by Mark Morris
Lived inside.
The Smithsmiths.
The phrase chilled her. They did live inside the dollhouse, didn’t they? And if they could live there, couldn’t they die there, too?
Before arriving home, Elvie decided she had to help them. Had to help the Smithsmiths.
She begged her mom to take her to the toy store but Mom said no. So she begged Dad instead.
Modern Toys on Seaver Street was one of Elvie’s favourite places to go. Mr. and Mrs. Ogman knew a lot about toys and would talk about them if you wanted them to.
“This is the boys’ section,” Dad said, when Elvie led him to the back of the store.
He was right, but Elvie was looking for a boy’s toy.
She was looking for a policeman.
“Really?” Dad asked. “A cop?”
Elvie nodded. “I don’t have any,” she said.
Dad considered this.
“Interesting. I like that you’re branching out. Toys shouldn’t be segregated anyway, right? It’s the seventies, for Christ’s sake.”
Home again, Mom rolled her eyes and told Dad that he was spoiling his only daughter but Dad only smiled and winked at Elvie and Elvie brought her new toy upstairs immediately.
She found Ethan and his family sitting at the kitchen table. Ethan’s father had his hands together and his head down, as if he was saying grace. Elvie’s family didn’t say grace, but she had friends who did. It was possible Ethan’s father was praying. Dane stood by the kitchen door.
Figurines that weren’t meant to play together were never the same size and scale. The policeman was a little bit bigger than Ethan and his family. Elvie placed him in the kitchen with the Smithsmiths.
Then Elvie went downstairs to have dinner herself. She ate chicken and rice and when she returned, she found the family had indeed met the policeman.
So had the head.
Elvie settled into her chair.
The policeman was standing on a chair in one of the extra bedrooms. He was halfway into the attic. Ethan and his family stood around him. Father had an arm around Mother’s waist. Dane was looking up at the policeman. The policeman was looking for the head, she knew. Searching the house for it.
Elvie went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she returned, Ethan’s mother and father stood at one end of the attic. Ethan was crouched beside Dane at the other. And between them, on his knees, the policeman was halfway into a crawlspace. Elvie couldn’t see his upper half.
Elvie was happy for this. Happy the policeman was doing exactly what she hoped he would.
Her own dad came into her bedroom and asked if she wanted him to read her a story. Elvie said yes. She got into bed and Dad sat beside her and read her a story about fields of many colors, a purple sky, and red trees. When he was finished he kissed her head and turned off her bedroom light. Then he left. Elvie waited a minute, got up, and quietly went to her red plastic chair. She listened for a minute, listened for her own parents. Then she turned on the lamp by the drawing table.
The policeman was lying on his belly in the foyer.
He had no head. And the tiny plastic bulb that once connected his policeman’s head to his body was red. Exposed now, for all the family to see.
Elvie clasped a hand over her mouth. She wanted to scream, needed to scream, but didn’t want Mom or Dad to hear.
Elvie shook her head no.
No, this wasn’t what she hoped would happen.
Ethan stood over the dead policeman, a plastic hand over his plastic mouth. His mother stood beside him, both her hands on his shoulders, beginning to pull him away from the beheaded figurine. Father and Dane were outside the foyer, at the foot of the stairs.
Dane was looking up the stairs.
Father was looking down at Dane.
Where is it, Dane? Where?
Father had the policeman’s gun.
Elvie looked for the head, too. She searched the eight bedrooms, the attic, the kitchen, the dining room, living room, library, everywhere.
Where was it, Dane? Where?
Then Elvie found it. Kind of. In the upstairs bathrooms she saw the head reflected in the bathroom mirror. But when she searched the bathroom for the head itself, she couldn’t find it. Maybe it was wedged somewhere in there, somewhere she couldn’t see. There couldn’t be a reflection, Elvie knew, without something to reflect.
She reached for the tub and then withdrew her hand.
