by Ronald Malfi
Beneath the blankets, unmoved from last night’s position, her little sister slept a dreamless sleep. Kelly crept up to the foot of the bed, brushed the curtains away.
What do you really think of me, Becky? What do you really think of your older sister, the sister you never got to know because she was afraid and embarrassed and downright chicken shit and split when you were very young? And forgot about you too—let’s not forget that, Becky, darling. Your big sister—me, the one standing here right now—left and never looked back. No sense bothering to sugar-coat any of it. All cards on the table, all aces facing up. What do you think of me, Becky? Even now in your sleep, what do you think of your sorry big sister?
For a brief moment, she thought the girl stirred beneath the bedclothes. She watched her like a pupil, followed the trail of the IV tube from her arm to the bag of fluid hanging from the rack beside the bed. Here, in the daylight, it was easy to see what her attacker had done. Becky’s face was a mottled patchwork of hues, the skin of soured fruit and ruptured vessels. The left side of her mouth was puffed out and split vertically; a mossy growth of scabs clung to her lower lip and chin. And her eyelids looked blue, and as thin as tissue.
What do you think of me, Becky?
“God,” she muttered. “Little Baby Roundabout.”
She went to the window to pull it closed and saw someone down below, standing half-hidden beneath the edge of the woods: there and then gone, too quick for her to make out any detail. But someone.
It was cold outside. The second Kelly stepped from the house, the frigid air attacked her, slammed into her like a speeding car into a brick wall. At this rate, the winter was going to be brutal, even worse than in the city. Up here, a brutal winter was practically a death sentence—families jailed up for what could potentially be months while the snow outside accumulated with no apparent end in sight. Sometimes three, four, five feet. And not just against the doors and windows and siding, but heavy on the roof, on skylights and chimneys and spires and porches. A snapping sound in the night could be a section of roof giving up the fight. Skylights splintered and cracked, and that was a problem, particularly when the weather started to warm up and the snow would start melting. The sleet and hail that had attacked the airport was nothing; Spires understood the power of winter, understood that it was something to be respected and feared. And it would be a fearful winter this year, Kelly knew.
She stepped around the side of the house, her breath billowing out of her mouth in plumes. The forest was densest to the east, and as she crept around that side of the house, she looked down upon the great woodland with a similar sense of respect and fear she afforded each and every winter.
“Dad?”
Had he come out here to take his morning walk around the compound as her mother had mentioned? Thinking of her father, she was accosted by a barrage of moth-bitten memories of the man, spliced and not fully whole, like cut loaves of bread. He was a big man, a strong man, and—oddly—a pathetic man. That was something it had taken Kelly a while to see, yet something that had been so clear all along.
No one wants to believe their father is weak, that their father has emotions and can cry and feel pain, she thought. It’s safer to pretend fathers are invincible robots, and feel no pain.
She walked around the east side of the house, heedful of where she stepped. Here, the ground gave way to a sharp slope, where the grass and flowerbeds were no more, and where sharp slate crags and leafless candelabra-shaped bushes sprung up from nowhere. A careless step and she could break her ankle, and wouldn’t that just be terrific?
Again she saw someone move within the woods, beyond the first veil of trees.
“Hello!” she called out, now not so certain this person was her father.
Carefully, she eased herself down the face of the cliff, grabbing onto the bare stalks of small trees and bushes as she went. With each footstep, a tumble of stones was loosened and rolled down the side of the hill and disappeared into the woods. Further down, patches of wildflowers sprung up in scattered wedges, and Kelly thought, That’s odd. I would think it was too cold for flowers to grow out here.
She entered the woods, and it was somehow warmer. Like the woods closed arms around her, blocking out the cold. Unmoving, she stood among the trees, peering into the darkness ahead. So dense. Even in midday it was like the throes of night just up ahead. She took a few steps in, not so much interested in finding her father anymore (or whoever that had been), but now just relishing what warmth the place offered. It was like a living thing, this woods—dry and breathing all around her. A carpet of orange pine needles beneath her feet. The sounds of birds, not yet migrated, off in the distance. Squirrels plodding from branch to branch high above her head.
