The End of the Day

by Bill Clegg

  As she waits for a sharp pain to flare from some part of her body, Jackie squeezes her eyes shut, and though it is not her habit, she prays. Please God. Nothing broken. Please. She shifts her hips. Still no pain. She cautiously wriggles her left toes and then her whole foot. She does the same with her right foot and no pain follows. She flutters her fingers and moves her hands and forearms and again, nothing. She remembers her ribs, and to test these she rolls in tiny increments from the left side of her body to the right, breathing deeply as she goes. Eventually, she is flat on her back with both legs bent at the knee, arms folded across her chest. After one more deep, deliberate inhale, she extends her legs along the floor, exhales, and without a wrinkle of pain, is convinced she has—for now at least—eluded her daughter’s prophecies.

  Still woozy, she remembers the reason why she is still not showered and dressed and fed. Who else could upend a morning so completely? Wreak havoc and speed away in a car leaving a mess behind? She inhales deeply again and holds it. She closes her eyes and sees a flash of yellow—a retreating bird, a jaundiced owl, a thief, wings flapping, stolen carnage in its mouth, flying away as fast as it can. Jackie releases her breath and shakes her resting head, upset, drowsy. The pine floor beneath her feels cool and reassuring against her head and back and bottom. Her eyelids droop, and as she drifts to a half-sleep, she wonders if Dana will return.

  * * *

  An owl. This is what Floyd comes up with in the twenty-six steps it takes him to cross from the barn to the driver’s side window of her mother’s wagon. Jackie knows how many steps he takes because she’s counted each one. She counts when she needs to calm down and think clearly. Mostly during tests at school or before birthday parties with the other kids in her class. She counts what is in front of her. Braids, trees, balloons, stars, shoes. Footsteps.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  Six. What was he looking at?

  Seven. A cow?

  Eight. A person?

  Nine.

  Ten. Is he blushing?

  Eleven.

  Twelve. The only other time he’s blushed is when we kissed.

  Thirteen. Fourteen.

  Fifteen. Maybe he’s sick, flushed with fever.

  Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.

  Nineteen.

  Twenty. Is that the sound of a car starting?

  Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

  Twenty-three. Why is his shirt untucked?

  Twenty-four.

  Twenty-five. Jackie, hi. Look at you. You, um, you came all the way out here on your own?

  Twenty-six. Oh hey, uh, you wouldn’t believe what I just saw…

  Twenty-six. A huge owl. You’d never believe it. Big as a dog and fast as anything. Swooped down on one of the field rabbits… snatched it right there behind the barn. Came out of nowhere. Poor little guy never saw it coming.

  Twenty-six. He must have heard your car pull in because it took off with the rabbit in its beak. Flew up over those pine trees to godknowswhere.

  Jackie hears the sound of tires skidding. Loud, frantic, nearby. She looks past Floyd, beyond the barn, and sees a flash of yellow streaking through the trees.

  She turns the key and cuts the engine of her mother’s wagon, something she hasn’t thought to do until now. The engine ticks as it cools and Floyd leans in. A vision surfaces and before she dismisses it as impossible, she pictures Dana speeding home on Route 7 in her yellow Mercedes, too fast, grinding the gears when she turns onto Undermountain Road just as she’s done every time she’s driven since the night of her sixteenth birthday when Mr. Lopez sat in the passenger seat and tried to instruct her how to work the clutch, gas pedals, and gear shift.

  Not possible, Jackie thinks again, trying not to look at Floyd. She sees the field stretching out behind the barn and imagines an owl circling—slowly, patiently, above them all—spotting the oblivious rabbit, eyeing its prey as it twitches in broad daylight, soaring to a stall and then plummeting with lethal precision. But as she imagines the predator flapping away with its kill dangling from its beak, she can’t help but sense something wrong with the scenario. She checks the clock on the dashboard and sees that it’s almost eight-thirty. The sun has been shining since six. Owls, she remembers her third grade teacher, Mrs. Fenn, declaring with some excitement as she held up a book with a photograph of a white owl with yellow eyes perched on a snowy branch. Owls, she continued, are nocturnal Which means they sleep during the day, and they hunt at night.

