The morning snow had melted by afternoon, but frozen grass crackled under his feet as he circled the house, sent out gentle feelers, and searched for the woman. He located her—second story, back. Asleep.
«Oh, Grandma, what a big house you have.»
She shook him off, a bad dream she refused to acknowledge.
«Wake up. Let me in.»
She snored on.
“Having problems?” Blevins said. “Maybe you should make some real noise.”
«Subtlety.» Waking the neighbors was a bad idea.
“What’s that?”
He tried to picture her, but all he had were images from the brat, all soft and fuzzy. A cartoon version of a grandmother, not a real woman, but Blevins recognized her.
“I know her. She’s a bitch. She ain’t gonna listen to you.”
«We’ll see.»
The shrubbery was mulched with round white stones. He grabbed a handful and tossed one at a second story window. It bounced off the frame with a soft thud.
“You’re gonna hafta put more oomph in it. With my arm, you ought be able to shatter it good. I used to play ball, you know.”
«I’m sure you were the Cy Young of the indigent.»
The second rock hit the same spot as the first, its thud a little louder. A light came on, and a silhouette filled the window.
«Let me in.»
The shadow behind the curtains didn’t move, but her fright whetted his appetite.
The brat should show up soon. He’d dropped enough hints. With her talent, she had to know what he planned. She might have talent, but he had experience and skills.
«Let me in.»
He threw a third stone. The curtains parted, and Grandma’s face appeared. He prodded. Growing fear, but not submission.
“Thought you said old and scared was a piece of cake?” Blevins said. “She’s listening to you about as good as the kid does.”
«Go downstairs. Unlock the door.» He threw one last stone at the window frame, hard.
“Good throw. Bad aim. Break the fucking window,” Blevins said.
«Unlock the door. Let me in.» A frisson. She was weakening.
He sent her a picture. A ceiling, splattered and dripping with red. His memory. The brat’s memory.
“Go away. I’m calling the police.” The quiver in the old woman’s words undercut her attempt at authority.
“She’s a pigheaded bitch, just like her granddaughter,” Blevins said.
«Do not say bitch. A bitch is a dog not a person.»
The girl. Excellent.
«Welcome to the party, Little Piggy.»
Grandma disappeared from the window. He reached out and tracked her, but she remained on the second floor.
«Go downstairs. Unlock the door.»
«No,» the brat said.
«Don’t answer for Gramma. It’s not polite.»
«You should leave now. The Woodsman will come.»
«I’m rewriting the story just for you, my Little Piggy.»
“The police are on their way.” He heard, felt, savored Grandma’s fear. His hunger surged.
«Daddy is the Woodsman.» No fear from the brat, just confidence. Security.
«Let me in.»
NO. The word echoed through his skull, but he couldn’t tell whether it came from the brat or the woman. He needed to feed.
“Fucking sirens,” Blevins said.
He was ravenous and running out of time.
«The Woodsman saves the Grandmother.» Smug. The brat was smug.
The sirens grew louder.
“They’re close,” Blevins said. “We’re gonna get caught.”
Hunger fought with common sense, but the imbecile was correct. He left.
• • •
SENSE MAY HAVE overcome his hunger, but it didn’t kill it. Once awakened, his craving burned. He didn’t want to feed. He needed to. Not the nourishment. He longed for the kill.
“I know where there’s a fucking smorgasbord,” Blevins said.
«The brat. Her family.» He wanted them, but it wasn’t the time. Neither the brat nor her father would let him in. Sooner or later, the mother would, but she wasn’t yet there.
“Invisible people. Nobody will know you were there.”
«Show me.»
Blevins directed him to a wooded gulf, the remains of Port Massasauga’s dying river. The two men huddled inside a makeshift shelter would have made fine carnival geeks, back in the day. Their brains eaten away by cheap booze, they never knew what hit them. Chickens would have been more fun. Taking them satisfied neither his hunger nor his rage, but at least his belly was full.
[25]
Carole
THE PHONE RANG. THE LANDLINE. Middle of the night calls were never good news.
Jim answered it on the second ring. His deep murmur, but not his words, carried through the walls. The conversation was short. I knew he’d hung up because the phone rang a second time. Two midnight calls.
Abby sat up and leaned forward, her eyes open but unfocussed. I strained to understand Jim’s side of the conversation but couldn’t.
“No.” Abby started rocking.
“Abby, you’re making me seasick.”
She blinked and stilled.
“Do you want to read?” I said.
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
“Daddy is the Woodsman.”
“Carole.” Jim, dressed, stood in the doorway and motioned me into the hall.
“Something’s going on at Mom’s,” he said.
“What?”
“I don’t know. The first call was from her, but she didn’t make a whole lot of sense.”
“The second call?”
“Jan in the Sheriff’s dispatch. Mom called them. They sent a car.”
Evelyn lived in the township, but Jan used to work for the city and knew Jim. It was good of her to call him. “Did she say anything?”
“Just that Mom sounded confused. Jan tried to keep her on the line, but she hung up.”
“Be careful,” I said. He didn’t need to tell me where he was going.
“Gramma did not let the wolf in,” Abby said.