Don’t be fooled. There is no peace here, no rest here, she thought for some reason, not understanding any of it.
Something moved off to her right, and she turned to look at it.
A dog. A large white and gray dog stumbling along with a severe limp. Or a wolf. It could be a wolf.
She felt her throat tighten, her lungs constrict. The overwhelming need to urinate hit her like a thousand pounds of pressure on her bladder, and she was nearly crippled by the pain. In that second, she doubled over and fell against the sap-covered trunk of a tree. Still, she could not take her eyes from the dog that could be a wolf…
It continued to limp through the woods, slowly working its way deeper into the blackness of the forest. It moved with its head down, its tongue out, its pyramid-shaped shoulder blades pumping in mechanical succession. It was in obvious agony, unwilling to put any pressure on its right front paw.
“God,” Kelly moaned, clasping her hands to her groin, but it was no good—the dam was about the break. “God-God-God…”
The pain intensified, blossomed like a flower, then exploded like a punctured balloon. Before she even realized what was happening, she was aware of a wet heat at her crotch, coursing down the legs of her jeans and soaking her buttocks. The flood seemed to have no end. Sickened and ashamed, she collapsed to her hands and knees on the pine needle carpet, finally able to recapture her breath, her lungs opening, her throat becoming unstuck.
Oh Christ…
She’d wet herself. Like a fucking child, she’d wet herself. And despite her solitude, her sense of shame was nearly overwhelming.
An anguished howl rang through the air and she looked up. The dog was hardly visible now, having maneuvered its way deeper into the forest, but she could still just make it out. Limping and hurt.
“God,” she breathed, and fought back tears.
After regaining composure, she climbed back out of the woods and up the steep embankment toward the house. She was nervous and shaking, like a small child coming out of a horror movie, and twice she nearly lost her balance, almost sending her rolling back down the hill.
She reached the top with some difficulty. Her heart was working overtime and she was practically out of breath when she stood and looked back down at the woods. A mix of confusion rushed through her body—the embarrassment of her soiling herself coupled with the vision of the limping dog. And though the urination disturbed her greatly, something about that dog bothered her even more.
Because that dog wasn’t real. I don’t know why I know this, but it’s true. That dog wasn’t real, yet I just saw it limping along. I heard it howl in pain as it disappeared into the woods. Saw it, heard it—this thing that wasn’t really there.
Or was she just losing her mind? This urination thing was nothing new—had been happening to her for some time now—along with her constant anxiety.
It’s like standing on the edge of the world and watching it all end, she thought. It’s just a matter of time before it ends for me too.
She leaned up against the house to catch her breath. Above the wooded valley the sky looked gunmetal gray, pregnant with storm. Still catching her breath, she pulled away from the house and stared up at Becky’s bedroom window.
What the hell is g
oing on around here?
The window was open.
Chapter Nine
Early evening, and the bus was crowded. Carlos Mendes sat, his eyes unfocused, his hands slowly wringing the unread newspaper on his lap. It was raining, and as the bus trundled along through the cluttered streets, he listened to the rain patter peacefully against the window next to him. The small Hindu woman beside him shouted something at her little boy, who spilled a bag of Skittles on the floor, then started to cry.
Think about something else, he thought. And he did: he thought of getting home in time for dinner with Marie and his mother. He imagined the kitchen smelling of stir-fry, of grilled onions and scalloped potatoes and those sliced tomato wedges covered in cheese Marie sometimes made. He would have some wine with supper, something dark from the Russian River Valley. And afterwards, maybe a cigar or two out on the back porch. He was fairly certain he had an unopened box of Macanudo miniatures hidden in an old margarine container toward the back of the refrigerator. And then—sleep. No thought; just sleep. He’d wrap his arms around Marie’s body and pull up against her, just the way he liked it. You are a little child, Marie would say—she always said that when he curled up around her—but she would laugh quietly to herself. Because she liked it too.
