The Ceiling Man

by Patricia Lillie

  “Why did she need oxygen?” My ears rang. My throat constricted. Breathe. Breathe. If I hyperventilated, Jason would never let me go.

  “Just a precaution. What was the last thing you remember before going unconscious? Did you hit your head? Get hit by something to knock you out?”

  The last thing I remembered was Jim refusing to leave me alone with Abby.

  “Screw this,” I said. “I’m going to find my daughter.”

  Jason followed me out the door.

  • • •

  OUTSIDE, THE SCENE was surreal. Hoses snaked across the yard, and firemen shouted to each other. Yellow tape divided our yard from the street. Warm light bathed the crowd beyond the tape. They’d trampled Pete’s flower beds. He would be pissed. The rubberneckers had to be neighbors—who else would be there in the middle of the night—but I didn’t recognize any of them, and I didn’t see Abby.

  Your house is on fire and your child shall burn. No. Jason saw her. She was fine.

  The fire crackled behind me, and even standing in the street, the heat engulfed me. I kept my back to the house. I couldn’t look at it. Not yet.

  Where is Abby?

  Blevins stood at the edge of the crowd, almost in the shadows. He raised his squared hands to his eyes and mimicked taking a picture. A muffled boom came from the house. I jumped, and he was gone.

  “ABBY!” The scream felt like ground glass in my throat, and the acrid smell of burning wood and plastic made me miss the oxygen mask.

  Lights from the fire trucks strobed across the crowd, and the sea of faces flashed red.

  Abby hates red.

  My eyes watered, and I started hacking. Jason grabbed my arm. I shook him off.

  “Ma’am, You really should stay and let us check you over.”

  The blood pressure cuff was still on my arm. I tore it off and handed it to Jason. “Abby hates red. Help me find her or go back to your truck.”

  “I told you, she’s fine. I’m more worried about you. Please, come back to the ambulance. Let’s make sure you’re all right. Then we’ll look for her.”

  “Help me find my daughter. Then, maybe.” I had no intention of going back with him. I stumbled. Jason caught me before I fell.

  “You really need to come back and let us check you over.”

  “It’s the shoes.” Abby’s shoes. “They’re too big. ABBY!”

  “Mom!”

  Abby and Sami stood next to Livvy. I tried to run and ended up face down in the mud. Stupid shoes. Before I managed to get up, Sami was there wagging her butt.

  Jason pulled me up, and I was face to face with my daughter.

  “Mr. Pete’s rope did not work,” she said. “Sami got away from me.”

  I broke all the rules of Abby-contact and without asking, grabbed her in a bear-hug. She didn’t fight. She hugged back. It was the longest and tightest embrace I’d had since she was two.

  “Breathe, Mom. Breathe,” she said.

  When she let go, I forced myself to back off. She was wrapped in one of Livvy’s handmade quilts, and I’d left a muddy body print on it.

  “I ruined your quilt.” For some reason, it seemed important. Livvy was proud of her quilts.

  “It’s okay,” Livvy said. “Abby was freezing, and I grabbed the first thing I saw.”

  “Thank you.”

  Abby lifted the quilt, and I joined her under it.

  “If you need anything, you know where to find me.” Jason gave up on me and left.

  “Be careful,” Abby said.

  • • •

  THE FIREFIGHTERS POURED water on the house. Through the house. The roof was gone. Flames shot out the windows—or what was left of them. My home of fifteen years was little more than a shell. I couldn’t imagine anything inside was salvageable.

  With a loud crack, the attic collapsed in a shower of embers. The crowd behind me gasped like they were at some kind of freakish fireworks display.

  I would smack the first one who let loose with an oooo-aaaah.

  I thought about all the things I planned to grab if we ever had a fire. Books. Photos. Abby’s school buses. I bet Jim didn’t save anything.

  “Daddy saved you,” Abby said.

  I must have spoken aloud. I didn’t mean to.

  “Daddy is the Woodsman.”

