The Ceiling Man

by Patricia Lillie

  He also kept my coffee cup filled. I loved that man.

  If Abby was in a chatty mood, Jim handled the conversational heavy lifting. I might chime in with small talk, but mostly I cuddled my coffee cup and supplied agreeable noises and rote responses on an as-needed basis.

  Abby made peanut butter toast for all of us.

  It wasn’t one of my better mornings. I hit the snooze button twice. The heavenly scents of toast and coffee finally lured me out of bed.

  “It’s about time,” Jim said, his mouth full. “I had to eat your toast.”

  “You’re a good man.” I headed for the coffee pot. Since I was so late, I was willing to pour my first cup myself and let him chew.

  Abby spread peanut butter on two more slices of toast.

  “He was really hungry,” she said.

  “Then it’s a good thing he got my toast.”

  “Not Daddy. The other guy.”

  I stopped. “Who?”

  “Aunt Nancy and Uncle Kyle will be sad.”

  “Abby, who was hungry?” Jim asked.

  “Twyla would like the ceiling, but I do not think Aunt Nancy will.”

  “Abby. Look at me.” Jim upped his serious-dad voice to near cop-mode. “What are you talking about?”

  “Idunno.”

  She shut down. Jim tried but couldn’t get another word out of her.

  When the school bus arrived, she left without saying good-bye.

  • • •

  I’D KNOWN NANCY and Kyle pretty much all my life. They weren’t really Abby’s aunt and uncle, but we’d all met in kindergarten and remained good friends. They were family.

  “Four kids? What were we thinking,” Nancy said. “We need a vacation. A kid-free week.”

  She and Kyle arranged a second honeymoon.

  “This time, I won’t come back pregnant,” she promised.

  Her mother stayed with the children.

  When none of the kids showed up for school and no one answered the phone, the school contacted the police. The dispatcher sent a patrol car to check on them.

  Port Massasauga was like that.

  It happened sometime during the night and nobody, not a single neighbor, heard a thing.

  “As soon as the call came in, I knew,” Jim said. “It was just like the last time. Worse. Those kids. Their grandmother. So much blood. . .the ceiling. How did she know?”

  Abby never slept through the night. She woke up, got out of bed, and spent an hour or so at her computer. Sometimes, she sat in her bed and sang.

  Or rocked herself to Abby-land.

  • • •

  I TOOK SICK leave from work. I slept while Abby was at school.

  Ms. Colley would keep Abby focused in class. She wouldn’t let her rock herself to Abby-land. The bus ride both to and from school was short, too short for anything to happen. I hoped.

  At home, I watched.

  “He’s hungry.”

  Every time I caught her rocking or swaying or slipping away to her secret world, I stopped her.

  “He’s hungry,” she said.

  “Who?” I asked over and over but never got more than Idunno in return.

  Nights I spent in the big chair in the corner of her room. Whenever she woke up, I made her lie down. We talked about silly, safe things, or I read to her.

  We’ve read aloud to Abby since the day we brought her home, long before we knew anything was different about her. When she hit toddlerhood and still didn’t sleep through the night, our midnight story sessions were the only thing that calmed her and kept me sane. When we began having her tested for developmental issues, somebody in the parade of doctors—they all ran together after a while—suggested we use the time for only non-fiction. View it as an educational opportunity. Expand her vocabulary. At the very least, only read stories based on real world needs. This is the Way We Brush Our Teeth or something equally boring. The doctor was concerned she wouldn’t learn the difference between fantasy and reality.

  Abby would have none of it. She liked stories. Folk tales were her favorites, followed by anything with talking animals. A story with both—The Three Bears, The Three Little Pigs, Red Riding Hood—was a bonanza. When she got older, she liked the classics and didn’t want anything set in the modern world. We read Little Women, the Alices, The Secret Garden, and Heidi so many times I could recite them from memory.

  We started Little Women again. I hoped it would keep us both calm and sane and keep me awake.

  As far as I knew, there was no rocking or visits to Abby-land for a week, nor were there any more red ceilings in Port Massasauga.

  Jim and I didn’t discuss it.

