by Alexie Aaron
Irma looked around. She thought that the living room was a nice size and liked the stone-faced fireplace. Max had hung a large television over the mantle. Irma frowned. She thought it made the room look cheap. But men would have their way when it came to watching sports, she remembered. Her late husband demanded that the Thanksgiving meal be timed for halftime during the Green Bay/Lions game. All those days of preparation for the twenty minute gulp and run… She frowned at the memory.
The kitchen located at the back of the house, for the most part, was tidy. Kim couldn’t be called house-proud, but the counters were clean, and the floor looked like it was recently swept. Irma poked her head in the half bath by the back stairs. It was clean with a few whimsical cat pictures hanging on the wall. The litter box tucked under the sink did need attention. Irma wrinkled her face but set to the task. She found, after opening all the cupboards in the kitchen, a box of garbage bags next to the litter box itself. Irma pulled on Kim’s plastic gloves that she found on the drain board. Irma smiled as the gloves, although expensive, were too large for her hands. Kim must have man hands. This made Irma smirk.
She emptied the box, carried it out into the garage, and added it to the other garbage in the bin. The garage was neat and tidy, but she knew it would be. Max was always in the garage puttering. Irma too had been in the garage recently so there was no need for snooping. She had a photographic memory of Max’s tools and small machinery; she didn’t need to waste her precious time there. She returned to the kitchen and pulled the bag out of the chrome receptacle and set it on the floor while she replaced the liner. Irma set the bag next to the back door for now. She would pick it up on her way out to wheel the garbage bin to the curb.
Irma glanced at the door leading to the basement. She supposed she should look down there to make sure the furnace was set. “It’s not that cold out. It will wait,” she said to herself. Irma didn’t like basements. The only use she could see for underground rooms was to wait out a tornado. She turned on her heel and headed for the bedrooms. The guestroom’s coverlet was off the bed. Otherwise the room was tidy. The next room the Madisons used as their office. Irma took her time opening drawers and sat down to read the printed emails Kim had left on the desk. “Her brother is in for a surprise if he thinks his wife’s suggestion of separate vacations is a step in the right direction,” Irma commented aloud. She set the papers down where she found them and took the time to check the window. It was locked. She continued down the hall, being careful of the broken slats from the linen closet door. Was this where Kim had her accident? Irma wondered.
She opened the master bedroom door and put a hand on her heart. The room was destroyed. The mattress and box springs were half off the bed frame. The sheets and blankets were strewn all over the floor. She stepped into the room and almost tripped on a broom that had been carelessly tossed on the floor.
“Heaven’s sake! What went on in here?”
She walked carefully around the mess on the floor and into the bathroom where she found the bath curtain rod stacked in the tub along with a pile of towels. It looked like someone had started to sweep up the glass. There was a pile of bits of wood from what was left of the cupboard under the sink. That looked like a sledgehammer had been used. What kind of accident had Kim had? It looked to her like domestic violence. Irma shook her head. She couldn’t believe a nice young man like Max could be responsible for this mess. Perhaps Kim had a nervous breakdown. Irma’s mother had warned her about taking on a job and a house. She said that the stress would destroy her mind. Is this what happened to Kim? She made a note to see if she could find a file labeled psychiatrist in the desk drawer before she left the house.
Irma walked out of the bath after satisfying herself that the contents of the Madisons’ medicine cabinet only proved her theory of Kim’s mental state. There were several bottles from a Dr. Henley. She frowned thinking she should remove her key from the Madisons’ house before leaving. A woman who could tear up a room like that had no business being able to enter Irma’s home. Her outrage didn’t, however, stop Irma from opening the closet doors and going through Kim’s dresses. Nor did it stop her from trying on Kim’s recently purchased cashmere coat. Irma walked over to the mirror, tucking the price tag into the sleeve to get the full effect.
“Cashmere does suit me,” she said, turning this way and that. “Maybe when Kim is put away, I’ll suggest to Max to donate her clothes. One coat wouldn’t go amiss. What Goodwill doesn’t know about is hardly a crime.”
She walked over to the closet and started to take off the coat. The room seemed a little chilly so she convinced herself that she should keep it on and return it if it was missed. Irma walked through the house and picked up the trash bag and opened the garage door. She placed the bag in the trashcan and pressed the switch to open the door. It didn’t respond. She flipped a wall switch on, and the light didn’t go on either.
“Must be a fuse,” she said. “Damn.” Irma squinted into the dimness of the garage looking for the fuse box. The light streaming in from the little windows in the garage door gave her enough light to confirm her suspicions were correct. No box. She walked into the house and looked at the closed basement door. Irma’s examination of the first floor of the house had been thorough; she didn’t remember having seen anything resembling the type of fuse box that Irma had in her house.
She reluctantly opened the basement door, reached in and flipped the light switch. Bright illumination danced off the paneled walls of the basement stairway. The stairs themselves where covered in bright yellow linoleum with steel grooved caps protecting the edges. The stairs were clean. “This must be Max’s domain,” she said while she walked down the steps excited, anticipating another good snoop was at hand.