  I’d barely given Jim a thought since I’d come to in the ambulance. I felt guilty, but not as guilty as I should have—and I should have felt guilty about that too, but couldn’t summon up the energy. Abby was safe and with me, and that was all that mattered.

  “Where’s Jim?” I asked Livvy.

  She nodded toward where he leaned against a police car. One of the men with him was a uniformed cop I didn’t know. The other looked vaguely familiar. Jim glanced over and I waved. He didn’t wave back, but he headed in my direction, accompanied by the man I almost recognized.

  Our hug was brief. I wanted to cling to him, like Abby attached herself to me, but he stiffened and backed away.

  His You okay? was perfunctory. I matched my I think so to his tone.

  Sami got a warmer greeting than I did.

  “You remember George?” Jim said.

  I did remember George. He was the fire department cop—the Fire Marshall.

  “Why are you here?” I said.

  “I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Maybe Livvy should take Abby in the house,” Jim said.

  “No.” Abby and I spoke at the same time. I wasn’t letting her out of my sight.

  “It’s okay,” George said. “I need to talk to you both. Where were you when you first became aware of the fire?”

  “In the ambulance.” Stupid question. Jim must have told him I was asleep.

  “Abby? How about you?” George used the classic speak-gently-to-the-handicapped voice. I didn’t like him.

  “Idunno,” she said.

  “Could the oven or a burner have been left on after cooking?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t cook,” I said.

  “Abby, honey? Were you in the kitchen?” He spoke slowly and paused between each word.

  Abby shrugged. Condescension wouldn’t get him anywhere with her.

  “Have you noticed any electrical or wiring problems?”

  “No.”

  “The Ceiling Man,” Abby mumbled.

  “What was that, honey? Speak up. Was there a problem with a ceiling fan?”

  “Idunno.”

  “We don’t have any ceiling fans,” I said. “Didn’t have any.”

  “Oh. Anybody bothering you or hanging around the house?” He addressed me and ignored Abby.

  Jim’s face was wooden. We’d lost our home, and he was playing cop.

  “Blevins was here when I was looking for Abby.”

  “Who?” George glanced at Jim.

  “You know, the moron on the bike. The one who breaks windows.”

  “Have you had problems with him before?” He used the patronizing tone on me.

  “He ran me off the road, but Jim doesn’t believe me. And somebody was outside the house in the middle of the night last week, but he doesn’t believe that either.” I sounded like a pouty five-year-old. I didn’t care.

  “The. Ceiling. Man.” Abby enunciated each word.

  I wondered if George knew he was being mocked.

  “Who?” George managed to make the single word condescending. He didn’t get it.

  “Idunno.” Abby pulled the quilt tighter around the two of us. “I need to go inside Mrs. Livvy’s house now. My mom does too.”

  I completely agreed, but before I had a chance to say so, we were interrupted.

  A single voice, but not a lone scream—the shrieks went on and on. They cut above the noise of the burning house and running fire trucks and silenced the crowd.

  Abby winced and covered her ears. “We need to go in now,” she said.

  George and the cop who stayed by the car took off running. Jim hesitated. I told him to go, and he did.
/>
  “Nononononono.” Abby verged on meltdown. I didn’t know how she’d held out so long. I didn’t know how I had.

  “We need to take her inside,” I told Livvy. The screams didn’t stop. By the time we made it to the back door, they were joined by more sirens.

  “Fire trucks have red lights, but police cars have blue lights,” Abby said.

  • • •

  THE HOUSE WAS warm, but Abby refused to give up the quilt. I recognized it. Livvy searched for years to find the pattern, an unusual one called Virginia Snowball, and spent even longer collecting 1930’s replica fabrics, all to recreate the quilt she had on her bed as a child. Her great-grandmother made the original from feed-sacks, and both Livvy and her mother loved it and used it until it wore out. Livvy sold or gave away most of her creations, but the Snowball quilt she made for herself.

  “I made it to be used, washed, and used some more. Just like the first one was,” she’d said. She even let her grandkids drag it around outside. She called it her comfort quilt.

