“Frank …”
He woke with a start and stared across the lawn at the library window. Cathy’s pale face stared back at him, surrounded by her even paler brethren, their mouths moving soundlessly, fish-like. He thought he could hear the soft clinking of breaking glass, or hundreds of tiny mouths trying their teeth.
The thing he would remember most was the room, and the Rivendales watching. They had a peculiar way of watching; they were very polite about it, for if nothing else they were gentlemen and ladies, these Rivendales. Theirs was an ancient etiquette, developed through practice and interaction with human beings of all eras and climes. Long before he met Cathy they had known him, followed him, for they had intimate knowledge of his type. Or so he imagined.
Each afternoon there was one who especially drew Frank’s attention: an old one, his eyebrows fraying away with the heat like tattered moth wings. He walked the same path each day, wearing it down into a seamless pavement, and only by a slight pause at a particular point on the path did Frank know the old man Rivendale was watching him. Listening to him. And that old one’s habitual, everyday patterns were what made Frank wonder if the world might be full of Rivendales, assigned to watch, and recruit.
He was beginning—with excitement—to recognize them, to guess at what they were. They would always feed, and feed viciously, but their hunger was so great they would never be filled, no matter how many lives they emptied, no matter how many dying relationships they so intimately observed. Like an internal cancer, their bland surfaces concealed an inner, parasitic excitement. They could not generate their own. They couldn’t even generate their own kind; they had to infect others in order to multiply.
Frank had always imagined their type to be feral, with impossibly long teeth, and foul, blood-tainted breath. But they had manners, promising a better life, and a cold excitement one need not work for.
He was, after all, one of them. A Rivendale by habit, if not by blood. The thought terrified.
The thing he would remember most was the room, and the way she looked curled up in bed, her bald head rising weakly over her shoulders.
“I have to leave, Cathy. This is crazy.”
He’d been packing for fifteen minutes, hoping she’d say something. But the only sounds in the room were those of the shirts and pants being pulled from drawers and collapsed haphazardly into his suitcase. And the sound the breeze from the window made, pushing out the heavy brocade curtains, making the tiny leaf and shell pattern breathe, sigh, the tiny mouths chatter.
And the sound of her last gasp, her last breath trying to escape the confines of the room, escape the family home before their mouths caught her and fed.
“Cathy …” Shadows moved behind the bed. It bothered him he couldn’t see her eyes. “There was no love anyway … you understand what I’m saying?” Tiny red eyes flickered in the darkness. Dozens of pairs. “The fighting is the only thing that kept us together; it kept the boredom away. And I haven’t felt like fighting you for some time.” The quiet plucked at his nerves. “Cathy?”
He stopped putting his things into the suitcase. He let several pairs of socks fall to the floor. There were tiny red eyes fading into the shadows. And mouths. There was no other excitement out there for him; he couldn’t do it on his own. No other defense against the awesome, all-encompassing boredom. The Rivendales had judged him well.
Cathy shifted in the bed. He could see the shadow of her terrible swollen belly as it pushed against the dusty sheets and raised the heavy covers. He could see the paleness of her skin. He could see her teeth. But he could not hear her breathe. He lifted his knee and began the long climb across the bedspread, his hands shaking, yet anxious to give themselves up for her.
He would remember the bite marks in the cool night air, the mouths in the dark brocade. He would remember his last moment of panic just before he gave himself up to this new excitement. The thing he would remember most was the room.
TAKING DOWN THE TREE
Seven days after Christmas and the great tree filling the parlor had lost its glory. Nick had stopped watering it three days before Christmas. The branches had turned a drooping grayish-green, so that ornaments were escaping the tree, dropping to the rug with a shower of needles, rolling under chairs where they’d be forgotten until Spring. The ornaments themselves seemed to need nourishment during the days following Christmas: brightly-colored glass balls faded, metal angels tarnished, garlands unraveled before his eyes. Christmas was over.