The full basement’s cleanly swept concrete floor was free of clutter. Several Rubbermaid shelves hugged the walls with clear plastic bins of clothing and other stored materials displayed conveniently for Irma’s eyes. She took her time crossing the expanse, stopping to open and finger anything of interest. Irma had a bit of fun with the large bin of stuffed animals. She took them out one by one, giving them names. After lining them up for inspection, she scoffed, identifying the cheap beasts as being nothing more than sideshow carnival prizes. She carefully replaced the toys before moving on to the next box.
At the far end of the basement next to the sump pump, Irma found the fuse box. She opened the little, gray metal door and ran her hand down the circuit breakers, reading the carefully lettered identification of each switch. She found that, true to her suspicion, the ground fault circuit to the garage had been tripped. She reset the switch and closed the door to the box.
Irma turned around and was puzzled by the display in front of her. She could have sworn she had placed the stuffed animals back in the large bin. Had she only imagined that she had? She walked over and reached out for the stuffed giraffe.
“Two tries for a dollar,” barked a gruff voice. “Two tries for a dollar,” echoed through the basement.
Irma spun around looking for the joker who must have followed her in. “Max, I’m sorry, I was just trying to take out the trash when the garage door wouldn’t rise…” her voice faded away as the room changed before her eyes. She was no longer in the Madisons’ basement but in the dark corner of the carnival midway. The smell of damp was replaced with popcorn, and she could hear the sounds of people milling around her. She stepped away from the giraffe, her hand still outstretched.
Two well-worn baseballs were placed in her hand. She looked from the balls to the hand that had placed them there. She followed the dirty nails to the dingy white and red striped blazer sleeve. She stepped back as the full form of the carnival barker emerged out of the gloom.
“Two tries for a dollar,” he repeated.
Irma’s heart started beating uncontrollably. She remembered this man. His beady eyes, unshaven face and foul breath brought back that fateful night of her youth.
“Where’s Randy?” she asked, looking arou
nd.
“Two tries for a dollar,” the man said, holding out his hand.
“I don’t have a dollar,” Irma said. “My brother has the money. Randy!” she called.
The man grabbed the balls out of her hand and started to walk away and stopped. He looked around and said, “Maybe we can work something out. You go ahead and play. We’ll settle up when your brother…”
“Randy,” she supplied.
“Randy,” he said and asked, “He, your older brother?”
“Yes, Randy’s ten, and I’m eight,” she volunteered.
“We’ll settle up when Randy gets here,” the barker said, placing the balls in her hand again.
Irma felt a little odd when the man stood near her with his hand on her back. “You better step back, Mister. I have a hell of an arm,” she boasted.
He did just that.
She tossed her two balls and missed the bushel basket next to the toy she wanted.
“Tell you what,” the barker offered, “You go and pick up all those loose balls on the ground, and I’ll let you have another try for free.”
Irma jumped up and down. “Really?”
“Go on now, I got customers waiting,” he said.
Irma climbed over the barrier and started picking up the balls, using the skirt of her dress to carry them with. She didn’t notice that the barker had dropped the awning until she stood up after gathering the last of the loose balls. This scared and confused her. Where was the entrance to the game? Where was the barker? She turned around and found him staring at her lifted skirt in an odd way.
“Come here and give me those,” he ordered.
Irma was a good girl and used to obeying adults. She walked over. The man put one hand on her back while the other fished for the balls in the skirt of her dress. His hand dropped lower down her back pressing her towards him. He leaned down and said, “You’re a good little girl, aren’t you?”
Irma recoiled from the stench of his breath and twisted away. She backed up and found herself pinned between the barker and a row of bushel baskets.
“Irma!”
She heard her brother calling her.
“I’ve got to go, mister,” she said. “I’ll bring back the dollar,” she promised.
“I don’t need no dollar,” he said gruffly and took a step towards her.
One ball that she missed picking up saved her. The barker slipped on the ball and fell backwards, crashing onto the counter.
Irma ran in the opposite direction calling, “Randy, I’m here! Randy!” She ran into the hard plastic backdrop. She felt her way around, trying to find an opening to the outside.
“Come here, little girl, don’t be afraid. I’ve got some candy in my pocket…”
This set Irma’s inner alarm off. Never take candy from strangers! She ran to the other wall of the game enclosure screaming, “Randy, help me!”
This time she found the place where the plastic-coated canvas had a break in it. She pushed her way out of the game and ran off towards the midway. She found her brother looking for her at the spinning tea cups.
“Where were you? The carnival is shutting down, and we got to get home,” he complained.
“Toss a Ball,” she said.
“Did you win anything?”
“Nope, I didn’t have a dollar.”
“There you are, you little thief!” the barker said, running over to Irma.
“Run, Randy, run!” she shouted. “He’s a bad man!”
Randy grabbed her hand, and the two of them ran through the darkening midway as the rides were being shut down for the night.
Irma shrieked as she ran her shin into something hard. She looked down and saw she had come in contact with the bottom step of the Madisons’ basement stairs.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Two tries for a dollar!” the barker called.
Irma turned around, and standing in the middle of the basement was the barker. “Come here, little girl, don’t be afraid. I’ve got some candy in my pocket.”