  It was in worse shape than the grandkids ever left it. Besides my muddy body-print, Abby and I had both trampled all over the bottom. On her way across the yard, Abby dragged it through the grass and mud. Inside, she left a trail of brown and green between the back door and the kitchen table. The floor would come clean. I wasn’t so sure about the quilt.

  The sirens quit. Livvy’s kitchen was at the back of the house, insulated from the madness outside. Abby rocked, and I didn’t stop her. Her lips moved in silent conversation. I wondered who she spoke to and what she said. Did she see red ceilings? I pushed the thought away. The rocking was a comfort—one I’d denied her for too long—and she needed it. The familiar rhythm of her movement comforted me too. The warm kitchen, the hot, sweet tea, the Mighty Samsonite curled up on my feet—despite the situation, I was calmer than I’d been in weeks.

  Or, maybe I was just exhausted. I knew that across the street my home was if not gone, close to it. Sooner or later, Jim would show up and tell me something else terrible had happened. I hoped for later. I wanted to stay in my cocoon as long as possible. Denial is a comfortable place.

  Livvy and I didn’t talk. We sat and watched Abby rock. And waited.

  It wasn’t Jim who brought us the news. It was Pete.

  “I think we all need something stronger than tea.” He pulled a bottle of bourbon from the cupboard.

  “It is the Ceiling Man,” Abby whispered.

  I was the only one close enough to hear her. I held my mug out to Pete.

  Jason the EMT was dead. He never made it back to the ambulance.

  One of the onlookers got bored and decided to go home. She tripped over him, just beyond the light of the fire. He was still warm. His throat was ripped out. His belly was open and he’d been eviscerated.

  When she found him, we all heard her screams. Nobody heard a peep when he died.

  [32]

  The Ceiling Man

  “YOU WEREN’T VERY HUNGRY,” BLEVINS SAID.

  «Shut up.»

  Hunger wasn’t the issue. Anger was the issue. He had the mother in his grasp until the idiot EMT woke her up.

  It wasn’t really the EMT. It was the damned girl, but Jason the EMT wouldn’t be waking anybody else.

  He put on a good show for the girl, but he never sensed fear. If she felt anything, it was—he couldn’t tell. Disgust, maybe. Or distain.

  “I hate red,” she said and disappeared.

  She shouldn’t be able to come and go as she pleased. He was in control. He was always in control.

  “Ha,” Blevins said.

  If he had more time, he’d have left less of Jason for that screaming idiot to trip over. He hated to waste food.

  • • •

  CHUCKLES HAD LEFT him fresh towels and done his laundry. The Edge-O-Town Motel—Port Massasauga’s Luxury Accommodations. He’d recommend them to all his friends, if he had any.

  The smell of smoke clung to him.

  “Not another fucking shower. You’re killing me.”

  He took a cue from the girl and ignored Blevins. She had a few things right.

  As the hot water streamed over him, he searched for the girl. He tracked her down right away. Too fast. Whatever their connection was, it was growing stronger.

  She was with her mother—physically. He wasn’t sure where she really was. Usually, her head was full of pictures that flashed by so fast he couldn’t keep up with them. Usually, he didn’t bother to try. Instead of her crazy picture show, nothingness surrounded him.

  «How’s your Mommy, Little Piggy?»

  The only answer was quiet, a sense of peace. It’d been a long time since he was on a boat, but he smelled ocean. The hypnotic rhythm of waves lulled him almost to—No. He’d located her but hadn’t found her.

  «Knock, knock, Little Piggy.»

  “Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone.”

  «Oh, Little Pig, Little Pig, let me come in.»

  “Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone.”

  «I huffed and I puffed and your house is gone, Little Piggy.»

  “Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone.” She didn’t break rhythm.

  Annoying.

  “Jesus. Can’t the little retard say anything else?” Blevins said.

  «Shut up.»

  “Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone.”

  He saw it. Bricks. The little brat was building a wall. Each Leave my mom alone was a perfectly placed yellow brick.

  “She fucking hates red, you know.” Blevins snickered.

