The Ceiling Man

by Patricia Lillie

  I exploded. I just lost it. Screaming, hollering, tears. I don’t even know what I said.

  Jim sat and took it all. Stoic, impervious, like a rock. My cornerstone.

  When I ran down, he said, “I don’t suppose you’ll leave Abby alone and come to bed.”

  It wasn’t a question, and it didn’t deserve an answer.

  “We’ll take shifts,” he said. “You need to get some sleep.”

  I was still angry but too worn out to hang on to it. I gave in.

  “I’ll take the first shift,” he said. “You go to bed.”

  “Two hours. Be sure to wake me up.” I wasn’t sure I trusted him, but I didn’t have the energy left to argue.

  I should have set the alarm. He never woke me up.

  [14]

  Abby

  DADDY SITS IN THE CHAIR. He is asleep. My mom does not sleep when she sits in my chair.

  The Ceiling Man is outside.

  I get up and go to my computer, and Sami barks and wakes up Daddy.

  “Abby, back in bed,” Daddy says.

  I go, but I do not lie down.

  Sami sits at my feet, and I scratch the top of her head. She likes that.

  “Are you going to read?” I ask.

  When I wake up, my mom reads Little Women to me. She says, “We have read it umpteen times already, but we will read it again. And probably again and again”

  Umpteen equals six. The next time we read Little Women, umpteen will equal seven. Umpteen is what Ms. Colley calls a slippery word.

  I hand my book to Daddy. Little Women is my special book. It is the same Little Women book my mom reads when she is a little girl.

  My mom says, “I’ve had a lot of practice reading this book,” but I think Daddy can read it too.

  “How about something different,” Daddy says.

  “No. Finish one thing before you start another. Ms. Colley says it’s the rule.”

  “Far be it from me to argue with Ms. Colley,” Daddy says. He is smiling. I think it is a good smile, but maybe it is a being-patient smile. He opens Little Women.

  “Start at the bookmark,” I say.

  “I sorta knew that,” Daddy says.

  The Ceiling Man is quiet.

  “Chapter Seven. Amy’s Valley of Humiliation,” Daddy says.

  Chapter Seven is the chapter about pickled limes. I do not think I like pickled limes. I wonder if the Ceiling Man likes them. I do not think pickled limes are red.

  “‘That boy is a perfect Cyclops, isn’t he?’ said Amy, one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.” Daddy uses his regular Daddy voice.

  “You do not sound like Amy,” I say.

  The Ceiling Man is listening.

  Daddy makes a funny face, but he smiles. I think his smile means good. Good smiles make me smile too.

  “‘How dare you say so, when he’s got both his eyes? And very handsome ones they are, too,’ cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend.” Daddy’s voice is high and silly. He does not sound like Jo, but I like his funny voice.

  “Stupid book,” the Ceiling Man says.

  I do not answer him. Little Women is not a stupid book. It is one of my favorites. Jo is very brave, and Aunt March is like my Gramma Evelyn.

  “‘I didn’t say anything about his eyes, and I don’t see why you need fire up when I admire his riding,’” Daddy reads.

  “Daddy. Amy doesn’t sound the same as Jo,” I say.

  “Tell him to put the book down and go to sleep,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “No. Go away,” I say.

  “What?” Daddy says. He closes the book, and his smile goes away.

  “Not you. I want you to read,” I say. My voice sounds funny, but not like Daddy’s. It is the voice my mom calls Meltdown Warning Number Six, The Fast Voice.

  Daddy opens the book, but he does not look at it. He looks at me. He frowns, and I think I want his smile back.

  “You need to look at the book,” I say. I want to slow down, but I still use the fast voice.

  “Abby, no rocking,” Daddy says. “Lay down.”

  Sometimes, I do not know I am rocking.

  “Where is my mom? Amy and Jo are different when she reads.” I say.

  “She’s sleeping. She had a long day. You’re stuck with me tonight.”

  I look at my clock. It says 11:27.

  “It is not over yet,” I say.

  The Ceiling Man is smiling, but his smile is not like Daddy’s. The Ceiling Man’s smile does not make me want to smile.

