The Half That You See

by Rebecca Rowland

  In the penlight’s illumination, I saw the smile grow, the same one he showed me on that day in the hospital. And there, at the corner of his mouth, a tremor of anticipation.

  “The eye,” he said, “you have it?”

  All those years ago, I put the eye into that box containing unassembled model pieces. But now, it felt like I did that in a dream just minutes ago. As I stumbled out of bed, I felt a pang of anxiety. Did I know for sure that the box remained undisturbed this whole time? Could I say for certain that my mother never snuck into my room and removed it without my knowledge? Maybe she wanted to save me from the trauma of seeing that box and having it awaken memories, so she tossed it into the trash. I delayed my steps, afraid to find out, and it seemed to take me forever to get across the room. Officer Baby Boy Blue remained sitting behind me patiently, following my steps with his penlight. I could feel him there, waiting.

  A sudden realization: he had always been there, at the back of my head.

  I opened the cabinet and began moving around old magazines and comics until I found it there: the box with the painting of the Frankenstein monster, lumbering forward with his arms outstretched. Now a new fear. What did the contents of the plastic bag look like now? A yellowish liquid had already formed by the time I returned from the hospital. What kind of unimaginable mess must it contain now? Would any of it remain at all?

  I sat on the floor like a kid and opened the box, then stared at what it contained, afraid to move. Officer Baby Boy Blue remained at the foot of the bed, the penlight shining.

  “Well?” he said.

  I stood up and carried the box to him. He seemed to expect this. He followed me with the light, his free hand reaching for something near his side. I returned to the bed and together we looked down at the contents of the box.

  “It hasn’t changed at all,” I said.

  Officer Baby Boy Blue didn’t reply. He reached into the box with a hand now gloved in plastic and withdrew the bag. He held it at eye-level and I watched as he took off his mirrored sunglasses so he could study it more closely.

  The eye in the bag showed a perfect blue iris. With his other hand, also covered by a plastic glove, he reached in and touched it. “Glass,” he said. He looked at me as if he expected an explanation.

  But I had none, nothing adequate at least, nothing to explain how I’d misplaced his perfect eye with this—what should I call it?—this imitation. How had it come to be here? He wanted to know, and so did I. Then he said it:

  “Search the back of your mind.”

  I did, in that way I had perfected over time. To not disappoint Officer Baby Boy Blue, I looked far, far back, as far as I could see with my left eye, searching for the pictures I might have stored there.

  “My god,” I heard him say, as I felt it, the scar on my cheek opening. It never fully closed, of course, that I can say with full confidence now, and at that moment, I felt the skin tear and part as it opened wider than ever, even more so than on the day I cut it.

  “My god.” He said this again, and I saw in the reflection of his glasses an eye of marvelous blue. The same blue as the eye he gave me that day, kept safe under a fold of skin. A blue not at all like the terrible brown eyes I saw on his face as he removed his mirrored sunglasses.

  The Intruder

  Lamont A. Turner

  “It is just too weird. I keep finding things out of place,” said Mr. March. It had been awhile since Una had seen him, but she didn’t remember him being so high strung. It was exhausting listening to him. “Every night when I return home from work,” he continued breathlessly, “some little thing is not right, but it is never anything drastic, never anything that would conclusively prove someone had been in my house. Are you listening?”

  I’m sorry,” said Una. “I was just thinking of that pig, Zimmerman. He’s been threatening to pull the account because I won’t let him screw me. Go on, I’m listening.”

  “I was saying I’ve been noticing that things seem out of place when I come home from work.”

  “What sort of things do you notice,” asked Una, picking at her salad.

  “The radio, for one thing. I keep it set on one of those awful hip-hop stations so when my radio alarm goes off I’m sure to get up to shut it off. If I set it on the classical station, I sleep right through it.”

  “Makes sense,” said Una, piling the tomatoes she had picked out of her salad on the napkin by her plate.

