The Ceiling Man

by Patricia Lillie

  He searched the trailer for anything else useful. No interest in the cans of beans or the spoiled food in the fridge. Not with a bellyful of Artie. If Tits left behind any cash, it was gone.

  No electricity meant no heat. As much as he’d like to stay, bodies were high maintenance, and his was cold. The state of the trailer offended him. Standards. The girl was enough of a mess. He didn’t have the time or inclination to deal with any more chaos. He emptied the contents of Blevins’s backpack onto the floor, stuffed in the extra shirts, and prepared to leave.

  The cash from the mother’s purse and Artie’s casino jackpot were more than enough for one of the no-tell-motels on the edge of town. If he even needed the cash. He’d get a room. Warm up. Sleep all day. Work on his girl problem later.

  Girl problem. He liked it. Sounded so human. So insignificant. So easily solved. Thinking positive, just like Artie.

  Time to get rid of any sign he—or Blevins—was there. No heat, but hot water. The gas was still on. Might as well go the easy route. Clear the entire mess and save someone the trouble of cleaning. He blew out the pilot on the ancient stovetop and turned all the burners to high. The pilot in the oven, he left on.

  By the time the trailer blew, the Ceiling Man was long gone.

  • • •

  THE EDGE-O-TOWN MOTEL. Aptly named, both literally and metaphorically. A ribbon of Christmas bells jingled when he opened the door.

  “Whaddaya want?” The Sunday morning desk clerk looked like he’d been on an all-night bender for a week. He didn’t bother to turn away from his television.

  “I need a room.”

  “Blevins, out.” The clerk jumped to his feet. Hands on hips, he stood behind the desk and glared.

  “He hates me,” Blevins said.

  «Understandable.» “I have cash.”

  “Whadja do?” Win the lottery? Wouldn’t a recognized ya all cleaned up, ’cept you still sound like a hillbilly asshole.”

  “Are you going to give me a room or what?”

  “Boss says you’re eighty-sixed. Not allowed in. He’d fire my ass just for letting you stand here and talk to me.”

  “Guy’s a dickwad,” Blevins said. “Why don’t you do your thing on him?”

  «Patience.» “Don’t tell him. Like I said, cash.” Blevins had a point. The clerk was an even bigger loser than Artie. Under other circumstances, he’d make a fine snack. Maybe later. He didn’t know how long he’d need the room. Best keep the imbecile around. His replacement might have, what was it people said—a mind of his own. In the meantime, no use parting with his cash.

  He reached out and pushed, harder than he needed to.

  The clerk jumped, like he’d received a low voltage shock, and rubbed the back of his neck. He swayed, slack-jawed and drooling.

  Cretin.

  “I like that. Hurt him good,” Blevins said.

  «Not today.» “Give me a room.”

  The clerk shook himself. “Blevins?”

  «The key. Now.»

  “Back corner. 46D. Towels are five bucks extra.” Puppet-boy handed him a key but made no move for the guest register.

  “Give me a stack.”

  The bells clanked on his way out the door.

  “Cool. You never gave him any money,” Blevins said.

  «I know.»

  [18]

  Carole

  ABBY AND JIM MADE WAFFLES. The toaster kind, accompanied by microwaved bacon. What Jim lacked in cooking skills, he made up for in effort or at least intention.

  “You should still take it easy,” Abby said. “You had an accident.”

  She had a point. I still ached from head to toe. My vision was back to normal, no weird spots, but my head hurt. Not bad, but pain nibbled around the edges and threatened to close in.

  “Maple syrup fixes everything,” Abby said.

  “It’s the secret to my culinary prowess,” Jim said.

  “It is a wonderful thing.” I poured far more than my share over my stack of waffles and bacon. I had a lot to fix. For an instant breakfast, it looked and smelled delicious. “How are your handyman skills?”

  “Why?”

  “Because one of us is going to change the locks today, or else I’m calling the locksmith. At Sunday rates.” I took a bite of my breakfast. “This is really good.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Abby said. “It is Uncle Kyle’s maple syrup.”

  Kyle. Nancy. The kids.