The week following Christmas day was the saddest part of the year. Nick knew his family shared this sentiment, but they would never say so. They were as determined as he not to spoil the holiday. His son Joseph had spent the last week lying on his stomach beside the tree, playing with the bright red train set Nick had scoured the city to find. Nick hadn’t minded the trouble—the boy had behaved perfectly this year. Joseph was small for eight, which pleased Nick. Compact and easy to carry. His green pajamas matched his emerald eyes.
Carrie was a bit more substantial—plump rosy cheeks, a satisfying armful. He enjoyed holding her on his lap for the Christmas Eve reading of “The Night Before Christmas.” Carrie looked up at him now from her usual seat by the fireplace. She smiled thinly and played with the doll which looked exactly like her. Her present hadn’t been difficult to find. All the dolls he’d ever seen looked like her.
“Choo! Choo choo!” Joseph looked up at Nick and laughed. “Choo choo!” he cried again. Tears were rolling down the perfect little boy’s cheeks.
“I know, son, I understand,” Nick said, as he knew he was supposed to say. But he didn’t really understand at all. Nick had a vague impression that something was wrong, but he wasn’t sure what.
“Choo choo!” Joseph cried more loudly, as if in anger. Nick wasn’t sure if this was the sound of laughter or tears.
He left the parlor and went to the kitchen to find his wife. She stood by the kitchen sink, her hands like dead fish in water so soap-filled it resembled cream. She hummed softly a medley of Christmas carols, their individual pieces so brief Nick could not distinguish one from another. He lifted her hands from the water. She stared at him and smiled. Her hands were cracked, her fingers wrinkled incredibly. Nick looked around the kitchen: the turkey carcass on the counter, half-devoured and fly-specked, the stacks of yellowed dishes, the open jars of mayonnaise and salad dressing, the rock-hard platter of stuffing. “Oh, Mary,” he said. “Christmas is over for another year.” She nodded sadly and began humming her tunes again, so disjointed now he was sure she hummed them backwards.
Nick went into the dining room and clapped his hands loudly three times. “Christmas is over! Christmas is over!” he cried. He could hear his children wailing in the parlor. The cries of children made a very unpleasant song.
He could hear his wife sobbing to herself in the kitchen, another sad sound. But Christmas was over. There was nothing he could do. “I’m sorry!” he called. “I’m sorry! But we must put all our Christmas things away!”
Nick brought the empty boxes down from the attic. He cajoled his family into helping him remove the lights and decorations from the tree—carefully, wrapping each piece in tissue and nesting it in its proper box.
He carried the boxes up into the dark attic—an attic so large the boxes filled only one tiny corner, so large he sometimes got lost in it. When that was done he took the naked tree out to the back and shoved it into his wood-chipping machine, grinding it into a fine sawdust mulch for his rose bushes.
His family waited for him to tell them what to do.
He showed them the holiday cards that needed to be removed from the window frames, the wreaths over doorways, the special tablecloth embroidered in holiday motifs that needed to be folded.
Nick was closing and taping a box when Carrie’s gray kitten strode by. He reached down and lifted the cat, pulled off its head, removed its legs, and threw the mass into the top of the box. He closed the flaps and taped them.
“Bye, kitty,” Carr
ie said softly.
They all followed him as he carried the last box to the attic. Carrie walked close, whispering to her kitten inside. Joseph marched, now and then shouting “Choo! Choo!” at the top of his lungs. Mary trailed, blank-faced, taking the steps with exaggerated care.
In the attic it was cold and empty and Nick felt as if he were about to be devoured by the dark. He wanted to hurry, to put this Christmas behind him. So he grabbed Mary more roughly then he intended, broke her into two and then into four and then into eight and filled a bright blue sack with her, her blonde hair floating to the top.
Carrie wanted to be with her cat and, after arguing about how there wasn’t room, the indulgent father gave in, and bent and flattened her until she fit, but barely.
“Choo! Choo!” Joseph cried. “Choo! Choo!”
“Always the trouble maker, Joseph. You do this every year!”
“Choo! Choo!” Joseph screamed and ran.