Thinking of Marie made him smile. Even after such a strenuous day. Even after what that old woman in Room 218 had said about Julian, about their unborn baby…
You see? There you go again—thinking of crazy, crazy things. You are like a superstitious old woman!
But she had known the baby’s name…
No!
He turned away from the small boy (he was bending forward in his mother’s lap, trying to touch the rolling tide of candy that he’d spilled) and looked back out the window. Yes, he thought, dinner would be nice. Very nice.
And it was. There was no stir-fry, no potatoes or cheese-covered tomato slices. Instead, there was grilled salmon, doused in butter and lemon and garlic cloves, and there was wine and there was a box of cigars hidden at the back of the refrigerator.
Marie hummed while she set the table, was in a pleasant mood during dinner, and picked up her tune again once it was time to clear the dirty plates away.
“You look tired,” his mother said to him. She limped on her bad leg over to where he stood, rooting around in the junk drawer for a book of matches. “I worry about you.”
“Don’t worry, Mamma.”
“Ahhh,” she scolded, “trabajas demasiado.”
“I work when I’m needed. I don’t make my own hours, Mamma, you know that.”
“Still, you look very tired.”
“You wanted me to be a doctor, remember?”
“I wanted you to be a plastic surgeon,” she corrected. Then she smiled wearily and patted the loose flesh at her chin. “This way you fix this. Now I look like a big, gray-haired turkey.”
“You don’t look like a turkey, Mamma.” He found the matches, glanced around for Marie (she had disappeared into the small laundry room off the main hallway), and slipped the book into his pocket.
“And smoking,” his mother said. “These are the things I teach you, right?”
“We’re all going to die at some point,” he told her.
“Marie said you quit.”
“I did. Before. Anyway, I’m not smoking cigarettes.”
“Oh, then.” Sarcasm. “Maybe next week you start up with the heroin, with the marijuana and cocaine.”
“Mamma.” You couldn’t reason with the woman. Instead, he opted for changing the subject. “How’s your leg?”
She waved her hand at him and ambled to the kitchen sink. “Llaga,” she said, turning the water on and hunting for a dishrag.
The rear porch was cold but quiet. He lit one of the Macanudos, inhaled, and blew the smoke out over the porch railing. He lived in a renovated Long Island brownstone just five blocks from the neighborhood he grew up in. Five blocks—but such different worlds. Not that they were living high on the hog now, but he did all right for himself and his family, and that was all that mattered. There were times as a child when he’d have to go down to Smitty’s and buy a wheel of electrical tape to mend his sneakers. Rubber soles only had so much life in them. Between him and his three brothers, they became good at finding ways to help objects—particularly clothing—live past their life expectancies. But not anymore.
The brownstone’s back porch faced the rear of a three-story apartment complex. Between the two buildings was an enclosed yard, half unkempt weeds, half blacktop. Someone—probably some kid from the neighborhood or even the apartment complex itself—had written the words DENIS DOES DAILY in bright orange chalk on the blacktop.
You know as well as anyone else that a stroke can cause dementia, that someone who’s suffered any sort of chemical or physical unbalance concerning the brain is apt to say and do things that may seem peculiar, that may seem almost frightening.
Yes, that was true. But such an injury didn’t generally render the victim psychic, did it? Strokes usually didn’t grant the stroke victim the ability to see things into the future, wasn’t that correct? Or to know secret things about other people…
There’s an explanation for that. She must have heard—
But that was bullshit, self-appeasement at its finest. How they hell could the old crippled woman know anything at all about his unborn son?