  He didn’t know how long she’d been at it, but the wall rose between him and the mother and almost blocked the woman from sight.

  It wasn’t real.

  «Oh, Little Piggy. Do you think I can’t knock down your silly little wall?»

  “Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone.” She didn’t break stride. If anything, she sounded surer, stronger.

  «Little Pig, Little Pig, watch this.» He pushed.

  «Fuck!» Pain seared his palms and shot up his arms.

  He checked his hands—Blevins’s hands—expecting to find them red and blistered. Not a mark on them.

  “I didn’t feel a thing,” Blevins said.

  “Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone.” She picked up speed.

  “Try it again,” Blevins said. “It was kinda fun.”

  «Shut. Up.»

  Shit. She wasn’t building a wall around her mother.

  “Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone.”

  Her wall rose around him. He pulled out. The mist vanished and left him staring at the yellow tiles of the bathroom wall. Between the tiles, mildew blossomed red. He grinned. As a metaphor, a sordid shower stall in a cheap dive wasn’t bad.

  “He huffed and he puffed, but he couldn’t blow the brick wall down. Did da widdle girl beat you again?”

  «Shut up or you’ll be gone too.»

  “Why don’t we just leave? Why’s the damn retard so important?”

  «There is no we.»

  “I’m thinking you fucking need me.”

  «No, I really don’t. There’s plenty more just like you out there.»

  He didn’t have time to go house-hunting. Not until he figured out the girl. Or got rid of her. He didn’t know which he wanted more, but if he had to choose one, it was the latter.

  “Why not both?”

  «Good plan. Then maybe I’ll get rid of you.»

  He dried off and flopped on the bed. Sunlight filtered through the cheap curtains, and he closed his eyes. The night wore him out. Or else Blevins was wearing out faster than he expected. Whichever, he was tired. And hungry. He should have made a to-go package from the EMT.

  “I know a couple more guys we can eat.”

  «I told you. There is no we.»

  He wouldn’t sleep. He picked up the remote and clicked on the television. If nothing else, it would keep Blevins distracted for at least a little while.<
br />
  [33]

  Carole

  PETE AND LIVVY OFFERED US a place to stay for as long as we needed. Their house had enough room for visiting grandchildren, but little room for long-term guests. I wanted to keep them as friends. Sharing close quarters with my family for any length of time would put a strain on any relationship.

  Most of the motels were twenty-five miles away, at the interstate exit. The only one in or close to town was the Edge-O-Town, and it was a dump. On the bright side, if word got out a city cop was staying there at least half their long-term residents would flee. Port Massasauga had a couple of bed and breakfasts, but I couldn’t remember their names and didn’t know if they were open year-round.

  I asked Livvy for the phone book. Later, at a more reasonable hour—when the half of Port Massasauga’s population not outside watching my house burn was awake—I’d call the bed and breakfasts and find us a place to stay.

  Jim joined us as the sun came up. “I called my mother,” he said. “She’s on her way to get you and Abby.”

  So much for the bed and breakfasts.

  Evelyn’s house was built for a large family. It was too big even when Jim was growing up and it held only the two of them. We’d tried to get her to sell it and move to a smaller place—well, Jim had. I suspected she held on to it in the hope he would leave me and come home to her, with Abby in tow. She had enough room to open a bed and breakfast of her own, but strangers in her house would drive her around the bend. Further around the bend. There was plenty of room for Abby and Jim, but I didn’t think a house large enough to hold both Evelyn and me existed.

  “Is she going to take us to a motel? The Sleep Inn by the freeway is supposed to be cheap but nice.” Fat chance, but I had to ask.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jim said.

  Pete and Livvy disappeared. They might have wanted to give us family time, or maybe Jim scared them away. He looked rough and sounded worse.

  “I need to go to school,” Abby said.

  “I think you can miss a day.” He used the Mad Dad voice and didn’t look at Abby when he spoke.

  I knew he was worn out, but his snarl at Abby bothered me more than his snapping at me. She hadn’t done anything.

  “She doesn’t want to mess up her perfect attendance,” I said.