But it was all a game. After chasing him and catching him, Nick jerked and ripped his little boy into so many pieces that Nick was quite sure Joseph would look very different come Christmas of next year.
“Choo choo,” Nick said softly to the last box of Christmas, before shoving it back into the darkest corner he could find.
AFTER WORK
Derek got home late after work. His eyes burned and his neck bothered him. He probably looked like he’d been crying, he thought. No amount of rubbing helped the pain in his neck.
The kitchen was empty. No signs of any cooking. No signs that Marie had even bothered to fix herself lunch. Several wadded-up tissues littered the floor; the box on the counter was empty.
The house held its breath. The cold quiet was a familiar song for Derek. He plopped down in a kitchen chair and hung his head. “Ah … Marie,” he said softly to the yellowing floor. “Please, Marie. This has gotta stop.” Despite the cold he couldn’t stop perspiring. Sweat from his forehead oozed into his right eye. It burned like some kind of chemical. Both eyes watered, spilled. “Oh, sweet Marie.”
Derek climbed from the chair with painful effort. He walked to their bedroom, pushed open the door.
Marie hung from the light fixture, head tilted as if questioning, face the color and apparent consistency of blended children’s clay, like the kind their only daughter had. Derek had sent their daughter to live with his parents months ago.
A kiss of blood spotted the left-hand corner of Marie’s mouth. Something new. He supposed she’d bitten her tongue.
Derek felt the wetness on his cheeks, used two fingers to touch it, wipe it away. He imagined he could tell the difference between sweat and tears just by touching. He wondered if blood felt different.
He stared at her. Not for the last time, he knew. Marie had always been such a beautiful woman.
“Christ, Marie,” he said, and he could feel her name breaking up in his throat. “Why do you do this to me?”
He walked around her. He picked up the fallen chair and set it aside. He reached out to touch her, hesitated, and then changed his mind.
“I’m going back,” he told her. “I volunteered for a double shift.”
Marie opened her eyes. She looked at him wordlessly. She reached up her hands to loosen the noose, slipped out of it, and dropped to the floor. The deep purple crease in her neck looked brilliant and artificial, like the latest trend in make-up. But of course Derek knew it was real. She raised a hand to either side of her head and pushed it upright. She leaned over and spat out a mouthful of blood onto the rug. She looked at him again, her eyes whiter, wider, than anyone’s Derek had ever seen. “You’re always working,” she said. “You bastard. You’re always leaving me alone.”
“I did the best for us I knew how. You and the baby,” he replied.
“A double shift?” she said, walking in circles, gazing up at the empty noose. “How many times is that this week? You’re wearing yourself out. You’re killing yourself.”
Derek started to titter. Then he lost himself in exhausted laughter. Marie eyed him coolly. “Killing yourself?” He laughed again. “Why shouldn’t I be working two shifts? Why would I want to come home, when half the time I pretty much know what I’m going to find here? I’m going to find you! How many times is that this week,” he repeated, and gestured at the noose.
She strolled clumsily over to the chair. He didn’t think she could move any faster, or better. She moved the chair under the light. “Marie!” he shouted. “You know I don’t deserve this!” She climbed up on the chair, weaving as she reached up for the noose. “Ah … Marie,” he moaned in resignation.
She positioned the noose around her neck and tightened it. She held her head to the side just so. She kicked the chair out from under her. She kicked.
Once again she had hanged herself, and once again Derek had to look at her and think how beautiful she used to be.
A HUNDRED WICKED LITTLE WITCHES
“That’s enough, that’s enough now,” Jack whispered to the witch of wallpaper, whose face stared at him from every inch of the wall, her eyes bright and piercing as needles, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. But like all the others, she would not stop.
They would not stop: the witch of belly, the witch of walk, the witch of tongue. They had no sense of caution, of precaution, of decorum. They had no sense of the limits of a man’s toleration, the limits to which a man might go. They had no, made no, sense. Jack tried to forget them, tried to manage without them. But they had the power, and only they could make the decision to let him go. The witch of charms might encounter him on the street, and she might force him to follow her blocks out of his way, simply on a whim. The witch of a glance might distract him at work, denying him promotions and the respect of his peers. The witch of lingerie might keep him awake all night, his mind so filled by the unobtainable that there was no room for sleep.