  “But every other night the channel has been changed. Instead of Grandmaster T-Dawg I am awakened by Mozart, and invariably I roll over and go back to sleep. I’ve been late to work seven times this month. It’s a damn good thing my boss likes me.”

  “What else have you noticed?”

  “Hair in my bathtub drain, cigarette butts in the garden by my front porch, and, worst of all, someone keeps moving my toothbrush. Of course, I always throw them away when I find them out of place. I spend a fortune on toothbrushes.

  “Now that’s just screwy,” said Una, who, having reduced her salad to a few leaves of lettuce, was busy crushing crackers over it. “Why would anyone break into your house to use your toothbrush? I’d say you’re just imagining things. The radio knob might be defective, or, perhaps you hit it without being aware of it. The cigarette butts were probably left by the mailman or some salesman, maybe even a Girl Scout selling cookies. Who knows with kids these days?”

  “I’ve smelled cigarette smoke in my house,” said March defensively.

  “Okay, what about Argus? I’ve been to your house a dozen times and that dog still won’t let me in the door.”

  “That’s something else. The other day I fed him before I went to work, but when I came home eight hours later, his bowl was still full.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t hungry,” said Una, before being reminded of the time Argus had eaten the legs off of March’s kitchen table once when he had forgotten to leave food for the dog. “Okay,” she relented. “There shouldn’t have been food in the bowl, but what you’re suggesting is just plain nuts. I can’t see someone breaking into your house just to smoke, shower, brush his teeth, and feed your vicious dog. There must be an explanation that makes better sense.”

  Una didn’t give her conversation with March much thought until she stood outside her apartment door. The little man from the accounting department was the only employee at the firm who had been there as long as she had, and, though they had little else in common and seldom saw each other, she was comforted by the knowledge he would always be there for her if she needed him. They were soldiers who had somehow outlived their comrades, and only the two of them knew what life in the trenches was really about.

  They had once been close. He had been there when clients walked out on her, and he had held her hand while she cried over her ruined marriage, not minding a bit that she could never call him by his first name, which was Eddie, because it was also her husband’s name. Years later, she still could not say that name. Eddie was a monster; March was an angel. Yet, despite her affection for him, she had to admit he was odd. High-strung and insecure, he was prone to mood swings and paranoia, but he was a fellow soldier, and he cared about her without expecting anything in return. Even when her loneliness had made her vulnerable, he had not taken advantage of her. Ignoring his eccentricities was the least she could do. Besides, she had more than her share of mental quirks. After her divorce, she had suffered a breakdown and had spent two weeks in the hospital. Two years, and a lot of prescriptions later, her own paranoia and insecurities still lurked in the shadows of her consciousness, vanquished but not forgotten. Angry and ravenous, the specter of her illness sometimes glared at her through the bars of the cage she had erected, always ready to break through and devour her.

  Reaching for the door knob, she hesitated, and then laughing to herself, opened the door. “Anybody in the shower,” she shouted, chuckling. Then she noticed the beer can on the coffee table. For a moment, she stared at it as though it were a bomb about to explode. Had she left it th
ere? She was usually so tidy. It wasn’t like her to leave trash strewn about. She picked up the can. It was half full. She certainly would never leave a half full can sitting out where her cat could knock it over. It was a wonder that hadn’t happened. And where was that cat? She whistled and slapped her palms against her thighs, but the cat did not appear. Starting to worry, she called the cat’s name and listened for some noise that might indicate it was in the apartment. For a few seconds, she heard nothing. She turned and opened the door she had walked through moments before, and in rushed the cat. She scooped it up, cradling it in her arms, scratching it behind its ears. But hadn’t she left it sleeping on her pillow that morning? How did it get out? She put the cat on the couch and bolted the door.

  “It happened to me, too,” she said. “I think someone was in my apartment yesterday.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the voice on the phone after a pause.

  “No more sure than you are,” she said. “Things just seem out of place.”

  “Oh, I’m sure now,” said March. “Someone has been in my home.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Argus is dead, poisoned.”

  “Oh, God! I’m sorry,” she said, pulling her cat onto her lap. “Have you called the police?”