  • • •

  ABBY GOT HER SNOW DAY. I’d sat awake in her room all night. Since she was home, I couldn’t go to bed in the morning. I was tired and cranky, and to make matters worse, it was the day of our eye exams.

  “Maybe they are there,” Abby said for the fiftieth time.

  “Everything is closed.” My last shred of patience was slipping away.

  “Maybe just school is closed. You should call. Maybe they are there.”

  “They called us. They’re closed. I need to reschedule our appointments.”

  “You should call now. Please?”

  “Abby. No one is there to answer the phone.”

  “Maybe they are.”

  “ABBY. They. Are. Closed. I’ll call tomorrow. DROP IT.”

  She never dealt well with being yelled at. She stiffened and went into pause mode. She swayed.

  “ABBY!”

  “He is very angry,” she whispered.

  “WHO? ABBY, WHO IS ANGRY?” I couldn’t stop yelling.

  “Idunno.” She shrugged and ran to her room.

  I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry—or run away from home—but I followed her upstairs.

  She sat on her bed and rocked.

  “ABBY.”

  “Huh.”

  Her huh was a relief. She was still in this world. I pulled myself together and dredged up some cheerful. “I’m sorry I yelled. We have a snow day. Let’s make the most of it. We’ll bake cookies. Brownies. Watch movies. Make mac and cheese.”

  Mac and cheese always got her attention.

  We spent the day on all those things and anything else I could come up with to keep us busy. The whole time, I spewed a stream of happy chatter.

  No pauses. No rocking. No time to think.

  Perky did not come naturally to me. The day left me drained.

  Jim and I shared the night shift. Two hours asleep, two hours on watch. Although I couldn’t fall sleep on my breaks, I struggled to stay awake on my watches. I was almost sure I managed it. Almost sure there was no rocking.

  There was no real talk in our house the next morning, only grunts and monosyllables, the conversation of the sleep deprived.

  Until Abby left for school. As the bus pulled up, right before she went out the door, she turned to me and grinned her loopy grin.

  “Twyla’s birthday party is today,” she said. “She loves red. But no moving pictures. And five is just enough.”

  The door slammed and she was gone before I could ask, “Enough for what?”

  • • •

  LIKE ALICE, ABBY, always said what she meant and meant what she said, and often left me feeling like the March Hare while I tried to sort it out.

  The first time she made a pun, I practically threw a party.

  She and I were visiting my mother-in-law. Sometimes, I couldn’t avoid it. Abby sat on the couch. Evelyn’s cat, Stella, curled up on the couch back next to Abby’s head. Her purr was turned up to eleven.

  Evelyn and I made small talk. Since any conversation with her was a minefield, I concentrated on avoiding the explosives. Abby was in her own world.

  “Stella has fine motor skills,” Abby announced and collapsed in giggles.

  She knew exactly what she said. She started physical therapy when she was five.

  I laughed and played it cool in front of
her. In my head, I did the happy dance to end all happy dances, then ran to the other room and called her father. Jim was as thrilled as I was. I didn’t think Evelyn got either the joke or the significance.

  Five.

  Twyla’s party was at school, scheduled for the end of the day. Twyla, Devon, Abby, Ms. Colley, and Mrs. Lamb, the classroom aide. Five people at the party.

  Just enough.

  The school had a guard, a city cop nearing retirement, on the grounds. The doors were locked. Nobody could get in unless the guard hit his magic-buzzer button and let them in.

  Nothing could happen. I needed to go to bed, get some sleep, and stop worrying.

  Five is just enough.

  Compared to me, the March Hare was the picture of mental health. Sleep wasn’t going to happen.

  I sent Ms. Colley a text and poured another cup of coffee.

  There would be six at Twyla’s party.

  • • •

  I TOOK THE shortcut on Betchel Road. None of Port Massasauga’s Most Influential Citizens lived there, so it wasn’t a high priority for the snow crews. It was barely plowed and hadn’t seen a salt truck. The midday sunshine turned the snowstorm leftovers into a mess of wet, slush-covered ice. Another route would have been wiser, but in the Land of Lake Effect Snow, we took risks—and had four-wheel drive.

