t remember what flirting was like. “That’s alright,” he replied, although he wasn’t at all sure.

  She smiled broadly, but said nothing. She seemed to be waiting. Was he supposed to ask for clues? Finally she said, “So what do you do?”

  He did nothing. He’d been spending all his time in his new life trying to figure out how to do more than nothing. “Retired,” he said. “I ran an office. I had a staff. They did all the work, I guess. I kept them busy. Sometimes it was a challenge. People will just sit there, you know, if you don’t give them something to do. I guess they call that purpose. People feel they require a purpose or they won’t do anything.”

  What was this nonsense he was saying? His “staff” was two co-workers in the research department. They all did the same work—he was simply the contact person. Most of the time they had no idea why they were researching the subjects they were researching.

  “It sounds important.”

  He nodded. He said, “Yes.” This could not be farther from the truth. He apparently wanted to impress her, but he had no idea why. Had he been this way before he was married? He couldn’t remember.

  “It’s good to take charge of things,” she said. “Too many people just let things happen to them—do you agree?”

  “Taking responsibility,” he said. “That’s what you’re talking about.”

  “Exactly.” She crossed her legs and adjusted the top of her dress.

  “Will you excuse me?” He got up and went into the bedroom and shut the door. He pushed the knob in and twisted to lock it. He sat down on the edge of the bed with the lights out.

  Without a clock he couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but it seemed like a long time before he heard footsteps coming down the hall. The steps stopped in front of the bedroom—he could see two shadows in the narrow strip of light just beneath the door. Her shoes, he supposed. The doorknob turned back and forth and there was a rattle as she tried to open the door.

  After a few minutes the shadows vanished and he could hear the footsteps in the hall and then in the living room, and then the front door opening. He held his breath. Then the sense of the room itself exhaling as the front door closed.

  After a few minutes he crawled further up on the bed in the darkness and put his head down on the pillow. The lights were still on out there, but he decided that was acceptable.

  Sometime in the middle of the night he grew cold and crawled under the covers, but he didn’t open his eyes. He dreamed of walking in darkness, and every now and then a faceless voice would say hello, but he was always too afraid to answer back.

  The next morning Tom got up and cleaned the apartment. Theoretically there wasn’t a lot to clean. Since he’d moved into the new apartment he’d meticulously picked up after himself. His meals were pre-prepared and promptly disposed of. No stray ingredients or evidence of preparations to erase. And since he hadn’t gone outside there had been no dirt or other debris to track in. His guest from the night before might have brought in something on her shoes, but if so it wasn’t obviously detectable.

  But Tom understood that dust was always a concern. Particles drifted through the windows, filtered down from the ceilings and even from the apartments on the third floor, an unknown amount traveling upwards from deep within the fibers of the carpeting, and there was always a certain percentage of dead skin cells—his and those of previous occupants—although the exact percentage appeared to be a figure of considerable debate.

  The world renewed you, or replaced you—depending on your degree of optimism—at its own rate. He did not know how to feel about any of it. He scrubbed the floors and cleaned the surfaces as best he could—tried to rid himself of contamination. But he was haunted by the approximations of memory, by the unsupported promises of the imagination. His imagination suggested he might have everything, and yet he knew nothing was there, no matter how much that nothing clamored for his attention.

  The next morning she let herself back inside, although Tom was positive he hadn’t given her a key. He’d been sitting outside on his balcony again, following the comings and goings of strangers, and wondering if there might come a time he’d consider introducing himself. Even this tiny glimpse of an outside world was discomfiting. There were couples out walking their dogs, there were all those children playacting an actual life, there were all the legions of the dead, and the tantalizations of their laughter, the transient evidence of their happiness that dissipated in his scattered spells of reason.

  She smiled at him as he entered his own living room. Her skin was as pale and as unblemished as the promise of sleep. She sat on the couch with some awkwardness, as if waiting for his next move.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what this is, but I’m not ready for it.”

  “I assumed you were lonely. I assumed you wanted some company.”

  “Bu
t I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “Is there someone I can call to come get you?”

  “Could I just use your restroom? I know where it is—I found it while I was searching for you last night.”