  When Kyle tapped his maple trees, we knew spring wasn’t far off. Sugaring was his hobby, not a business, and he only made enough syrup for a small circle of family and friends. I was grateful to be among them. Some years, the syrup was better than others. Last year, for the first time, all of the kids were old enough to help, and the results were stellar. We were on our last jar.

  I pushed my plate away. Breakfast was ruined. “Maybe I will call the locksmith. I want a new deadbolt.”

  “I’ll do it this afternoon,” Jim said.

  “This morning. As soon as the store opens.”

  “Don’t you think you’re over-reacting? Maybe a little?” Jim went to the key hooks. “All the keys are accounted for. Look. Mine. Yours. . .where’s the one from the garage?”

  “I put it back,” Abby said. “It was on the counter. Someone did not put it back where it belongs.”

  “When?” It didn’t make any real difference, as long as it was still where it belonged, but I needed to know.

  “When Gramma and me came home. When you ordered the pizza.”

  “Go get it. Bring it in.” Last night. If he saw Abby take it out. . .please, let it be on its hook.

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “I’m not dressed.”

  “I don’t care. Put on your coat and boots and go get the key. Take Sami with you.”

  “Daddy already took Sami out.”

  “Abby! Quit arguing and do it.”

  “Abby, listen to your mother.” Jim’s stern-dad voice felt like interference and didn’t help either my mood or my headache, but she listened to him. No backtalk. She stomped to the back door and returned with her boots.

  “Humor me, kiddo.” I tried to sound a little more like the good-witch than the wicked one I felt like.

  “Sami, come!” Abby stuck out her lower lip and gave me an evil-teenager look.

  Sometimes it was hard to tell whether she was giving me adolescent crap or just being Abby. Sometimes, it was easy.

  “Boom.” She said and stomped off in a cloud of teenage attitude.

  “I’ll go help her with the leash,” Jim said. “Sami, come.” The two of them followed Abby to the door.

  “Walk Sami around the yard exactly six times, get the key from the garage, and come back in,” Jim said.

  Abby didn’t answer. She was probably pissed at both of us.

  Jim came back and promised to take care of the locks as soon as he got the supplies.

  “I wonder if Kyle’s doing syrup this year? It’s almost tapping season, and he has no one to help him.” I dumped my uneaten breakfast into the garbage and watched Abby through the window. Sami stuck so close to her, she tripped. She’d be in a fine mood when she came in. “I want the new locks by tonight.”

  “I said I’d take care of it. What reason are you giving Abby for not keeping a new key in the garage?”

  Good question. One I couldn’t answer. She deserved an explanation. The garage key was her key. Well, there’s this creepy guy who might be watching us and I don’t want him to have a key to the house wasn’t an option, at least not a good one.

  “I don’t know. You figure it out. You two can discuss it while you go to the store and change the locks. I’m going to bed. My head hurts, and the smell of that syrup is making me sick.”

  By the time I woke up, the back door had shiny new locks. The new deadbolt only locked—and more important, unlocked—from the inside.

  “I thought you were more worried about when we’re hom
e than when we’re not,” Jim said.

  “Thank you.”

  Whatever he told Abby about her key, she accepted it. When he put the new keys on our keychains and hung the spare on the key rack, she said, “It is okay, Mom. You should feel safe.”

  Maybe he told her I was a little crazy. Best not to ask.

  “Your phone is in jail now,” she said. “No more worrying about it.”

  I understood exactly what she meant. A little crazy came naturally to me.

  • • •

  MONDAY MORNING, WE returned to our familiar drill. Peanut butter toast and coffee. Small talk from Abby and Jim. Grunts from me.

  When the bus arrived, I walked Abby to the curb. Okay, I followed her out the door before I realized what I was doing. As we walked, I looked for someone—Blevins—watching us. As far as I could tell, the street was empty.

  We reached the bus, and Abby stopped. “Mom. Do not do that again. I am seventeen. Not five.”

  Although I’d never wished for a typical daughter, I was sure that at that moment, Abby wanted a normal mother more than anything else in the world. She got on the bus, indignation personified. I smiled and waved at the driver. He laughed. Nothing like a little mother-daughter humiliation to start the day.