Elvie looked back down to the policeman. To the red plastic of his exposed neck. She brought a hand to her own throat. She felt bad. Bad for putting the policeman in the house.
The House of the Head.
She turned off the lamp and went to bed. She fell asleep thinking of other ways to help the Smithsmiths. Other things she could do.
What could she do?
How could Ethan’s father shoot the head if the head wasn’t in the room where it was reflected?
But Elvie knew it had to be in there. It had to be.
She fell asleep to these words:
It has to be… it has to be… it has to be…
* * *
They didn’t have any priest or rabbi toys at the toy store. Elvie talked to Mr. and Mrs. Ogman about it.
“You might be able to find something like that at a church or a temple,” Mr. Ogman said. Mrs. Ogman didn’t think they existed. Mr. Ogman wasn’t convinced. “A lot of those places use toys to explain the testaments and whatnot.”
“There aren’t any priests in those books,” Mrs. Ogman said.
Then Mr. Ogman had an idea. “We do have some Native American toys, Elvie.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Mrs. Ogman chided.
Mr. Ogman kept his eye on Elvie. “They are a very spiritual people. Probably more spiritual than a priest or a rabbi could ever dream to be. You are looking for a spiritual toy, aren’t you, Elvie?”
Elvie nodded her head yes.
“Whatever for?” Mrs. Ogman asked.
Elvie didn’t tell them whatever for.
* * *
Once the Indian entered the House of the Head, Elvie felt better about things. He was about the same size as the policeman, but he looked much fiercer. Much wiser, too. Elvie thought he looked like he knew exactly what was going on and would know how to fix it. How to end it.
Ethan and his parents were sitting on the couch in the living room. The three of them side by side by side. Dane was on all fours on the floor next to the couch. All four of them faced ahead, facing Elvie’s direction. So they were perfectly set-up to listen to the Indian. Elvie placed him in front of them, standing on the living-room rug.
She sat back in her chair and studied the figurines. The Indian’s back was to her. His warpaint wrapped around his chest and almost met across his back. His long black hair hung past his shoulders. He had more muscles than Dane.
He gripped a hatchet in one hand, pointed with the other.
Elvie felt much better about things.
She went out to dinner with her parents. A new restaurant in town. Mom talked about the housing market. Dad talked about Jack. Said Jack was getting older. Said his vision was getting worse. Mom said it was natural. Dad agreed.
When they got back home, Elvie ran upstairs, but Mom stopped her halfway.
“How about you watch a little television with us? Would you like that?”
Elvie looked upstairs, could see her bedroom door from where she stood.
“Okay,” she said.
She went back down and watched a television program with her parents. It was funny. Dad and Mom laughed a lot. Elvie liked to see and hear that.
When the program was over, both Mom and Dad looked very tired. Elvie felt tired, too, but she desperately wanted to check on the Smithsmiths.
“I’ll tuck myself in,” she told her parents in the hallway between their bedrooms.
“Are you sure?” Mom asked.
“Yep.”
“Well, well, well,” Dad said. “Jack isn’t
the only one getting older.”
They both kissed her forehead and Elvie watched them enter their bedroom, holding hands. Then she went to her own bedroom and quietly closed the door behind her.
She got into her red chair and turned on the lamp.
The Smithsmiths were all in one room. The library. Dane, too. The library door was closed. They weren’t reading books or sitting in the reading chairs. They were all standing in the center of the room, looking up to the ceiling. Dane, too. Upstairs, the Indian was in the bathroom, both hands raised. Elvie wondered if the Indian had told them to wait downstairs. He would take care of this.
Looking at the fear on Ethan’s face, she hoped the Indian would take care of it.
She heard her door creak open and she turned to see Jack peering in, looking at her curiously.
“Come on, Jack,” she whispered.
Jack trotted in, tail wagging.
Elvie turned back to the house and saw the Indian was now in the hall. Arms still outstretched.
Elvie looked for the head.