  The numbers on my clock are red. “I need a new alarm clock,” I say.

  “Abby, lie down,” Daddy says.

  Sami lies down, but I don’t.

  “I’ll get in,” the Ceiling Man says, “maybe not tonight, but I will get in.”

  “Abby, you’re making me seasick,” Daddy says.

  “Ms. Colley says that. Not you,” I say.

  When my mom says, “Abby! Do not ignore me!” it means I am in trouble. When she says, “Jim, are you ignoring me,” it means Daddy is in trouble. I do not ignore Daddy. I stop rocking.

  “I do not like red ceilings,” I say.

  “Abby. What red ceilings?” Daddy says.

  “Mrs. Lamb fell down,” I say.

  “That was your fault. Not mine,” the Ceiling Man says.

  The ambulance people take Mrs. Lamb out on a stretcher. A policeman is with them, but he is not Daddy.

  Devon says, “She’s okay. They did not cover her face. If they are dead, they cover their faces.”

  I always cry when Beth dies. I do not like to cry, and I do not like it when Beth dies.

  Devon writes Not Dead on his list.

  “She might be dead,” the Ceiling Man says, “and you did it.”

  Daddy ignores the Ceiling Man. He is not in trouble.

  “I didn’t,” I say.

  Daddy stares at me. He is not smiling, but he does not wear his mad face.

  I cannot remember what this Daddy-face means, but I do not think I am in trouble. I think he will say, “I like grapes.”

  He does not. He says, “Abby, tell me what happened.”

  “Tell him what you did to Mrs. Lamb,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “Idunno,” I say. I am not going to listen to the Ceiling Man anymore. I lie down.

  “Abby?” Daddy says.

  The clock says 11:34. The long day is not over.

  My mom’s clock has blue numbers. Blue is better than red. I need a new clock.

  “Knock. Knock. Let me in,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “Do you want me to read?” Daddy says.

  If I talk, the Ceiling Man will hear. I nod. A nod means yes.

  Daddy reads. “‘Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops,’ exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.”

  “You like stories? I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “‘You needn’t be so rude, it’s only a lapse of lingy, as Mr. Davis says,’ retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin.” Daddy does not use his silly voice anymore, but it is okay. I like his regular voice best. I shut my eyes.

  The Ceiling Man says something, but I do not listen. He is in the wrong story, and I am ignoring him.

  Daddy is a policeman.

  “‘I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse’, she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.”

  Policemen keep people safe.

  I only hear Daddy. No more Ceiling Man.

  [15]

  Carole

  MY CLOCK READ 10:26. AM. I couldn’t remember the last time I slept so long or so late. The bed was warm and soft and maybe I’d stay there forever and—

  Abby. I slept through my shifts.

  Jim was the only person I knew who fell asleep in the dentist’s chair. There was no way he stayed awake all night. I dragged myself out of bed.
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  I found them both in the kitchen.

  “You never woke me up,” I said.

  “And good morning to you, too.” Jim was even worse at perky than me, but he handed me a king-sized mug of coffee. I considered forgiving him.

  “You needed sleep,” he said.

  I had, but I wasn’t sure how much good it did. I was still groggy, but the coffee might help. All of my joints ached, as if I hadn’t moved all night. Despite my seatbelt, when the Jeep rolled, I bounced around just enough to shake things up. I had pains in places I didn’t know could hurt. My toenails. My hair. And, I was cold again. Coffee wouldn’t help the aches, but it might warm me up.

  “How did it go? Did you stay awake?”

  “Of course I did,” Jim said, insulted I would ask. “Seemed like the usual level of Abby-ness to me. Maybe you should stop worrying.”

  “Are you kidding me?” If he was attempting to humor me, I wasn’t in the mood for it.

  “He took a nap, but Sami woke him up when she barked.” Abby sat at the table doing one of her word searches. “We ate already. Do you want toast?”

  The sullen Abby of the night before was gone, replaced by cheerful, sunny Abby.

  “No thanks.” I never heard barking. “Why did Sami bark?”

  “I wasn’t asleep. Just resting my eyes,” Jim said.

  “You were snoring,” Abby said. “Just at me. Maybe the Ceiling Man. We should go to the hospital.”