Grapes, but not really. Abby had obsessed over Red and Grandma and the wolf all evening. I regretted mentioning the story. I should’ve given her the dentist’s postcard.
“Abby, there is no wolf. It’s just a story.” The same line my parents used on me. It didn’t work on Abby any better than it had on me.
“He cannot huff and puff,” she said.
“Different story, kiddo. How about some Little Women?” No wolves there.
“Daddy is the Woodsman.”
I opened the book. Even if she didn’t need the distraction, I did.
She didn’t fall asleep, but she stayed quiet and listened. We were still reading when Jim returned.
“Everything okay?” I said.
He nodded. I wanted details but couldn’t ask in front of Abby.
“No red ceiling. No Ceiling Man,” Abby said.
“Who is the Ceiling Man?” Jim said.
“He is angry, but he is gone.”
“Abby, tell me who he is.”
“Gramma did not let the wolf in, and I am glad.”
“Abby, who is the wolf? Is he the Ceiling Man?” Not a Dad-command. A cop-command.
“Idunno.”
• • •
JIM HUNG AROUND while I drove Abby to school and when I returned, filled me in on what happened at Evelyn’s. When she thought she heard a prowler, her first reaction was to call her golden boy. No surprise there. He told her to call 911.
By the time the sheriffs arrived, the prowler was gone. If there even was a prowler. Jim was noncommittal about whether or not the cops found any sign of one. I got the impression there was a chance she’d imagined the whole thing.
Or not. I remembered my trampled lavender.
“She said he kept screaming at her to let him in, but none of the neighbors hear
d anything,” he said.
“Maybe she had a nightmare.” I knew how real nightmares could be.
“She kept talking woodsmen and wolves and red ceilings. She sounded a lot like Abby. Worse.”
Jim’s grandmother suffered from dementia in her last years. Even though I liked her much better than Evelyn, the thought of Jim’s mother going the same route worried me. Maybe more than it did him. He had a son’s worry. I worried about putting up with her. She was demented enough already.
“I’ll go see her this afternoon.” I could play the good daughter-in-law, after I got some sleep.
“Call first.”
Maybe she wouldn’t want to see me, and I could sleep longer. I called as soon as he left.
“It was nothing.” Her voice contradicted her words. She sounded like a frightened old woman, not the Mighty Mighty Evil-lyn.
“I thought that after I pick up Abby, we’d stop by and visit.” If she didn’t want to deal with me, she always enjoyed seeing Abby.
“I won’t be here,” she said. “I’m going to spend the day at the Senior Center.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“The girl who’s been in charge since you left is very good. She listens to my suggestions.”
Less little old lady, more Evil-lyn. I should have slept before I called her.
“That’s good to know.” I pulled up the syrup voice. “Would you like to come over for dinner?” For Jim. I would deal with her for Jim.
“No. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“It’s no problem. We have to eat anyway.” The syrup thinned.
“I’m going to call my son and have him stop and check my locks on his way home.”
Because that’s not putting anybody out. Syrup. She was obviously more upset than she was willing to let on to me.
“He’s good with locks,” I said. “If you change your mind about dinner, come home with him. One of us can run you home later.”
“I need to go,” she said.
“Evelyn, if you need anything, call me.”
“I wasn’t dreaming, you know. There was someone out there.”
“I’m sure there was.”
“Don’t humor me.”
“I wasn’t. I believe—”
“I looked out the window. I saw him. He was there, on the ground, screaming at me. He wanted me to let him into my house. He wanted to. . .hurt me.”
I half expected her to say eat me. It all sounded too much like my childhood wolf nightmare. Part of me felt sorry for her. Most of me hoped it didn’t go on for months. I understood how my parents felt.
“I didn’t let him in,” she said.
Gramma did not let the wolf in. I never told Abby about my nightmares. “Are you sure you’re okay? I’ll come drive you to the Center if you want.”
“I’m fine. I am perfectly capable of driving myself. I’m going to spend the day with my friends.”
And I definitely wasn’t counted among her friends. “Be sure to call Jim. He’ll have no problem stopping by.”
“Of course not. He’s my son.”
Our almost-sharing time was over.
“Call me if you need anything,” I said.
“I will.”
We said polite good-byes and hung up. I went to bed.
• • •
“HE’S ANGRY,” Abby says.
“Who? Tell me who!” Furious, I reach for her, but she moves beyond my reach. “You can’t come in!”
“No red.” She is unperturbed.
“What do you mean?” My rage boils. I want to shake her, to make her answer, but she eludes my grasp.
Far away, Evelyn’s high pitched scream echoes, on and on.
“Daddy is the Woodsman,” Abby says.
“Abby!” I lunge. . .
I awoke with my headache back and barely enough time to make it to the school—and a truck load of guilt. It was only a dream, but the desire to hurt my daughter not only felt real, it lingered.
• • •
ABBY DIDN’T HELP my guilt. She settled into the front seat and shot me the teenage I hate adults look. When I asked her how her day went, she grunted. Every time I glanced at her, I found her staring at me.
“Don’t stare at your mother. She’s boring.”
She grunted.