  Between my lack of sleep and the overload of caffeine, I was in worse condition than the road. I locked the Jeep into 4WD, slowed down, and concentrated on where I was going. I didn’t need to get there fast, just to get there.

  Blevins stood in the middle of the road.

  Even as I jammed on the brakes, I knew it was the wrong thing to do.

  I swerved and lost control.

  [8]

  The Ceiling Man

  THE GROUNDS BEHIND THE HIGH SCHOOL overflowed with teenagers. They shouted and laughed and threw snow at each other, but if the girl was among them, he didn’t find her. He skipped from head to head. Weak minds. Open to him. Not all, but enough. The ones shivering in their shirtsleeves, too cool or too tough for coats, were his favorites. He made a few drop and roll around in the snow. Their classmates shrieked with laughter. His inner-Blevins was amused, but that didn’t take much.

  They were sheep, easy prey. Young, tender, and quite possibly delicious. He longed to cut through the flock, but he was here for the girl, not fun and games.

  “Teenagers are mean little assholes,” Blevins said.

  «Pot. Kettle.»

  “Huh?”

  The bell rang, and the herd trickled into the building. He searched for his target, but he was too far away. The jumble of too many undisciplined minds hid her. He’d find her when he was inside. She was different. Once he was near, she’d stand out.

  She would recognize him.

  Access to the building was more complicated than he expected. In the past, he could walk into a school or anyplace else he wanted, but the place was a fortress. None of the side doors, including the one the sheep used, budged. He headed for the front entrance, like an invited guest.

  A uniformed guard sat on the other side of the glass doors. Old guy. Fat. Sleepy. Looked like he was counting out the days until retirement. A pushover.

  «Let me in.»

  The guard looked up from his magazine and laughed.

  “Blevins. You asshole.” The man’s thought might as well have been a shout.

  “He’s an ass,” Blevins said, “and not too bright.”

  If he was dimmer than Blevins, he must be a vegetable.

  «Open the door.»

  He wasn’t a vegetable. He resisted.

  «Let me in.»

  The rent-a-cop paled and swayed, but his hand went out and the door buzzed and unlocked before he collapsed and hit the floor.

  If the guard hadn’t fought back, he might have survived.

  Wasted snack food, but the girl was his goal.

  “This is so cool,” Blevins said.

  «Shut up or I won’t let you watch.»

  The Blevins-remnant obeyed.

  He wasn’t prepared for slamming doors and alarms, but he enjoyed them. The empty hallways were easy to navigate, but fear permeated the air like steam. A drug, it distracted him, made tracking the girl harder.

  Harder, but not impossible.

  He didn’t need to search. She found him, and he homed in on her like a beacon.

  [9]

  Abby

  AT 9:32, MS. COLLEY SAYS, “Abby. Shush. No more talking about the birthday party until party time. You’ve brought it up fifty times already.”

  She is wrong. It is only thirty-two times, but I do not argue. If I argue, I know I will say birthday party.

  At 11:14, Ms. Colley says, “Abby. Your mom is going to join us for Twyla’s party. Won’t that be fun?”

  I do not answer. I am shushed and cannot talk about the party.

  It is 12:37. The bell will ring at 12:40. At 12:40, Twyla’s party will start. At 12:40, I can talk.

  The clock is very slow. Maybe it is broken.

  “Abby. You’re making me seasick,” Ms. Colley says.

  She is telling me I am rocking. The rule says, “No rocking in class.” I sit straight and still.

  It is 12:39. My mom is not here. She should not be late. She has one minute left.

  The bell rings. It is 12:40.

  “Birthday party time!” I say. That makes thirty-three, but I do not tell Ms. Colley.

  “Woot! Woot! Party time!” Devon shakes his butt.

  Devon and I hang up the Happy Birthday Twyla banner, and Mrs. Lamb gets the presents from the closet.

  Twyla picks one. It is not mine, but I try to be patient.

  “NO,” Devon says. “Cake first.”

  At Devon’s house, birthdays are cake then presents. Twyla and I say presents then cake. There are two of us and one Devon.