She searched every room. Searched the laundry tubs. Behind the shower curtains. Under the blankets on the beds, even Ethan’s bed in the second lounge. She checked the closets, the cupboards, the sinks, under the tables, and behind every open door.
When she looked back upstairs the Indian was in one of the unused bedrooms. Arms toward the walls. His face was stoic, brave. Elvie nodded. Maybe he’d rid the house of the head.
Jack barked, scaring Elvie senseless. When her heart resumed its slower speed, she gripped him close and kissed his nose.
“You’re not getting older, are you, Jack?”
Jack licked her face and Elvie shushed him. Jack leapt off her lap and exited her bedroom. Elvie wondered if he was going to wake Mom and Dad.
Elvie turned her attention back to the house.
The Indian was standing on the master bed. Arms to the ceiling. Hatchet raised.
Elvie looked for the head.
She searched all the same places again.
Had he done it? Had the Indian rid the house of the head?
She couldn’t help but think about Mr. and Mrs. Ogman. If the Indian did it, she would have to thank them. Maybe even tell them what happened.
Elvie got up to use the bathroom. She was too afraid to look in the mirror so she didn’t. She just peed, quickly, washed her hands without looking up into the glass, then returned to her bedroom.
She got back into her chair.
The Indian hung half out the master bedroom window. She could only see his legs. Was he searching the yard for the head?
Elvie got up and walked around the drawing table.
She had to adjust the lamp to see the outside of the dollhouse.
“Oh no!” she said, then brought a hand to cover her mouth.
The Indian had no hair. No head. And the plastic that once connected his head to his body was as red as the warpaint across his chest.
He was slumped, half in the house, half out. His arms hung toward the tabletop. His hands were empty, too. No hatchet. And the hand that once held the hatchet was red, as if the plastic thing had been torn from him, removing some of the paint from his palm.
Elvie searched the tabletop for the Indian’s head. She didn’t see it. She couldn’t find it.
She rounded the drawing table quickly, adjusted the lamp again, and sat down.
The Smithsmiths were still in the library. They were holding one another now. Still looking up at the ceiling.
Behind them, on one of the bookshelves, unseen by them, was the head.
And beside it was the Indian’s hatchet, too.
“Look out!” Elvie cried.
She heard movement from down the hall. She turned off the lamp and rushed across her bedroom, dove into her bed.
Her bedroom door opened and Mom’s voice was loud.
“Elvie? What happened? Did you have a bad dream?”
Elvie pretended to be waking up.
“What? No. I’m okay.”
“You screamed, honey.”
“I did?”
“It woke us up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be sorry.” Mom entered the bedroom and sat on the edge of her mattress. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay. Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Elvie smiled in the dark. “Just sleeping.”
“Do you wanna sleep with us tonight?”
“No.” Did she say it too emphatically? Would Mom know? Mom could tell these things. Better than Dad.
“Okay, honey,” Mom said. “But if you need to, if you have another bad dream, just come crawl into bed with us.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“I will.”
Mom yawned and then Elvie yawned, too. A pretend one. Then Mom left her, leaving the bedroom door open a crack. Elvie listened to her footsteps in the hall. Heard her enter her own bedroom. Heard the door close. Then she heard Mom and Dad whispering.
Elvie waited.
She waited so long that she fell asleep.
When she woke up, it was still very dark in her bedroom. She didn’t know enough about time to know what time it was. She wanted a watch but Mom and Dad laughed every time she said so. She got out of bed and hurried to the drawing table. She turned on the lamp.
She started crying. Quietly.
Ethan’s parents lay on the library floor, headless, both of them. Ethan’s mother was reaching for the closed library door. Without her head she looked like a dress-form. Ethan’s father was bent unnaturally backwards across the reading chair. As if his back were broken. His arms lay limp at his sides. The red plastic that was once hidden by their body and clothes was exposed.
“Oh no,” Elvie said, crying, “oh no no no.”
Ethan was half under the writing table, his head and shoulders in the shadows. Elvie reached for him, to pull him out, to check on him, then withdrew.
