by Sam Shelstad
“Please,” she whispered. “Please let me go home.” She hadn’t spoken to God since she was a child and Mother dragged her to church. She wasn’t sure it was God she was reaching out to now. Any benevolent force that would listen would do. If she made it out of this alive, she promised to repent. She’d look over her life—really scrutinize everything she’d said and done—and make up for whatever ethical missteps she’d made along the way. Her mother, for one. She knew Mother had a problem with prescription pills. She saw how she relied on them but had said nothing. Enabled her. They enabled each other, really. Two spinsters, mother and daughter, wasting away in that house.
You better stay in tonight, Mrs. Flood would say. You’re too sick for bridge club.
And then Mother would say You’re late when Mrs. Flood didn’t make it home from the office by five-thirty exactly. You’ve let me down. I need you here, I need you to take care of me. Maybe this job of yours isn’t such a good idea.
Mrs. Flood trudged through the snow. There was the threat of the wolf returning but she could only walk so fast. Her legs throbbed and her feet were soaking wet and freezing. She felt dizzy and close to fainting. Soon she came to a large oak that had fallen over against the slope that she might be able to use to help her climb up. If she made it up to the roots there was a long stretch of grass the snow hadn’t touched that would be easier to traverse. She couldn’t see past the trees and didn’t know if it would take her right to the road, but this was her best option. She held on to the oak and started her way up. Midway up the trunk, she became aware of a familiar shape in her periphery—the wolf. Above her on the slope, looking down. Its head was cocked at a strange angle, muzzle covered in a goatee of snow and mud. This is it, Mrs. Flood thought. I’m coming, Mother.
The wolf took a step towards her. Mrs. Flood stepped backwards still holding the trunk. She couldn’t turn around and show the wolf her back, a sign of weakness. The wolf took another step. Mrs. Flood took a step. They kept a steady, gradual pace. Soon, she was back at the bottom of the ridge. The wolf came down on her right side and walked her towards the car. Herding her like a sheepdog.
Mrs. Flood was exhausted, dizzy and numb with pain but she kept walking backwards. Eventually they made it back to the car. Mrs. Flood opened the passenger door and climbed in to the smell of urine, the disfigured rabbit. When she was back in place with the door shut, the wolf jumped up onto the hood.
For an hour, Mrs. Flood sat with her eyes closed while the wolf licked the glass before she heard it jump down. When she opened her eyes, the rabbit was gone. She realized then that nobody was coming. This is where I live. This is where I’ll die. There’s nothing I can do but wait.
Mrs. Flood pictured her empty, quiet home. It was different without Mother in there, as if all the bricks had been replaced one by one. Mother was her world. Sometimes it had felt like they were the last two people on the planet, carrying the torch for humanity. And now Mother was gone. Soon Mrs. Flood would be gone too. The end of the world.
She pressed play on the CD console. Sam Cooke’s Greatest Hits. Much too merry for the situation. All those major chords. She turned it off and reached into her purse and pulled out a pen and a gas receipt. She thought about writing a note for whoever eventually found her to explain what happened. Some kind of final message. After some thought she settled on “Mrs. Flood was here.” She pushed the note into her pocket.
A few minutes later, the vehicle lurched.
Mrs. Flood squinted at the beast on her hood. You shouldn’t be here, she thought. Why do you keep coming back? Why can’t you leave me the fuck alone? She punched the horn. The wolf stood up. It was an ugly thing, a coward. Were its legs trembling? An ugly, idiotic thing with shaky legs.
To hell with it, thought Mrs. Flood. She ejected the full CD player. The little screen went blank. The time was irrelevant now. There would be no funeral.
The CD player had weight to it. Like Mother’s golden swan doorstop. Mrs. Flood rolled down the passenger window. The wolf stared.
“Go on!” Mrs. Flood said.
She leaned over the window’s edge and sent the CD player flying. It hit the wolf in the chest. The wolf yelped and shuffled back with its tail between its legs.
“Get out of here! Go!”
The wolf began squealing again—that same obnoxious balloon whine.
Mrs. Flood threw her glasses case next but missed. She tossed her wallet—it struck the wolf in the snout. Then she threw her entire purse. The wolf jumped down and out of view. Mrs. Flood reached into the back seat and found Mother’s Sunoco umbrella. Stepped out of the car.
“Where are you?” she said.
The wolf cowered beside a bush, its head down low. It looked smaller now. Like a big housecat, she thought.
“Go on,” Mrs. Flood said. “Get lost.”
She wielded the umbrella high over her head and approached. The wolf looked up with dumb, glossy eyes.
She brought the umbrella down hard, striking the wolf in the face with the metal tip. The wolf yelped. She struck again and the wolf backed away, a confused, maybe even hurt look on its face.
“Go!”
She followed the animal, brandishing her umbrella. The wolf began to trot. Mrs. Flood flung the umbrella like a javelin in the wolf’s direction. The umbrella opened mid-air and became caught in a tree branch.
Mrs. Flood coughed and fell to her knees, plunged her hands into the snow. She vomited and rolled onto her back, spread out on top of the vomit. She wiped her mouth on her shoulder and closed her eyes. I’m in my bed, she thought. I’m in my car. I’m in my bed and my bed’s in my car and maybe I’ll just lay here a few more minutes.
Mrs. Flood was being carried on a yellow stretcher. Two women were there in black uniforms. There were other people around too. Lights flashed. There were voices. Something was on her neck—she couldn’t move her head. There were ropes. She was being carried up the hill. One of the women said, “Keep her steady.” Muffled radio voices in the background.
“Mother’s funeral,” Mrs. Flood said.
“What did she say?” one of the women said.
“Something about her mother,” the other said.
“You’ll see your mother soon,” the first woman said. “We’re taking you to the hospital. Everything’s going to be alright.”
“No I won’t,” Mrs. Flood said. She wouldn’t see her mother again.
Lights and voices. The wolf nearby, standing perfectly still. Listening and smelling. Hidden in the trees. Then slouching away; moving slowly, like a depressed child. Turning its head back to Mrs. Flood now and again.
Acknowledgements
Earlier versions of these stories originally appeared in the following publications: “Blind Man” in The New Quarterly, “Cop House” in The Puritan, “New Ice Kingdom” in Prism International, “Frank” in The Dalhousie Review, “Sketch Artist, Boxer, Party Planner, Baker” in Joyland and Retro 4, “This Deer Won’t Look Both Ways” in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, “The Girl Who Smelled of Sarsaparilla” in The Feathertale Review, “DeRosa” in Joyland, “Spirit Pals” in Carousel, “The Fiddler Murders” in Prism International, “Pool Rules” in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, “Ode to the Library” in The Rusty Toque, “For Henry” in Grain, “Self-Guided Meditation” in The Feathertale Review and “Mrs. Flood Was Here” in The Fiddlehead. Thank you to the editors of each.
Katie Shelstad
Sam Shelstad’s work has appeared in many literary journals including The Fiddlehead, PRISM international, The Puritan and McSweeney’s. The title story of Cop House was a runner-up for the Thomas Morton Memorial Prize in 2014. Shelstad lives in Toronto, Ontario.
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