  The rest of the week settled back to routine. Our new routine, anyway.

  I sat vigil in Abby’s room all night. In the morning, she went to school, and I resisted following her to the bus. Instead, I stood in the doorway and kept an eye on her until she was seated and the doors were closed. Jim hitched a ride to work with Rodgers and left me his car. I went to bed.

  I always thought slept hard was a ridiculous phrase, not to mention inaccurate. Sleep was soft and comforting. I slept hard, a deep and dreamless sleep, and if the barely disturbed blankets were any evidence, a motionless sleep, but not a restful one.

  The aches in my body faded, but my head still wasn’t right. The pain left, replaced by lightheadedness, a pressure at the top of my head, like my brain pushed at the top of my skull and wanted to open a door and make its escape. Moving too fast made me dizzy. Not room spinning, stomach lurching dizzy, more like my rebellious brain changed direction and tried to get out my forehead or the back of my skull—which depended on which direction I moved—and threatened to topple me over. Kind of like a hangover, which was unfair. I hadn’t had a drink since pizza and wine night.

  I knew I ought to see the doctor, but didn’t want to deal with it. Instead, I took the easy route and self-diagnosed. Too much comfort food and not enough exercise, both things I could fix on my own. If that didn’t work, I would think about calling Dr. Yates.

  Whenever Abby or Jim asked how I felt, I smiled and said, “Way better.”

  Jim might have believed me, but Abby didn’t. More than once, I caught her staring at me.

  “Don’t stare at your mother,” I said. “She’s boring.”

  “You should ignore him,” she said.

  You should ignore him and I’m not listening replaced red ceilings and hungry men in Abby-speak. I still didn’t have a clue what she meant, but considered it an improvement.

  Jim worried I wasn’t getting enough sleep. I lied and assured him the sleep I was getting was good and left me feeling bright and chipper. I may have snapped at him. He looked as doubtful as Abby.

  He brought home a flash drive. “The stuff from your phone, I thought you might want some of the pictures.”

  The mystery photos weren’t on the drive, and I didn’t tell him about my own back-up. At least once a day, I got out my laptop and examined them. An Abby-level obsession, but justified. No matter how long I stared at them, they told me nothing.

  Midweek, I left the house for the first time since the day of the accident and the lockdown. Twice, I thought I saw Blevins. The first time, he loitered outside the grocery store. The second, he crossed the street in front of me at a red light. Both times, it turned out to be somebody else, but, I thought, the same man each time. He was the right build and had a Blevins-like air about him, but was beardless and generally cleaner. And quieter. The Blevins I knew caused a scene wherever he went. When I saw his not-quite-double outside the store, he just lurked. Blevins always demanded handouts. If there was anyone who didn’t need a doppelgänger, it was Blevins.

  I looked at new cars, but wasn’t enamored with anything I saw. No use rushing into anything. A car was a long-term relationship. I still mourned the loss of my Jeep and after a decade of no car payments, wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of reacquiring one. Sooner or later, I would suck it up and choose a car. Or, keep driving Jim’s.

  The snow was gone, and it was past time for Sami to get over her nonsense about walks. Between the weather, her resistance, and all of the other recent madness, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken her on a real walk. She needed the exercise, and frankly, so did I. A walk would clear my head. The fresh air would invigorate me. Or something like that.

  We made it all the way to the corner before she planted her butt on the ground and refused to move in any direction except home. Some trainers say to wait it out. The owner must outlast the dog and show her who’s boss. Those trainers live in warmer climes. Sami shivered, and she had a fur coat. After fifteen minutes, I was frozen and the dog won.

  “We’ll try again tomorrow,” I said.

  She wagged her butt and turned her big Aussie eyes on me. I didn’t know whether she was telling me Okay, I’ll do better tomorrow or Fine, woman, just get me home now, but the way she rocketed into the house when I opened the back door made me think it was the latter.

  On Friday, the school called. Abby was in meltdown, and I needed to go get her. The office secretary made the call. The situation was serious. If Ms. Colley didn’t call me herself, she was with Abby and couldn’t take the time.