  “Huh?” I needed a river of coffee if I was going to keep up with Abby-speak.

  “We should visit Mrs. Lamb,” she said.

  “Not today,” I said. “Who is the Ceiling Man?”

  “Idunno.”

  So much for that.

  The coffee pot was empty. I suggested Jim make another. Maybe a hot shower would wake me up and soothe my aches and pains.

  “Keep an eye on Abby, and see if you can find out who this Ceiling Man is.” Jim could fight the Idunno. I wasn’t up to it.

  “If I can stay awake,” he said.

  Smartass.

  Abby lost track of time in the shower. If we didn’t stop her, she’d stay in long enough to use all the hot water—and we had a forty-five gallon tank—and then take a good long cold rinse. To avoid water bill induced bankruptcy, we bought her a timer. Ten minute showers were the law in our house, and we were all expected to comply. Jim did. I took my showers when Abby wasn’t around.

  I took a pre-timer Abby-level shower and hoped she wasn’t paying attention. When I got out, moving was a little less painful, and I was a tiny bit warmer. I wouldn’t be running any marathons, but it was an improvement. If Abby lectured me on breaking the rules, the shower was worth it. As long as she only did it once or twice—maybe three times—and it didn’t become the obsession of the day.

  I wanted flannel pajamas and my fuzzy robe but needed to make an effort. Be the Mom. Act like a responsible adult. The idea nearly sent me back to bed. My effort entailed sweats. Still pajamas, but less embarrassing if somebody showed up at the door. Less embarrassing until I added pink fuzzy slippers and an oversized purple wool cardigan. The sweater was older than Abby and looked its age, but was a winner in the warmth and comfort categories. I needed both.

  I summoned the courage to stand in front of the mirror and inventory the damage. My black eyes weren’t bad, more shadows than shiners. I expected worse. For some reason, my nose was red. I looked like a clown. The kind that inspires nightmares. If anyone came to the door, Jim or Abby would have to answer unless we wanted to scare them off.

  Jim had seen crazier, although he’d probably arrested whomever it was. With Abby’s fashion sense, she’d love the outfit. I went downstairs.

  Rodgers stood in my kitchen.

  “Um, hi. We found your purse.” He was young and, if I remembered correctly, single, and obviously unsure how to react to my appearance.

  Jim kept his mouth clamped shut, but I could tell he was fighting a grin. Or worse.

  “Laugh, and Rodgers here will be taking me in for murder.”

  “Your phone’s still there. Everything else is gone.” Maybe it was my imagination, but Rodgers professional cop-tone was tainted by a repressed giggle.

  “Seriously? They took my Elvis datebook and left the phone?” The purse was waterlogged and ruined, and like Rodgers said, the only thing left inside was my phone. With the shape the purse was in, the phone had to be a goner. No way I could pass water damage off as under warranty. I didn’t bother to take it out and check. The datebook was a birthday gift from Abby, and I’d miss it. Sort of.

  Abby. She wasn’t in the kitchen. Jim left her alone.

  “Where’s Abby?”

  “Oh, good god. It’s worse than I thought.” My mother-in-law entered the room, followed by Abby.

  Jim got the stink eye for not warning me about Evelyn, but his back was turned, so it was a wasted effort. His shoulders shook—I hoped with sobs, not laughter. It would be bad to kill him with another cop watching.

  Evelyn carried a box from my favorite bakery.

  “Ohhh. Is that a Sandella’s box?” I knew it was, but depending on what was in it, I might be willing to make the best of her presence.

  “Sticky buns. You should probably limit yourself to one,” she said. “They go straight to your hips, and you really can’t afford any more of that. Especially—well, I won’t say anything else.”

  Evelyn’s talent for the stink eye far exceeded mine. She added a layer of disapproval I had yet to master.

  Maybe it was my outfit she took exception to. Or my fright-wig hair. I’d left it that way on purpose. It went with the rest of the ensemble. Evelyn, as usual, was impeccably dressed, every hair shellacked in place, her make-up perfect. I hadn’t even considered make-up.

  I chose to believe her problem was with my slippers and concentrated on the sticky buns. From Sandella’s.