  “No. Not yet. I need to think. It has to be someone I know, somebody familiar to Argus. He wouldn’t have let a stranger get near him.”

  “Do you have any idea who?” she asked. March didn’t seem like the type of person who would have enemies.

  “No, but I think it’s a woman. I found one of my razors and a bunch of hair in the tub, and my pillow smells like perfume.”

  Una ran her hand over the nick on her leg and remembered how much worse it had been the time she had tried to shave with her husband’s razor. If there was blood in the tub, maybe the police would be able to get more information than they could from a bit of stubble. For some reason, the idea made her queasy.

  “Look, I have to go,” he said after a long pause. “I’m working second shift tonight.”

  “Since when do you work the second shift?”

  “Since I woke up late one time too often. I’m lucky I still have a job.”

  After hanging up the phone, Una cursed herself. Maybe March really did have an intruder, but it was more likely his dog found something poisonous on his own, and the whole thing with the tub was just ridiculous. He had to have imagined that. It was all some fantasy, and she had let March contaminate her with his delusions. No one had been in her apartment. Everything was fine. Nervous over the situation with Zimmerman, she had been unprepared to deal with March’s wild stories. Everything was fine.

  She sat up late, smoking cigarettes and listening to the radio. Turning the radio down around 2:00 a.m., she wondered if the CDs she lent to March were safe. Apparently, his intruder did like to listen to the classical stations while shaving her legs. She chuckled to herself at the thought, but nevertheless, checked the lock on the front door before lying down.

  Just when she finally did start to doze off, the phone rang. It was Mr. Daily, her boss. Somebody had set off the alarm at the office, and, unable to get there himself, he wanted her to investigate the matter. This was not the first time this had happened. She had been called to perform this duty twice before, each time finding nothing but angry policemen. She was sure they would be even less pleasant tonight.

  When she arrived at the office, she was surprised to be greeted by a tired-looking detective with rumpled clothes and uncombed hair rather than the usual uniformed patrolmen. Someone had really broken in.

  “Whose office is this?” asked the police detective, pushing open the door. Broken glass sparkled in the light from the hall and crunched beneath the feet of the silent patrolman who glared at her as though she were somehow responsible. The file cabinets were overturned, and the desk drawers had been emptied on the floor. On the wall behind the desk, someone had drawn a picture of a pig in what looked like lipstick. Upon first seeing the pig, Una thought someone had tried to draw a phallus on it, but as she entered the room to examine the wreckage, she saw the phallus was actually an arrow pointing down toward the floor.

  “Whose office is this?” repeated the police detective, putting a hand on Una’s shoulder to prevent her from venturing further into the room.

  “It’s mine,” she said. Just then she noticed the legs protruding from behind her desk. “Who?”

  “The wallet says Walter Zimmerman. Know him?”

  “Yes, he is a client,” she said, unable to look away from the legs. As she stared, she noticed they seemed to be resting on a dark colored rug. “I don’t have a rug,” she said just as the beam of a flashlight caused the dark spot to glisten. She stepped back and would have fled if the detective had not grabbed her arm.

  “Just calm down,” he said, looking hard into her eyes.

  “What happened?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “How would I know?” said Una, alarmed by the policeman’s tone.

  “You were seen leaving the building about two hours ago, and—”

  “No! I was at home,” shouted Una. “I wasn’t here!”

  “Okay, just calm down,” said the detective, stepping back. “Maybe it wasn’t you. Nobody is accusing you of anything. Just calm down.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Una said, staring at the corpse’s shoes.

  “Okay,” said the detective, nodding to the patrolman who immediately came over to stand beside Una. “This is Officer Lee. He is going to take you home. Maybe tomorrow, if you’re up to it, you can come down to the station to answer some questions for us.” Una nodded and was led off by the grim patrolman.

