Bleed

by Lori Michelle

  Tim nodded, “Okay, Mom.” He set his fork down beside his plate and paid close attention.

  “Ah, well, you know, I went over to see Dr. Mikkelsen in Jackson today,” she said, not looking him straight in his eyes.

  “I know.”

  “And you remember that Dr. Mikkelsen had sent me to the hospital in Sacramento for a bunch of tests and to see a specialist last week?”

  “Sure, I remember, Mom.”

  He’d gone with her last Monday, missed work at the park. Aunt Martha had come and picked them up real early, then driven them to Sacramento. After dropping off his mom, Aunt Martha had taken him to the zoo near William Land Park. And they’d had a hot dog, coke, and pink popcorn. Like a long time ago, when he’d been younger. But his mom had stayed at that Sutter Memorial Hospital all day. She’d looked really tired and worried when they picked her up late Monday afternoon. No one said much on the ride back to Marshall Creek. Which was funny because Aunt Martha was like Chatterbox. Tim also noticed that his mother was doing that thing with her eyebrows.

  “Well, son, those tests came back, and I had to go over to Dr. Mikkelsen’s this morning to talk about the results. What needs to be done for me to get well. You understand?”

  He nodded and waited, because he could tell there was more.

  His mother took a deep breath and managed to look him square in the eyes now. “The news isn’t real good, Timmy. I have to go back to Sacramento, have an operation, and be in the hospital for a little while. You are going to have to stay over there with Aunt Martha and Uncle Liam, until I can come home. That’s why your uncle took off work, came over this morning, and brought his Lexus SUV to haul us and some stuff back to Sacramento.”

  Tim liked Aunt Martha okay, but Uncle Liam made him real nervous. Always interrupting everybody, never listening. Whenever they’d visited them in Sacramento, Uncle Liam never let his two girls, Fiona and Kara, be alone with Tim. Funny. He wouldn’t have been rough with them. He knew they were just little girls. In fact, he wasn’t really interested when they tried to drag him outside to play in their tree house in their backyard. He didn’t have to worry, because Uncle Liam was right there, sending the girls to their room or some place else. His uncle acted like he was . . . sort of scared of Tim. Like Chatterbox when Tim first tried to feed the squirrel from his hand. But Uncle Liam was as big as a bear. So he didn’t understand, or even much like, his mother’s younger brother.

  After dinner that night, Tim went in to his room. Uncle Liam had helped him pack a suitcase full that afternoon. Seemed like an awful lot of stuff for a few days.

  He turned the TV onto Friends, while he looked over his CDs. He didn’t always understand all the jokes, but the familiar voices of Rachel, Chandler, Joey, and the others always made him feel good. Sometimes he wished he could go visit them in New York City. But it was too far, perhaps even farther than San Francisco. On his wall was a poster of Barry Bonds, who played for the San Francisco Giants. Ava had given it to him. He’d never seen the Giants play, but he listened to their games sometimes on the radio. Looking over his collection, Tim had to pick out ten CDs—that was all he could take. At least that was all Uncle Liam said he could take. Hmm. The Eagles . . . the Righteous Brothers, his mom’s favorite . . . Janis Joplin . . . Joe Cocker . . . and Arlo Guthrie, his best favorite.

  In the kitchen, Tim could hear his mother and Uncle Liam arguing over the sound of the TV.

  “No, I won’t agree to that,” his mother was saying in a loud, forceful tone. She rarely used her loud voice to him or anyone, but when she raised it to this level, Tim always listened carefully.

  He edged closer to the door.

  “Kathleen, be reasonable,” Uncle Liam said, his voice calm, lower than usual. “He’s a boy in a man’s body and . . . well, you know. Sonoma State has a terrific program, like I’ve been saying since you found out about him way back when he was a baby—”

  “Timmy is very high functioning, especially his social and verbal skills, he doesn’t need to be institutionalized. I’ve discussed it thoroughly with Dr. Mikkelsen. The people at Sonoma State are all lower functioning.”

  “That’s not true,” Uncle Liam said, his volume increasing. “Besides there are many his age. How many young people left in Marshall Creek? Any at all? And who does he have here to look out for him? Tell me that.”