  He nodded, said, “Please take your time.”

  She paused just inside the bathroom. “You know, the Blakes were much nicer neighbors.” Then she slipped inside and shut the door.

  Tom went into his bedroom, grabbed a pillowcase, and slipped the photos of his wife and son inside. He’d made a terrible mistake. He went back into the living room and looked around. Nothing here was his. He didn’t recognize any of it. He opened his apartment door and left, carrying the pillowcase with the pictures close to his chest. He didn’t bother to close the door behind him.

  Once Tom reached the lawn of the apartment complex he turned around and gazed at it. It didn’t look much like the brochure he’d received in the mail nearly a year ago, the one that had made him decide on this purchase sight unseen. It resembled a stack of concrete slabs, with stress cracks showing in the corners. The bushes around the garden level units appeared yellow and sickly. Not that it mattered a great deal, he supposed—apartments, houses were all pretty much the same—they were boxes for people to put their things in, and then to climb in afterwards and shut themselves off from the wind and the rain and the ones that might do you harm if they ever got in. At least the old house had had his history, however painful that history had eventually become.

  He started down the sidewalk with no particular plan. He had some cash in his wallet and a credit card. He could always access his bank account if he discovered something he wanted to spend it on.

  A variety of restaurants and other businesses lay on the other side of four lanes of highway. Their signage was incredibly bright and colorful. He passed a number of people on the sidewalk and their clothing was incredibly bright and colorful as well. Desperately so, he thought. Desperate reds and desperate blues. Desperate greens. Their eyes looked tired and pale, as if worn out trying to make sense of all the bright colors. Even the younger ones looked weary. Even their newer outfits appeared poorly cared for.

  He hadn’t paid adequate attention and brushed against a large man in a soft gray suit. The man stank of stress and a poor diet. Tom felt immediately embarrassed by his knee-jerk judgment when the man stopped and said, “Are you all right? Can I help?”

  Tom had no idea why the man thought he might need assistance. Was it really that obvious? There was a looseness about the man’s skin, as if it were a poor fit. “Thank you, I’m fine,” Tom said.

  The man went on his way, moving awkwardly as if in pain. It seemed to Tom that everyone he had seen today appeared ill.

  A couple crossed over the highway to his side of the street holding hands. The way they clung together—Tom wondered what they feared, what they imagined might happen to either of them. They were really too young to know all the things that might happen. When they reached the sidewalk they gave each other a sloppy embrace, lips slipping off lips and then inhaling skin, makeup, whatever aftershave the man used. They appeared drunk, inebriated, but also intoxicated on themselves, and on the fact that they had each other. He wanted to give them some money, but when he approached them they ran away, laughing. Whether at him, or at the fun they’d found in each other, he couldn’t say.

  He didn’t know how far he was from his old house. He’d stopped driving years ago, and since then had developed a poor sense of direction and distance. Not that it mattered in any practical sense. He’d sold the house and disposed of all its contents. That act was done and could not be undone. It was a terrible mistake, he realized now, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. He had wanted to both escape pain and force himself into a new and useful life, or if not useful at least reasonable. The problem with such a strategy is that if you find you cannot complete the course you’ve laid out, if you come half way down the path and you discover it is the wrong path but you have given away all your resources, what do you do?

  You die, Tom supposed. Such people died, or they wandered around in some kind of untouchable limbo.

  It must have been close to lunchtime because there seemed to be a great number of people out on the sidewalk now and in the crosswalks. Tom couldn’t have said for sure but this seemed like a reasonable guess. Singly and walking in groups, sometimes, many with name tags clipped to their pockets or hanging from lanyards. Some of them walked while eating—a sandwich or a protein bar in one hand, sometimes with a drink in the other, sucking through a straw or sipping or gobbling liquid down a long-necked bottle.

  Some of them made pained noises when they ate or drank. Some of them gasped for air. Tom saw more of that loose skin he had seen before, loose and too pale and sometimes with dark shadows over where the blood vessels ran, where the blood pooled or where there was an old weakness or injury. Some had scabs or scratches. Some walked with the awkwardness characteristic of pain or injuries new or old. Some looked longingly for companionship and some of them actively avoided it.