Crazy-mom wearing pajamas and post-cataract grandma glasses wasn’t boring. Humiliating, maybe, but I couldn’t shake the suspicion she knew about my dream and hated me for it. I dropped my attempts at small talk and let her glare.
We pulled into our driveway, and the pain in my head exploded. I clutched the steering wheel, took deep breaths, and waited for it to pass. Willed it to pass.
“It is okay, Mom. He cannot get in.”
I couldn’t find the words to ask what she meant. Didn’t trust myself to ask, but I wanted to know, needed to know.
“I will not let him get in.” Abby’s whispered nonsense rang in my ears and my head.
“Who?” I forced out the single word.
“Idunno.”
I gripped the steering wheel and choked back the urge to grab her and shake her and wring the answer out of her. Breathe. Breathe. I pictured the pain—and my anger—crashing over me, waves battering the shoreline and ebbing with the outgoing tide. Breathe. The rage drained and the pain receded, not completely, but enough to pull myself together. I was no longer drowning.
I handed my keys to Abby. “Here. You can unlock.”
Inside, I made a beeline for the Vicodin. Not many left. I took one and hid the bottle in my make-up bag. If Jim noticed the missing bottle, I could tell him I threw it away. If he noticed the diminishing number of pills, I couldn’t tell him I was tossing them out one at a time.
Abby stood at the bathroom door and held out an envelope with my name on it.
“Permission slip?”
She shook her head. “Ms. Colley sends you a note.” She stared at her feet and waited while I read it.
She fell asleep in class not once, but three times in a day, which was three more than her total in the two years she’d been in Ms. Colley’s class. The teacher downplayed it, but the underlying message was What’s going on? Are things all right at home?
“Abby, do you feel okay?
“Huh.”
“That’s not an answer. Are you getting sick?” Anger, unbidden, colored my words, and she stiffened.
“Idunno.”
Shame blotted out my anger. The leftovers of my stupid nightmare made me act like a shrew. I would never hurt her.
I still felt guilty.
“Mac and cheese for dinner?” A peace offering. A mea culpa for a dream Abby didn’t, couldn’t, know about. If nothing else, comfort food would be good for our souls, if not our bodies.
She answered with a big, loopy Abby-grin.
“Do you have homework? Get it done, and we’ll get cooking.” As long as she had enough to keep her busy until the Vicodin took effect and didn’t ask for help, we’d be good.
By the time she said, “All done,” the pain faded to its familiar nibble around the edges, and I could function. I should have checked her work, but it was either that or cook. I wasn’t up for both, and guilt-infused comfort food was the higher priority.
“Let’s be chefs,” I said.
Mac and cheese was one of the first things Abby and I started making as a team, and we had it down to a science. We each knew our roles. We didn’t need a recipe. When I needed an ingredient, Abby handed it to me. We were a well-oiled mac and cheese making machine.
We were both off our games.
“What’s this?” I held up the jar of mayo she handed me.
“Sour cream,” she said.
“Try again, kiddo.”
I put the casserole in the oven, set the timer and said, “Should be ready when Daddy gets home.”
“You need to turn the oven on,” she said.
“Ooops.”
“I think we are both bananas,” she said.
“I think you’re right.”
Despite our mutual air-headedness, dinner didn’t turn out bad. Abby and Jim took seconds. I forced myself to finish one serving. Compared to the anticipation, the real thing was blah. I blamed it on my headache. Or the Vicodin.
“Were you out of onion powder?” Jim asked.
“Ooops,” Abby said. “We are bananas.”
I forgot. So did Abby. At least we caught the mayo and the oven.
“How was your mom?” I said.
“Okay. Worn out. I don’t think she ever went back to sleep last night.”
“I did call her.”
“I heard.”
“She sounded shaken.”
“She says she’s fine.”
He never believed me when I said I was fine.
“Gramma did not let the wolf in,” Abby said.
I tensed, expecting him to question her about the wolf.
Instead, he said, “I like grapes” and took a third helping of dinner.
• • •
EVELYN WASN’T THE only one worn out. We skipped the movie part of my plan and called it an early night. Jim went to bed before Abby was out of the shower and didn’t argue about me spending the night in her room. Good. My headache was back, and I didn’t need him asking, “Are you okay?”
There were four pills left. I downed three.
The few times Abby had taken serious painkillers, they made her goofy. And sleepy.
«Give her one.»
A single Vicodin would knock her out. I wouldn’t have to worry about her waking up.
I couldn’t drug my daughter just so I could get some rest.
«Give her one.»
If she was falling asleep in school, a full night’s sleep would be good for her. We’d both be better off for it.
«Give her one.»
I filled a water cup.
“Here. Take this.” I handed the last pill to Abby.
“Why?”
“Because I’m the Mom and I said so.”
She took it.
[26]
Abby
“ABBY, ABBY. WAKE UP.” My mom shakes me. I do not like her hand on my shoulder, and I think she should not shake me.
“No,” I say.
“Abby, come on. We have to go.” My mom grabs my arm and squeezes, and I cannot get away.
The Ceiling Man is laughing. “Your mom is mine, Little Bunny,” he says.
The Ceiling Man Page 13