  “Me.”

  “Maybe. But what about if this operation and the treatments don’t work out? Who knows? Maybe you’ve put this off too long. What then, Kathleen? Marth and I can’t provide a permanent home for him. Not with the girls growing up and—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Liam.” His mother sounded really disappointed and hurt. But her voice wasn’t so loud now.

  Tim listened on for a while, finally realizing that Uncle Liam wanted to send him away. Away to someplace called Sonoma State Hospital. And he was starting to convince Tim’s mother. He could tell she was weakening.

  “Okay, okay, but let’s see how the treatment goes.”

  “Well, I think it is past time now, Kathleen. Time to face up to reality. The boy needs to be with his own kind. Sonoma State Hospital is a great spot for him.”

  My own kind? Tim thought. And go away to a, a . . . hospital? He didn’t feel sick. Leave his mother? Marshall Creek? His job? The Blue Lady? The flood of questions made his head hurt, his chest tight, his throat dry, and his eyes teary. He didn’t want to go away anywhere. Tim sucked in a long breath, turning up the sound on the TV.

  Late that night, after his mother and uncle were asleep, Tim dressed and slipped out of the house.

  A full moon lit up Marshall Creek, almost as if it were daytime. The stars were out and twinkling. A beautiful night. But cold. He’d forgotten to slip on his coat, and rubbed his arms through his sweatshirt, shivering in the early spring air.

  Tim crossed Main Street, then walked across the park to the restrooms. He stopped for a moment and looked up into the darkness of the oak. Despite not seeing Chatterbox, he whispered, “Goodbye, old friend.” Then he took out a plastic bag from his pants pocket, and shook out a small pile of Cheerios onto the ground. Maybe Mr. Spinoza would come over and feed his friend.

  With a sad heart, Tim slipped around behind the building. He unlocked the storage shed and gazed inside. “Hello, Blue Lady,” he said, dragging the sculpture out and around the building. She was heavy. He sucked in a deep breath, and with an effort, he hauled the statue across half the park to the gazebo. Then, he rested a moment at the steps, catching his breath before pulling the Lady up onto the stage. Placing her in the center of the platform, he stepped back and nodded to himself. Grandpa had been wrong about her. She belonged out where people could see her. With moist eyes, he whispered, “Goodbye, Blue Lady, I will miss you very much. But I have to go away with Mom and Uncle Liam, maybe go live at a hospital far away in a place called Glen Ellen—”

  Timothy, don’t feel bad, a soft voice said in his head.

  Shocked, frozen in place, Tim just stared at the Blue Lady. She’d never spoken before. Her features seemed finer now, too, and she was smiling, staring directly at him.

  Come here, Timothy, to me. She held out her hands, beckoning with her fingers.

  Clumsily, he shuffled forward.

  Good, now take my hands. Tim reached out and clasped the Lady’s hands. They were not cold and metallic like usual. No indeed. The Blue Lady’s hands were warm and alive. He could feel an electric tingling moving up his arms, into his chest, and spreading through his body.

  Feel the magic?

  Yes, I do, he thought, puzzled by the sensation.

  Good. Close your eyes. Listen. Can you hear the music, now? Guitars were beginning to play, but not the usual classical music.

  Yes, I can hear it. And he recognized the song! “City of New Orleans.” His best favorite.

  That’s right, she said, a smile in her voice. Let’s dance, Timothy.

  But I don’t know how, he thought, blinking, trying to pull away.
I never went to any of the high school dances over at Jackson. I just don’t know how.

  The Blue Lady laughed, gripping his hands tightly. Oh, but you do now, Timothy. Yes you do. At that moment she pulled him closer, Tim slipping into her arms. She was soft, but strong, too. And her head leaned against his shoulder. She smelled nice. Keep your eyes closed for now. Listen to the music. It will talk to your feet. Listen and feel.

  He listened . . . He felt. Then, they began to dance, slowly at first, Tim a little stiff and tentative. But after a few minutes he began to catch on, the appeal of the music seeming to grip and lead him.