The head was on the table.
It was on its side. As if listening through the table, listening to Ethan beneath it. The hatchet was beside it. Its wide eyes seemed to be looking into Elvie’s own.
Dane was facing the table. Dane was still alive.
Elvie’s door creaked open and Jack rushed in. She turned to shoo him away but he was coming fast. He leaped onto her lap and barked and Elvie put a hand over his mouth.
“Shh,” she said. “Shh shh shh!”
Jack calmed down. His tongue hung from his mouth and he was panting.
Elvie turned back to the house.
Dane was facing her. The head was no longer on the table. The head was gone.
Elvie looked over her shoulder.
Why was Dane facing her? Where was the head? Was it here? In her bedroom?
She felt cold, winter cold, and got up to search her bedroom. She imagined a bodiless head sliding out from under her bed. Erupting from the closet. Peering in from the hall through the bedroom door.
Elvie imagined a hatchet removing her own head.
She turned back to the house.
Just Dane still. Dane still staring at her. Or staring at her bedroom beyond her.
Elvie looked to Ethan’s body beneath the table. She thought of his parents. Of the policeman. Of the Indian.
Jack suddenly leapt from her lap. Panting still he ran from her bedroom into the hall. Elvie looked around her bedroom. Then back to the house.
Dane still stared.
Elvie felt hot, too hot. It felt like the heat was coming from within her. Like her skin was going to catch fire if she didn’t move.
She moved.
She stood up and knocked the red plastic chair back to the floor.
Dane still stared. Ethan still lay under the library table.
Quickly, Elvie looked from room to room, searching for the head. She didn’t want to look in the upstairs bathroom mirror. But when she ran from her bedroom, into the hall, when she entered her parents’ bedroom and crawled into bed with them, she couldn’t
be sure if the head she saw in the mirror was just her memory of the time she saw it before or if it was there this last time she looked.
* * *
Years later, as many as twenty-five, Elvie didn’t like to talk about her ghost story. Eric, her husband, thought it was a great one and, at parties, egged her on, asked her to tell it. Sometimes she did. Sometimes she didn’t. And every time Eric brought it up, she thought of Dane. She’d never found the head in the house. Never found it in her bedroom either. Eventually she asked Mom and Dad to help her find it. After a while they asked why she wanted it so badly, but Elvie just kept saying because. Finally, her parents gave up and Elvie closed the dollhouse, bringing its two sides together by its hinges. She moved it all by herself into the shadowed corner of her bedroom, where the other outdated toys and clothes sat inert in a pile for so long.
She checked her bed each night before crawling in. Checked her ceiling, too. Checked between her books and in her shoes. Checked the windowsill and the curtains, too.
She never found the head. But she thought of it often. Just like she thought of Dane.
Every time Eric brought up the House of the Head, Elvie wished she still had Dane. Wished she could pull him out of her pocket or show everybody that she wore him as a necklace and could say, Here he is… he’s still staring… Can you tell me what he’s staring at? What does he look like he sees?
And she’d think of Ethan, too, and his brown hair and kind eyes. How she never verified his end. Never pulled his body from under the table in the library in the House of the Head.
SUCCULENTS
by Conrad Williams
They went on a long bike ride under a punishing midday sun. Much of it was along well-trodden pathways through scrubby brush. Large swathes of deep sand meant there was little traction; you had to get off and push. Graham was sweating hard by the time they reached Cabo Sardão. He was grateful for the rest; glad too that he’d had to bring up the rear because Felix, his six-year-old son, was struggling more than most. The rest of the group stood around watching their arrival. One of them started a slow handclap that was taken up by the others. He gritted his teeth against the urge to offer a rebuke. Watch your temper, he warned himself. It was something Cherry was often remarking upon.
You’re getting worse as you grow older… you need to just kick back and not let things irritate you so much… there’s a heart attack up ahead, you know, just waiting for you. Remember that time…