  Jackie looks up into Floyd’s eyes and forces a smile. She tries to ignore his untucked shirt, his mussed hair, and the perspiration beading on his flushed forehead. Before she speaks, she squeezes her eyes shut, hard, and keeps them closed longer than is polite, long enough to locate a previously untapped superpower, one that will allow her, when she opens them, to see exactly and only what she wants.

  Dana

  She had no idea what to expect entering Edgeweather for the first time in over thirty years, but it was not the smell of coffee. Philip fiddled for a few seconds with the key she’d given him before turning around nervously to tell her that the door was not locked. She motioned for him to step aside and pushed open the old oak slab. Dana remembered her father explaining to Jackie once how the door had come from an Elizabethan castle in Sussex, England. She remembered, too, how he’d walked away from her after Jackie asked why anyone would bother transporting a door from so far away when they could have just built a new one. Dana’s father was more amused by Dana’s country friendship than her mother was, but he had his limits.

  When she steps into the entryway and gets her first whiff, she tries to remember how many times she’d considered installing a security system here. Once in a while, even as she ignored the place, it had occurred to her that she should probably take care to keep it from getting robbed or ruined, but whenever she thought about looking into an alarm she quickly became agitated and changed her mind. It was as if the house was asking for her attention, and her response was always to turn her back.

  And here it was, unlocked, open to the world, smelling like a diner. Philip had suggested calling the police before going in, but Dana was still feeling bold from smashing the window outside, so she waved him off and stepped into the foyer. The sweatpants Philip fortunately kept in his gym bag and had lent to her folded and gathered at the top of her boots, the rest hung from the tightly knotted cord she’d tied at her waist and covered with her sweater. She’d left her urine-drenched suede pants and panties on the ground behind the house where she’d changed. She was too embarrassed to bring them back to the car.

  As she breathes in the unmistakable smell of coffee, she can’t help but feel a dark spark of satisfaction that her mother would have been livid to find the house invaded and reeking of a beverage she thought common. Coffee is for dockworkers, she’d remark privately if someone in the apartment or at Edgeweather had asked for it, but in the moment, she’d always, very politely, offer tea.

  No tea today, Mother, she mumbles and paces the foyer. She calls out into the unlit house less as a property owner to a trespasser and more as a co-conspirator would to another. Hello? Hello there? Yoohoo. She delights in the swish of Philip’s sweatpants knowing how vehemently her mother would have disapproved of them, too.

  At first, she can’t remember how to find the kitchen. It had always been Maria Lopez’s domain and as a child and even later, it was a place she hardly ever visited. In the hall off the entryway, she pulls open a door to reveal a shallow closet jammed with heavily taped boxes. She makes her way to the dining room, passes under and ignores the portrait of Edgeweather’s original owners, and then tries another door. This one swings freely and opens into the brightly lit kitchen where she sees a short, plump, white-haired woman, dressed in a gray turtleneck hanging over purple sweatpants with a black woolen ski hat on her head. She is standing next to the kitchen sink with her arms tightly crossed. Her whole body is shaking. A steaming mug of coffee sits on the counter beside her a few inches from a large
coffee maker that looks like a museum piece of midcentury plastic out of which Dana sees what she thinks is a brown stained paper towel that’s been used as a filter. The woman does not move and her knees are bent slightly as if she’s about to run or pounce, but the look on her face shows clearly that she’s too startled to go anywhere.

  And you are? Dana breaks the silence.

  I’m, um, Kenny…

  Funny, you don’t look like a Kenny, Dana snaps.

  The woman cannot speak. She is shaking so violently that Dana worries she’ll collapse or have a stroke. She tells the woman to sit, and when she doesn’t move, Dana drags a chair to where she is standing, places her hands on her shoulders and gently pushes her down. The woman does not resist but the shaking gets worse after she’s seated. Dana considers briefly whether she has Parkinson’s disease or some other nerve-related affliction. She picks up the mug from the counter and hands it to her.