  The one day Jim didn’t leave me his car, and I needed it. I called the neighbors. I knew it was Livvy’s quilting-club day, but Pete was retired, usually home, and an all around good guy. He’d drive me to the school.

  No answer. Not many people I knew were available during the daytime. Unlike me, they went to work. I considered calling Nancy, but didn’t want to bother her. In truth, I wasn’t yet ready to spend time with her, and after not seeing her since the funerals, I couldn’t call her just because I needed help.

  No choice. As much as I hated to do it, I called Evelyn. She said she’d be right over.

  [19]

  Abby

  THE CLOCK SAYS 1:56.

  Ms. Short collects our spelling tests. She is our substitute aide because Mrs. Lamb is sick, but Ms. Short is not short. She is tall and young. Mrs. Lamb is short and old. Twyla does not like Ms. Short, but I like her. She is pretty and has an indoor voice. Ms. Short does not hurt my ears.

  No party today. It is an ordinary Friday, except for no Mrs. Lamb.

  Ms. Colley tells us to go to the Quiet Corner. She uses her soft voice, but I think it is a bad voice.

  “But we are not loud,” I say.

  Devon checks his list. “Two o’clock is Math. We do not do math in the Quiet Corner,” he says.

  Today is now an unusual day.

  Ms. Short does not join us in the Quiet Corner. She straightens up the room. It is Friday and the room must be neat for the weekend. It is on Devon’s list.

  “I think I should help Ms. Short,” I say.

  “Abby, join us in the Quiet Corner,” Ms. Colley says. Maybe her soft voice is a sad voice. Sad is bad too.

  “I have something to tell you,” she says. Her voice does not hurt my ears, but my throat and my chest are funny and tight. I do not like this Ms. Colley-voice.

  I hope she will tell us a story. She should tell us a math story about three girls and two boys and three apples and happy ever after. I want to ask her to tell us a story, but my words are stuck in my chest.

  “Mrs. Lamb will not be coming back to school. She passed away last night,” she says.

  “That means she’s dead,” Devon says. He writ
es Dead on his list.

  Twyla does not say anything. She never says anything. She stands up and walks away.

  “Twyla, sit down,” Ms. Colley says, but Twyla ignores her. She takes her hat and scarf from the cupboard. Mrs. Lamb made them, and I do not like red anymore.

  The policeman does not keep Mrs. Lamb safe. Mrs. Lamb’s policeman is not my dad.

  “Why is she passed away?” I push my words through my throat, and they scratch all the way out.

  “Dead,” Devon says.

  “She had a stroke.” Ms. Colley’s face is very still. Her mouth frowns. A frown equals sad. Or mad. Maybe Ms. Colley is mad at me.

  The Ceiling Man says I hurt Mrs. Lamb. It is not my fault.

  “That means her brain blew up,” Devon says. He writes Stroke on his list.

  “Not exactly,” Ms. Colley says. “Remember when we studied how our blood moves through our bodies?”

  Twyla wraps her red scarf around her neck. The scarf goes around two times. The ends hang in front of her. Two ends. It is too warm in our room to wear a red scarf.

  When I stroke Gramma’s cat, she purrs.

  Twyla strokes one end of her scarf.

  “Circulation,” I say.

  “Veins and arteries,” Devon says. He writes Veins and Arteries on his list. Devon gets A’s in Science.

  Twyla’s hand moves up and down. Up and down. Her left hand on her red scarf. I count. One stroke. Two strokes. Three. Four. I count on down but not on up. A stroke is down.

  Mrs. Lamb is on the floor. The floor is down.

  “One of the blood vessels in Mrs. Lamb’s head sprang a leak,” Ms. Colley says.

  “Was it a vein or an artery?” Devon says.

  “I don’t know,” Ms. Colley says. “The doctors tried to help her, but they couldn’t. She went to sleep and never woke up. We will miss her,” she says.

  Fivesixseveneight.

  “A head filled with red,” Devon says. “I am a poet and I know it.” He laughs and writes Poet on his list.