  Relax, give yourself up.

  He could indeed do it.

  Around and around, they danced on the stage, as one. Gracefully. And the music played on—“Hotel California,” and “You’ve Lost That Lovin Feelin,” and, “Me And Bobby McGee,” and “Desperado,”—playing all of his favorites. It was too wonderful.

  She whispered in his ear, You can open your eyes now, Timothy.

  He blinked, staring into a perfectly lovely face, her sparkling eyes matching the color of her emerald gown. The moon overhead was shining down on them like a spotlight, as they laughed and twirled about like TV dancers on the stage, Tim and the Blue Lady, the magic invading them in the cool evening air under the twinkling stars. The magic, the magic, the magic . . .

  Despite the customary 72-hour waiting period, the Amador County Sheriff ignored the missing person statute after Liam Shaw’s concerned late night phone call; and early the next morning, he sent over three of his deputies to Marshall Creek. All day the lawmen led search parties of volunteers through the dilapidated buildings, abandoned mining junk, and open shafts surrounding the dying town, searching for the missing young man.

  But Mr. Spinoza was too crippled up to scramble around with any of the search parties. Instead, he checked out the park at 9:00 a.m., hoping to find Timmy there. He was positive the conscientious boy would show up for work, that he’d find him cleaning the restrooms or mowing the lawn. But Timmy wasn’t anywhere around the park.

  In fact, the grounds were empty.

  Completely empty, except for a gray squirrel chattering over at the gazebo.

  Mr. Spinoza shuffled closer to the bandstand. Hmmm—needs paint, he thought, stopping at the foot of the stairs up to the platform, looking over the structure, then noticing the new addition in the middle of the stage.

  Looked like Timmy had recently drug up one of the old rough sculptures to the gazebo from the Quonset hut down near the creek. Mr. Spinoza shook his head, thinking, Old Man Shaw had been right locking this stuff up years ago—most of it nothing but lumpy blobs of poorly casted metal. He shook his head, snorting dismissively, and saying to himself: Modern art, who needs it? But he peered more closely at the piece, not really remembering this one, which didn’t look too bad actually. Nope, not really so abstract as the others . . . Looked like a pair of dancers, twirling around with smiles on their faces.

  UNWOVEN

  Tim Waggoner

  Tim Waggoner has published over thirty novels and three story collections. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair Community College and in Seton Hill University’s MFA in Writing Popular Fiction program. He was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1995, was operated on, and has been cancer-free ever since.

  You’re staring at your laptop screen, trying to think of the next word to write, when a tiny movement catches your eye. At first you think it’s some kind of computer glitch, that some small image is randomly flickering in the upper left corner of the screen. But when you shift your gaze to check it out, you see that a spider has crawled onto your computer. You’re startled—you hate spiders, so much so that you experience a nauseating twist in your gut, and your skin starts itching all over, as if a million of the spider’s relatives are scuttling all over your body.

  Without thinking, you grip the top of the screen and slam it shut onto the keyboard, then you yank your hand away from the computer, as if you’d been burned. You sit there for several long seconds, unable to rise from the dining table chair, heart pounding in your ears, breath coming in rapid-nervous dog-pants. Your eyes dart anxiously back and forth, examining the seam where the two halves of the laptop meet, waiting to see where the spider will emerge. But after some time has passed—minutes, hours, it’s impossible to say—there’s been no sign of the spider and your pulse slows, your breathing eases. You smile with satisfaction.

  Gotcha, you little bastard!

  Leaving your laptop closed, you stand up and walk out of the dining room—past rows of recessed shelves filled with hardback books, one of the reasons you love to write in here—and head into the kitchen. Your nausea’s subdued a bit, and you’re starting to feel embarrassed for overreacting. It’s a good thing neither the kids nor your husband is home. Sarah would be grossed out and her younger brother Eric would be sad that an innocent spider died. And Mark . . . Well, Mark is Mark. Being overwhelmed by emotion isn’t something he understands, let alone sympathizes with.