  “No, Devon. We voted. You lost. Presents first. It’s on your list,” I say.

  Devon looks at his list. When Devon writes it on his list, it is final.

  “Do not mess with the list,” Devon says.

  Twyla is already unwrapping her presents. All of them are wrapped in red paper. Red hearts. Red stripes. Red polka dots. All of them are red.

  She likes my pizza pillow best.

  We sing Happy Birthday Dear Twyla. Devon sings so loud I almost do not hear the intercom say, “Dooooop. Doop-doop. Dooooop. Doop.”

  I know what that means.

  Twyla hugs my pizza pillow. She wears the red hat and scarf Mrs. Lamb made for her.

  Devon does not notice the alarm. He sings, “You look like a monkey and you smell like one too.”

  Ms. Colley locks the door and turns off the lights and pulls down the window shades.

  “Everybody to the Quiet Corner,” Mrs. Lamb whispers.

  We go. She follows us and brings Twyla’s birthday cake.

  Ms. Colley slips the green paper under the door. We are all safe and accounted for.

  Mrs. Lamb cuts the cake. “Shhhh,” she whispers. “We are going to play a game. Everyone eat your cake and be as quiet as you can. First one to make a noise has to wash the dishes.”

  “That game is not on the list,” Devon says. “I am in charge of games, and I did not write that one on my list.”

  “You have to wash the dishes,” I say. I am the second one to make a noise, so it is okay.

  “No. No games not on the list.” Devon is not happy.

  “It is okay, Devon,” I say. “The plates are paper.”

  “Everyone shush,” Ms. Colley says. “Code Red. Remember what we practiced.”

  My mom is coming. Where is she? She should not be late.

  “CODE RED LOCKDOWN,” Devon says. He is not shushed. “HOSTILE INTRUDER ALERT.”

  “Devon, shhhhhh,” Ms. Colley says. “We must be quiet.”

  Ms. Colley is trembly. I do not think this is a drill.

  My mom is not here. Nobody gets in or out during Code Red.

  Twyla has her s
econd piece of cake. When she eats, she is messy. Her mouth and chin are covered with red frosting, but she is shushed. Twyla is always shushed except when she screams.

  “Step One,” Devon says. “All Faculty, Staff, Students, and Visitors must IMMEDIATELY proceed, if possible, out of line of sight of windows and doorways and to the nearest classroom or secure space.” He is rocking.

  The rule says, ‘No rocking in class.’ Ms. Colley does not say, “Devon, you are making me seasick.” Maybe a party does not count as class.

  I hear screaming. It hurts my ears.

  It is not Twyla screaming. Mrs. Lamb screams, but her mouth is closed. She stands at the door. Her hand is on the lock. I do not know how she screams with her mouth closed.

  “Step Two,” Devon says. “Lock classroom doors. If there is no lock, barricade the door with available objects. Close all window shades or blinds if applicable. Stay away from the windows and doors.” He is not shushed.

  Mrs. Lamb is not shushed, and she is hurting my head.

  “Devon, be quiet,” Ms. Colley says. She should tell Mrs. Lamb to be quiet.

  Twyla’s face is all red. My mom is late.

  I put my hands over my ears. They hurt too much and I cannot make them stop.

  “NONONONONONONONONO.” I scream too.

  Mrs. Lamb stops screaming. She is on the floor and shushed now, but my head still hurts.

  “Abby, shush,” Ms. Colley says.

  The door is closed. He is on the other side. He tries to open the door, but Mrs. Lamb does not unlock it before she falls down. I think he is angry.

  “Step Three,” Devon says. “After the classroom or office doors are secured, the Faculty or Staff member present will slide a colored reporting sheet—a green sheet for all safe or a red sheet for medical or other emergency problems or Students or Staff members unaccounted for—under the main exterior door of the classroom or office leading to the hallway.”

  He wants me to let him in. If I let him in he will make the ceiling red.

  My mom is supposed to be here. She says I am a banana, but it is okay. She loves bananas. And grapes.

  Twyla loves red.

  I think there is enough red already.

  “NONONONONONONONONO.” I scream again, but this time, I keep my mouth closed too.