And if he objected, if he balked, if he shouted that he’d had enough, his fellow passengers on the bus, or the pedestrians sharing his sidewalk, would turn, would look uneasy, and gazing past them he would inevitably encounter the icy stares of fourteen highly annoyed witches. He knew this for sure. He’d counted. Each and every time, he’d counted.
Women were like that, as his father had told him. All of them witches, as his father had told him. Each with her own special power. Each with love to give and love to withhold. Each with the talent to destroy him in a hundred little ways. The witch of impatience and the witch of boredom. The witch of adultery and the witch of dissatisfaction. The witches of intolerance, aggravation, and greed.
Jack’s own mother had been a witch of neglect. After she had him she didn’t want anything else the rest of her life, including—most especially—him. She became a sad waitress during the day and a witness to street accidents at night. The only times he could remember her actually speaking to him before his father finally came back one day to take him away was when she told him how to handle strangers: “Go away with them. Do what they want to do. They always tell better stories than the ones you hear at home.”
When Jack was a small child the witches were appropriately small and enigmatically sinister. The witch of holes might lead him into the smallest place, even though he was much too large to fit. The witch of food gave him stomachaches even with his favorite meals. The witch of whispers told him secrets he’d be better off not knowing. They were full of tricks, misrepresentations, and disappointments, these witches. They taught Jack what he might expect the rest of his life. The witch of shadows filled the darkness with an impossible number of presences, breathing unseen and speaking in code. The witch of kisses filled him with an intangible longing. The witch of silences refused to answer any of his essential questions.
“Answer me! Talk to me! Say anything!” Jack shouted into the darkness, but the witch of solitude was not to be seduced.
During his teen years Jack dated every witch on the menu, and some other witches none of his friends could imagine. He followed the witch of legs one day until she lost h
im in a field of dining rooms. He kissed the witch of mouths so long and fervently that she stole his voice and used it to make crank phone calls. He fell asleep with the witch of smells and woke up with the witch of what’s left.
Jack had grown cynical by the time he went off to college. With each new woman he met, his first thought was which witch is this? Occasionally he might encounter the witch of hope or the witch of promises, but invariably he’d be left with the witch of nothing special.
Then came the day he met Marsha. She made no particular impression on him initially, which was unusual in itself. No handy labels presented themselves. She was a lawyer in a small firm downtown. They met at a party thrown by mutual friends. Apparently there’d been some matchmaking going on, but he hadn’t known this at the time. Marsha was small and quick, with piercing black eyes which flashed as she talked. “You’re full of it, Jack,” was perhaps the second or third thing she ever said to him.
Her insulting him that way was almost a relief. Marsha was surely the witch of attitude, and having made that determination he could at last feel comfortable with her. He knew what to expect from her.
But as he realized later, her comment wasn’t far off the mark. He’d been expounding, after too much drink, on his theory of witches. He’d felt secure that the people listening to him believed him to be merely fabricating a witty, extended conceit, with no idea that he really believed it. Marsha, however, saw through him almost immediately. “I know you can’t see it right now, but you’re full of it, Jack.”
“Full of it? Full of witches, you mean.”
Marsha sighed, turned away, and then immediately turned back to him. “Will you come over for dinner tomorrow night?” And she smiled. A witch of surprises? But when he looked into her face at that moment he would swear she was the witch of eyes.
All the next day Jack was plagued by the witches of shyness, embarrassment, and nerves. Every time he looked in the mirror they were there, telling him how bad he looked, how unimpressive he was. The witch of disinterest fell asleep while enumerating his faults, melting into a silver pool when he turned the hair dryer on her. The witches of jibber, jabber, and yakkety yak screamed when he slammed his bathroom door on their criticisms.
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