  You realize that Eric would be especially upset over the spider’s death. Just yesterday you read a book to him that he’d brought home from the kindergarten library—a book about spiders. Really about one spider, a figure from African folklore called Anansi. You’d never heard of him before, and because he was a spider, you were reluctant to read the book to Eric at first. But you thumbed through the pages—suppressing a shudder—and saw that Anansi was drawn standing upright like a human, and he had a face that resembled that of an African-American male. A human face. Kind, if somewhat mischievous, a face that reassured you, and you were able to read the story to Eric without much trouble.

  Despite how you feel about spiders, the tale was an interesting one, especially to you, since you’re a writer. It told of a time when there were no stories in the world because Sky God hoarded them all for himself. Anansi didn’t think this situation was fair, so, through a combination of guile and cleverness, Anansi tricked Sky God into giving him the stories, and when the spider returned to Earth, he shared those stories with the entire world. That’s why (the book ended) all stories are called Anansi tales.

  Eric loved the story—mostly because of the cute illustrations—but you thought it was a good metaphor for how writers find inspiration, and you had to admit that a spider, with its ability to weave separate strands of silk into a web, made an effective patron spirit for storytellers.

  Eric, in his child’s way, had recognized the metaphor as well.

  “Maybe that’s where you get your stories, Mommy! Ansani brings them!”

  All in all, a cute little book. Not that it could ever change you mind about spiders . . . damned creepy pests . . .

  In the kitchen, you tear off a few paper towels from the roll hanging beneath the cupboard next to the sink and head back into the dining room. Now that your fear has dwindled away to almost nothing, you’re beginning to think practically again. You have no idea if smooshed spider guts can leak between the keys and get into the electronics underneath, but you figure you’d better clear away the messy remains of Mr. Spider before he takes his final revenge and ruins your brand-new thousand-dollar laptop.

  You sit down in front of the closed computer, gripping the paper towels so hard they’ve become a wadded ball. You take a deep breath, count to three, and with your free hand open the laptop.

  You stare for a moment, not quite able to understand what you’re seeing—or rather not seeing.

  There is no squooshed spider—no guts, no blood, no crushed black body with legs curled inward in death. The screen and keyboard are both completely clean.

  There’s something else weird: the screen is blank. The personal essay you’d been working on—a reminiscence about walking alone outside during a snowy night when you were a child in Oregon—is gone. You were almost finished with it, and it had been turning out great. You enjoy writing fiction, but you’ve always found nonfiction more satisfying, both artistically and emotionally. As you once told Mark: �
�All of our lives are stories, aren’t they? It’s what we’re made of, really, one story after another.” Of course, he’d had no idea what you were talking about.

  Frantically, you put the paper-towel wad aside and open the word processing program’s memory files to search for your essay—but it’s not there. None of your stories, articles, or essays are there, either. The program’s memory has somehow been erased.

  Your flashdrive is sitting on the dining table to the right of your laptop. You plug it into the computer’s front port to check your back-up files.

  Please, please, please . . .

  They’re gone, too. The flashdrive is empty.

  A thought crosses your mind, then. A crazy, awful thought.

  That spider . . . what if it had been Anansi, coming to you help you with your essay. Maybe the spider was even bringing it to you, like an eight-legged muse. After all, all stories are Anasi tales, right?

  It’s a ludicrous thought, and you try to force a laugh to acknowledge the absurdity, but the only sound that comes out of your throat is a choking gasp.

  You’ve killed Anansi. You’ve killed all the stories in the world.

  You glance over your shoulder at the built-in shelves behind the dining table, and you wish you were surprised to see that, like your laptop and flashdrive, they’re empty. The books—the stories—are gone.

  A detached numbness begins creeping over you as you look at the cursor blinking on the computer screen. You poise trembling fingers over the keyboard and begin to type, but though your fingers depress key after key, no letters appear on the screen. No words.

  The numbness grows stronger, and you can’t feel your fingers touch the keys, can’t feel your body at all anymore. It’s almost like what you imagine freezing to death must feel like, expect it’s not really cold, it’s just a sensation of profound nothingness.

  Your last thought before you fade into non-existence is to recall one more time what you told Mark.