  Tom had nothing to say to any of these people. Tom had no idea how to make them feel better or provide even a moment’s relief. He supposed he was like many of them but to identify too much, to accept that his experience was all too common, was to take away some of the validity of his pain. He should never have left his old house. He shouldn’t even be here.

  Without being aware of it he had entered one of those great stone and concrete plazas that stretched between buildings. Here was this seemingly endless plain of paved world anchored by monuments to technology and commerce. Populated by hundreds of people, perhaps thousands, milling about as if purposeless but of course many of these figures had their purposes timed down to the last minute.

  Many were getting too close. He couldn’t be sure if they had him exactly in mind or if simple space restriction were forcing them all together.

  “No,” he said plainly, and one or two nearby stopped in their tracks. “No,” he said again, as a young man in a hurry ran right into him.

  Tom went to his knees as more gathered around him. He held the pillowcase with the photographs inside up to his face. Several people were approaching. One of the women resembled his neighbor from upstairs.

  He was very hungry. He hadn’t eaten all day. And they kept coming closer to him, wanting him to rejoin the human race. But he wasn’t having any of it. He wanted to do something, something else. He took out the photographs of his dead wife and his faraway son and began eating them.

  Understairs

  Jason A. Wyckoff

  A family with several children previously occupied the house Gracie bought, leaving her to suffer the encumbrance of carpeted stairs. Gracie, being a single woman of taste, hated carpeted stairs. Nevertheless, she put up with the situation for nearly six years because the cost of buying a home—despite putting “no money down” against the principal—depleted her “cushion” (which the expenses of being a sociable single woman of taste in a new city prevented her from quickly replenishing). By the time she had the means to invest in remodeling, her wish list for improvements had grown considerably. And while several projects were by then absolute necessities (such as replacing all the rattling, ill-fitting windows which, in addition to contributing to mammoth winter heating bills, allowed in drafts of such a peculiarly disquieting nature that the simulated sound of breathing on the landing outside of her bedroom door kept Gracie awake more than one night through), the removal of the carpeting and the refurbishing of the stairs was the top item on her list.

  Online reviews of local small business owners led her to engage “Millett and Sons” contractors. The fifty-something man with broad forehead and crooked nose who managed her remodeling explained he was actually the surviving “Son,” having retained the name when he inherited the business from his senior.

  “And, since my daughters weren’t inclined to follow in my footsteps, I got this little guy to help me out,” he said by way of introducing F
ilipe as he put his arm around the much shorter man’s shoulders.

  Filipe took up his cue for the obviously-rehearsed but goofily endearing bit, beaming as he looked up at Millett and said, “Thanks, Pop!”—the only two words in English Gracie remembered him uttering during the entire renovation.

  Millett, conversely, never squandered any chance to speak with his client. He seemed to relish each opportunity to explain the details of her house and the minutiae of their work on it. Gracie thought kindly enough of the older man that she didn’t (often) wonder if his genial attention was tendered equally to customers who weren’t pretty single women in their thirties.

  And so Gracie thought it must have required a Herculean effort on Millett’s part to restrain himself until after the steps were stripped, sanded, and stained before he mentioned the keyhole beneath the lip of the fifth stair.

  “It looks like there’s a secret storage compartment under the step,” he explained. “It might have been used to store valuables or just children’s toys. Probably there’s nothing in there now, but who knows? Have you found any old keys in the house you couldn’t find a use for?”

  “No,” Gracie replied. Though he seemed to try to hide it, Millett’s obvious disappointment prompted her to ask, “Couldn’t you force it open?”

  Millett shook his head determinedly. “There might be a mechanism attached.”

  “What mechanism?”

  For once, Millett declined to elaborate. Instead, he seemed to shrug off whatever importance he had ascribed to it and smiled. “Well, it adds a touch of character, anyway.”

  Gracie regarded the simple, brass clasp. “Don’t you think a skeleton key would fit?”

  “Eh.” He waved off the suggestion. “Just wait. I’m sure the key will turn up.”