  Una was still shaking when she walked into her apartment. Embarrassed, Una had tried to redeem herself by dismissing the young patrolman at her door. No, she did not want him to come in to check her apartment for her. No thank you. Please go. Go! Get away from me! Inside, she was screaming, her fear of the young man in the starched blue uniform swelling in her throat, threatening to strangle her, but she managed to escape into her apartment without alerting the patrolman of her inner turmoil. For a while, she leaned against the door, straining to hear the sound of his footsteps over her own panting. Was he suspicious of her? Was he standing on the other side of the door, listening, waiting for the right moment to break in on her? Why wouldn’t he leave? She hadn’t done anything. She was innocent.

  Finally, she heard the ding of the elevator down the hall, and she knew the patrolman had left. She was safe for the moment. Remembering the tranquillizers she had put aside when she had declared herself sane and stable, she headed for the bathroom medicine cabinet.

  Gulping down three of the pills without water, she dialed March’s number, and waited. There was no answer. She hung up, and dialed again. This time, after a minute or so, the ringing stopped, and she heard someone pick up the phone.

  “March, it’s terrible! Zimmerman is dead,” she said, not waiting for a greeting.

  “Mr. March isn’t here,” said a man with a raspy voice. “Who is this?”

  “Who are you?” she countered, confused.

  “This is the police,” said the voice.

  Una slammed the phone down. They did suspect her! Why else would they be at March’s house? They were questioning him about her.

  The phone rang. For a moment, she stared at it, unsure of what to do. It continued to ring. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone? She buried the phone beneath the couch cushions, but still it continued to ring. She considered turning the ringer off, but then she wouldn’t know if they were still after her, hoping to trick her into saying something incriminating. The phone would not stop ringing. Finally, she could stand it no more. She answered the phone.

  “Una? Are you all right?”

  “March! Oh, thank God! You won’t believe what happened.”

  “Just take it easy,” said March, his voice calm and paternal. “I know all about it. I’m at the office right now,
straightening everything out. It’s going to be all right.”

  “I didn’t do anything. They think I killed him, but I didn’t do it.”

  “It will be okay,” March said. “I talked to them. I’ve got everything handled. You just stay at home and rest.”

  Una was calm by the time she hung up. For a while, she sat on the couch, thinking of nothing in particular, then realizing she was about to fall asleep, she remembered the pills. How many had she taken? She couldn’t remember.

  She decided to count the pills left in the bottle, but realized on her way to the medicine cabinet she had no idea how many pills were in the bottle originally. Minutes later, she had forgotten about the pills and was trying to remember how she had ended up at the office earlier that morning. Daily! She had not called Mr. Daily. It was late, but if she didn’t call him, it might look suspicious. She dialed his number.

  By the time Daily answered, she was only just able to follow what he was saying. Yes, the police had contacted him. No, he had not been able to get to the office yet. She heard herself tell him it was going to be all right because March was at the office. March would straighten it all out.

  “March? The screwball from accounting? What’s he doing there?” she heard him ask.

  “March is there,” she mumbled, as the phone slipped from her grasp. As she picked the phone up, she heard Daily say something about March having been fired, but the ability to comprehend was beyond her. She hung up the phone, and fell asleep.

  Someone was calling her name. Una opened her eyes and looked around. She was alone. Only slowly did she realize she held the receiver of her phone, and that there was a voice shouting from it. She stared at the phone for a moment, and then lifted it to her ear.

  “Una! Are you all right?”

  She nodded in affirmation before dropping the phone. Lost in deep, dreamless sleep, she did not hear the bell sound as the elevator doors opened on her floor, nor did she hear the sound of footfalls as someone approached her door. She did not hear the knob rattle or see it turn. When she finally did open her eyes, awakened by her cat as it bounded off her legs to scurry across the room, she saw someone standing in the open doorway. Her eyes could not quite focus, but she was sure there was someone there: a woman with long blonde hair, much like her own, was moving toward her. For a moment, she thought she was being approached by herself. The woman wore her coat, and, as the woman came closer, Una smelled her perfume. Yes, that was her perfume, but Una would never have worn so much. The odor was overpowering, nauseating.