  Have a sip and get your wits about you, Dana says, stepping away to give her space. And Philip, go find Kenny. If he’s not in the house, look above the garage. Something tells me the door to the apartment there is not locked either.

  Philip, who has remained silent beside the kitchen door, nods and wanders out toward the foyer. Dana hears him call Kenny’s name, again and again, the sound echoing more dimly as he ascends each flight of stairs, and louder again as he descends and heads out through the hall to the library. Before she hears the front door slam she wonders what he saw upstairs, if everything was covered in sheets and boxed up as it was supposed to be, or exactly as it had been left in the eighties before her parents died.

  Turning her attention back to the woman sitting in the center of the kitchen, Dana strains for a gentler tone so as not to send her into an irreversible fit. Ok, it’s just us. My name is Dana Goss and this is my house. Can you explain please who you are and why you are here?

  The woman clenches her jaw and eventually sputters in a girlish voice, Kenny, he said it was… that you were… that it’d be fine for…

  Dana struggles unsuccessfully to remain calm.

  That I was what? Happy to have a stranger padding around my house drinking coffee?

  The woman opens her mouth to speak, but before she does they both hear the door in the foyer shut and what sounds like more than one pair of footsteps heading toward the kitchen.

  * * *

  She’d always imagined Kenny to be a young man in his twenties. This must have been how old he was when Joe Lopez left Edgeweather to live with Ada and her family in Queens, a few years after Dana’s mother died. Kenny’s a good kid. You can trust him, Joe had said at the time, so she never bothered to meet him. If he was good enough for Joe, the house would be fine. Whatever else Joe Lopez was, he was fiercely protective of Edgeweather. Dana’s only contact with Kenny was a system of faxes and, later, emails that went to Dana and her bookkeeper in which he gave updates on needed house repairs. He’d never missed a month in more than thirty years. Still, for as long as the arrangement had been in place, Dana is surprised to see a tall, silver-haired man enter the room with Philip. At first she thinks it must be Kenny’s father but that thought is dispelled when he puts his arm around the woman. It’s ok, Mom. Why don’t you go and pack up your things. We’ll move Becky out of her room and she can bunk with Kendra for the time being. Dana is speechless as the woman waddles to the sink, rinses her mug, and wedges it into the right front pocket of her sweatpants. I’m assuming the mug is yours, Dana says, breaking the silence. With more confidence than before, she speaks, but as she does she looks at her son instead of Dana, Yes, sir, I… oh, I mean ma’am, Miss Goss Brought it with me.

  From where? Dana asks, the agitation from their prior exchange returning. The woman shuffles toward the door to the dining room in her sweatpants, upsettingly similar to the pair Dana is wearing, but better fitting. Nowhere you’d know. Dana is startled by her cheek, but as she watches her leave she’s less angry than she is curious to know how old the woman is, how close she is to her own age.

  Kenny crosses the kitchen toward Dana with one of his arms stretched out, as if to shake her hand. And for reasons she cannot fathom, he is smiling. It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Miss Goss. I… It’s just been so long and I think I’d given up hope of your ever coming back to Edgeweather.

  That’s obvious, she replies with more warmth than she intends.

  When Kenny’s explanation of his mother’s hardships—the second husband who died an alcoholic death leaving behind only debts, her back surgeries, etc.—goes on longer than a minute, Dana interrupts him. I’m so sorry to hear all this, but what does this have to do with me? I assume by now you know you are fired.

  Fired? Kenny is cleary confused, but not thrown. But Miss Goss you’re the one who suggested she stay here. She’s been up in that room since you offered it to her a year and a half ago.

  Dana wishes he would stop talking but she hasn’t been able to process what he’s just said quickly enough to find and speak the words that will shut him up.