Irma screamed and took the stairs two at a time, slamming the basement door behind her. She heard the creak of footsteps climbing the stairs. Irma froze for a moment. She calculated the distance to the front door and decided the garage was closer. She yanked open the door and hit the automatic garage door opener as she stumbled down the steps from the house. The door started to rise. She ran towards the opening, but the door stopped and started back down again.
Irma tugged on the handle to no avail. She spied the disengage pull-rope, but it was too high for her to reach. She forced herself to look at the door to the house. Standing there with his hand on the switch was the barker.
“Come here, you little thief,” he growled. “Time to pay.”
“You’re not real!” Irma shouted. She backed up until she had Max’s workbench at her back. She searched her memory of what he had on there that could be used as a weapon. Irma pushed the fear down, turned her back on the barker and frantically ran her hands over the shiny tools. Nothing! Battery-powered screwdrivers and sockets were not going to help her. Then she spotted something that would. She looked up and smiled.
“I’m telling you, I heard screams,” Barb said.
“Someone’s got their set on too loud. Probably Old Man Moresby,” Wilford reasoned.
“No, it’s her. I know it’s her. You’ll have to go over there. I’ll call the police.”
“Filing a false report is going to look bad. Better you come with me and take your cell phone. If she’s in trouble, you dial 911. If it’s nothing, then we’ll leave it be,” her husband said.
He walked into the garage and picked up the baseball bat his son had left behind when he moved to Springfield. Barb was on his heels as they exited the garage together.
Max’s antique display of saws and hammers was secured to the wall. Irma managed to reach a ball-peen hammer before she felt the icy cold hand of the barker on her shoulder.
“Come here, you little thief,” he growled.
Irma kicked backwards, surprised to find nothing behind her. The motion brought her head down on the workbench smartly. She twisted around and flailed the hammer about with her right hand threatening, “Get away from me! You’re not real!” She felt the warm rush of blood coming from her nose and wiped at it with the sleeve of her left arm.
“Two tries for a dollar,” the barker said, holding open his hand. Inside were those dreaded baseballs.
“I have no money! Go away!”
Wilford nodded to his wife. “Call the cops. She’s being robbed.” He pounded on the garage door. “We’ve called the police! Leave that woman alone!”
Irma watched as the barker pondered the disruption for a minute. He smiled widely. He seemed to be in front of her at one moment and then at the door to the house in the next. He pressed the garage door opener and then walked to the middle of the garage and waited.
Wilford was wary of ducking under the rising door. He took a step backwards and waited for the door to complete its journey upwards. He didn’t see Irma or hear his wife’s screams when she beheld the bloody-faced woman cowering in the corner. All Wilford saw was the Viet Cong soldier raise his SKS rifle.
Barb ran to Irma and tried to coax her out of the garage. She turned to ask her husband for help and saw him raise his bat and run at Sister Ignatia who was threatening Barb with a ruler. She was about to tell him to stop, but she hated that old bitch with all her might. She grabbed the rusty hammer out of Irma’s hands and decided to get herself a piece of the nasty nun too.
Irma watched the Druthers run at the carnival barker. Wilford swung his bat, and it moved right through the man. He toppled forward, his body unprepared for not connecting with the soldier.
Barb sidestepped her husband’s falling body to deliver a swing of her hammer, aiming for the ruler in nun’s hand. The hammer connected, and the nun disappeared.
Irma saw the barker vanish. All that was left was Barb Druthers standing triumphant and sh
outing something that sounded like, “The righteous, my ass!”
Wilford looked up at his wife who had taken out the soldier with a rusty old hammer. “Honey, stop shouting. The neighbors…” he said.
~
Max parked his car in front of the empty lot. An ambulance and police car dominated his small driveway. He ran over to see what was going on.
“Sir, go back to your vehicle,” ordered the patrolman.
“I was called. This is my house. I’m Maxwell Madison,” he said, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, quickly thumbing through his cards and pulling out his ID. He handed it to the officer. “Someone called and said a robbery had taken place at my home,” he explained, his voice shaking. “No one said someone was hurt.” Max nodded towards the ambulance.
The officer handed back his wallet. “Mr. Madison, your neighbor, a Mrs. Irma Mullins, was attacked by…” the officer opened his notebook and read, ‘a carnival barker.’ Your other neighbors came to her rescue. The man, a Wilford Druthers, witnessed an armed Viet Cong soldier raise his weapon. Mr. Druthers charged him, holding a… Louisville Slugger baseball bat. He swung at him and missed. His wife, Barbara, succeeded in stopping the attack with a ball-peen hammer. Except she claims it was a Sister Ignatia who she disarmed. The nun was threating her with a ruler.”
Max looked at the officer as if he were nuts.
“No, really, those nuns armed with rulers are lethal. I call that justified.”
“I don’t know what to say?” Max hedged.
“I don’t know what to put in my report,” the officer countered. “Have there been disturbances in your home? Are you being targeted by a local community acting group perhaps?”
“My wife was attacked by a peeping Tom from her childhood, and she’s not been the same. I saw the man, but he looked a lot like David Morrissey from The Walking Dead to me.”