  “I like your sweater,” Abby said.

  Ha. Take that, Evelyn.

  I reached for the box.

  “You just sit,” Evelyn said. “I don’t suppose you have any clean plates.”

  “I will get them. And napkins,” Abby said.

  Rodgers declined a sticky bun and made his escape. Smart man. Lucky man.

  “I thought I might take you out to look at cars this afternoon, but not dressed like that,” Evelyn said.

  It always tickled me when she spoke to me as if I was a child.

  “That can wait.” Jim jumped in before I had a chance to answer his mother. “We don’t even know what the insurance will pay out on the Jeep.”

  “Purple is my favorite color,” Abby said.

  “I sorta like pink.” I lifted my foot and waved my fuzzy slipper. Abby giggled. Evelyn stuck her nose in the air. She wasn’t eating a bun. Good—more for me.

  “If there is any financial difficulty, you know I’m willing to help out. It’s not as if you’re going to get much for that old thing.” Evelyn addressed Jim, not me.

  “Have some respect for the dead,” I mumbled.

  “That’s not necessary,” Jim said.

  I wasn’t sure whether he spoke to his mother or me. Maybe I’d end up with a long white Lincoln like hers.

  “Gramma’s got heated seats,” Abby said.

  Good point. I still wouldn’t drive a Lincoln.

  “Well. With somebody not working, I’m sure things are a little tight around here,” Evelyn said.

  Instead of screaming Hey, lady! Somebody is sitting right here, I took another sticky bun. Jim could deal with her. She was his freaking mother. I would play nice. The second sticky bun wasn’t as warm as the first.

  “Excuse me, somebody is going to warm this up.” Maybe not completely nice.

  They all sat in silence, probably working out what to do with the madwoman, while I stuck my plate into the microwave. My purse went off, and everyone except Abby jumped at the sound.

  “What in the world is that?” Evelyn said.

  R. Crumb and His Cheap Suit Serenad
ers. “Mysterious Mose.” My general you’ll need to look at the caller ID to find out who’s calling ringtone. I was shocked the phone worked, and not only because of the soggy purse.

  “I thought you canceled my phone last night,” I said to Jim.

  “Missed that one.”

  The caller ID said private caller. I didn’t answer. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”

  They didn’t, but the call roused my curiosity. I used my smartphone as a camera more than as a phone. If it still took calls, there was a chance I could save my pictures. I couldn’t resist. I checked.

  My photos were still there, along with some I never took.

  The school bus in front of our house. Abby getting off the bus. Abby on the front walk. Me meeting her at the door.

  [16]

  Carole

  IF NOT FOR THE RUBBER CASE, I would have dropped the phone. I wanted to throw it out the window.

  I couldn’t say anything in front of Abby. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Evelyn.

  Across the table, Jim slumped in his chair. He sat up on Abby-duty all night while I slept, and yesterday wasn’t easy on either of us.

  “What?” He sounded as bad as he looked. We made a fine pair.

  His mother noticed too, although it was probably her darling boy she was concerned about. “You two are a mess. Why don’t I take Abby for the night?”

  Crap. I couldn’t exactly say, “As long as you promise to sit up and watch her all night.” She’d start campaigning to have me committed.

  Abby came to my rescue. “No. I should sleep at my house.”

  “What? Don’t you want to visit your Grandma?” Evelyn was miffed. I thought. It was hard to tell with her, but she usually didn’t turn the nose-out-of-joint voice on Abby.

  “Yesterday was a little too much excitement for all of us.” More than a little. I tried to look pathetic. Not much of a stretch. I definitely sounded pathetic. Who took those pictures? “I bet you want to sleep in your own bed.” Abby nodded. “Maybe you two can go out this afternoon? And come back for dinner?”

  “We can go to a movie! Please, Gramma?” No grandparent, even Evelyn, could resist Abby’s excitement.

  “I guess we could.” Evelyn didn’t like doing anything that wasn’t her idea, but grandparent-syndrome and Abby’s big eyes won out. “You’ll need to get dressed. It’s far past time for you to be dressed anyway.” She treated me to the stink-eye, again.