  Is it the graffiti on the windows out back that you’re upset about? It only happened in January… I was waiting for the weather to warm a bit before tackling the clean up. I’ll get on it tomorrow since you’re here. I’ve got the paint remover and the razor blades… the combination worked the last few times the local kids got artistic with spray paint on the house. You should see what they did to the pool at the Kinsey place. Ripped off the winter cover and splattered nearly every inch of the gunite. Bunch of us gave Sam Dolinsky a hand scrubbing and scraping it off. I figure we got off easy.

  What keeps Dana from exploding is not the fact that Kenny seems utterly calm and handsome in his jeans and red flannel shirt, it’s that he believes what he is saying. And as she watches his stubbled jawline carry on about the graffiti outside, she realizes that what he said about her being the one to suggest his mother move in upstairs is true. Marcella had come to her with a printed email, incredulous that Kenny had the audacity to suggest that his mother move in with him above the garage. Marcella loved this sort of moment. Another person in Dana’s employ crossing a line and in the crosshairs of potential consequences. Dana remembers vaguely how Marcella suggested they look for someone else, find an established estate management company to take over the house and grounds. Abruptly, and with painful clarity, she remembers the words she spoke in response. Tell Kenny she should live in the main house. Pick any room she likes on the third floor. And please do it now. Marcella’s face turned to stone and Dana raised her hand to silence her from objecting. Now. And don’t mention it again. In the eighteen months since that moment with Marcella, no one mentioned the woman living at Edgeweather. And because they did not, Dana simply forgot.

  I thought… Kenny has finally run out of words and is standing almost exactly where his mother had been when Dana entered the kitchen earlier. She motions for Philip to follow her out to the foyer. She does not look him in the eye as she whispers at him. This situation has gotten out of hand, so please go and apologize to Kenny and tell him I’ve had a long day and have not been well. His mother needs to leave the house tonight because I will be staying here, but once I leave tomorrow she’s welcome to return. It’s not a sustainable situation but we’ll figure that out later. Hurry, get them out of here. I’ll wait in the library.

  Philip squints at Dana as if she is speaking a foreign language. She steps away before he has a chance to respond. As she crosses the foyer and considers what has just transpired, it shocks her to recognize that a moment of spite toward Marcella would result in a stranger, an old woman she’d never met, living in Edgeweather for so long. Forgetful god, the chastising, grandiose words surface from some book or film she can’t remember as she passes the paint-splattered panes of the breezeway. The letters spelling “ASSHOLES” in black and red viewed from behind look menacing, their intended aggression visible to her now and not the least bit funny, as they had been before. When she reaches the library, she looks for a light switch but at first f
inds none. There are two leather couches facing each other, on either side of which sit large table lamps; only one, she discovers, has a working light bulb. After twisting it on and finding the light casting on the two stories of unopened books depressing, she quickly turns it off and sits down on one of the couches.

  Forgetful god, she kneads the words as she lets her body go slack against the stiff leather cushion. She spreads her fingers on the dry grain, rests her head against the hard arm, and as she falls asleep tries to remember where she could have possibly come across such a phrase.

  Lupita

  When she gets up from the kitchen table to go to her bedroom, she leaves her phone behind. She clears away an old pair of Crocs and a short pile of towels from the top of the cedar trunk at the end of her bed. She hasn’t opened the old wood box in a long time and she can hear wood splinter along the hinges as she pushes the lid back until it rests against the end of the mattress. It takes her a few minutes but she eventually finds what she’s looking for.

  The doll has seen better days. She’s kept it in the trunk since it surfaced a few years back in a rare purging of junk from the basement. Poor packing hadn’t protected it from mice, sharp edges, even a leak from an uncapped pen. It was never a finely made or lifelike thing. Nor was it ever a toy. It was an object born of missing and for a short time mattered so much that she prayed to it every night and morning. It took almost a month to make, though it was little more than a dried corn husk, a dozen or so finger-length pieces of burlap string, a gym sock, a fistful of brown yarn, and a wooden spoon. Even after so many years, and with all the rips and stains and nibbled edges, it still had magic. Not the intended, hoped-for magic when it was made, but a quieter kind that could only be recognized now, far away from where it came from.