Child, he mentally corrected himself, it is not an unborn son, it is an unborn child. We do not know the sex of the baby, and until we do, it will remain simply a child. As if that truth would somehow rectify Nellie Worthridge’s prediction. What if it’s a girl? If it’s a girl, the baby won’t be named Julian and then all that old woman’s spouted fortune will mean nothing, nothing at all. Or what if it is a boy and we simply call him by a different name? Wouldn’t that make her statement untrue then? Fuck tradition and fuck Marie’s father—we could call him Billy or Jimmy or Bobby or something equally unoriginal. At least then we’d be safe.
He couldn’t help but cough up a chuckle—it really was all too much, wasn’t it? Psychic old women with no legs and unborn babies already given a death sentence! It was something out of a second-rate horror movie.
The sliding porch door opened and Carlos tossed the smoldering cigar over the porch railing reflexively. Marie stepped outside, a knitted afghan about her small shoulders. She looked tired, with dark looping rings beneath her eyes. But still beautiful. She’d always been beautiful, Carlos thought.
“Chilly out here,” she said. “You like it, Carlito?”
He closed his eyes, shivering at the name. “I do,” he said, masking his discomfort.
“You were quiet at dinner.” She came up behind him, began rubbing his shoulders. “It was hard today? Work?”
“No,” he lied, seeing Nellie Worthridge’s contorted old face tell him that his son was destined to be born dead. He had said it so simply to that Cavey fellow earlier that day, so plainly…but there was so much more than that, so much more than the simplicity of words.
Words are unfair, stupid things, he thought then. Controlled by words, everything real is corrupted, everything real is destined to be cheapened somehow. I don’t think there is a single human being who can find the words to express how that old woman made me feel today.
“You want to talk about something?” Marie said, pressing her lips to his ear.
He smiled, but he shook his head. “How do you feel?” he asked her.
“Tired but good. It’s nice to see you for dinner once in a while. Sometimes I think you’re having an affair with that damned hospital. Does it have bigger boobs than I do?”
He laughed. “Much,” he said.
Giggling, she jabbed lightly at his ribs. “We’ll see about much, Doctor. So maybe there’s some beautiful supermodel nurse you work with, right?”
“Yes,” he said. “After a long, dreary day of high-fashion photo shoots, Nurse Bambi likes to unwind by putting in ten hours at New York University Downtown. You got my
number, all right, Mrs. Mendes.”
“Smart ass. You always joke. Everything is one big stupid joke with you.” She was still smiling; he could hear it in her voice and didn’t need to look at her face.
Not everything is a joke, he thought. Infants born dead aren’t a joke. Old, crippled psychics—nothing funny there, either.
“Too cold,” his wife said, pulling away from him. “Do you think you’ll be coming to bed soon?”
“Soon,” he promised, and she left him alone on the porch with his thoughts.
He had a withered old aunt who lived just north of the New Jersey Pine Barrens and, as a child, his mother would make him and his three brothers visit her twice a year—once in the summer and once in the winter. Aunt Teresa—whom the four of them called Aunt Tet—was a skin-and-bones woman with large brown eyes and fingers as long and wiry as pipe-cleaners. She always reeked of ammonia and mothballs and her little cottage (houses built near the woods are called cottages, his oldest brother Michael once explained to the rest of them) was always like a sauna, no matter how late into the winter they’d arrive. Often, Aunt Tet would try to scare the boys (or try to win them over by scaring them—young boys could be peculiar) with stories of the Jersey Devil, the cloven-hoofed serpent-child that roamed the wooded Pine Barrens circuit. According to Aunt Tet, way back in the Olden Days (any period of time just greater than a year, explained Michael, was called the “Olden Days”—capitalized and everything) a woman named Leeds gave birth to a creature of unimaginable horror. It had the head of a horse, the body of a chicken, and the forked tail of the Devil himself. Upon giving birth, the poor Leeds woman was systematically killed and partially eaten by her malformed offspring, who then spread a set of bat-like wings and flew up the chimney and into the nearby Pine Barrens. Aunt Tet’s favorite part was the big closer: And people say that to this very day, the Jersey Devil still haunts these woods, stealing chickens and pigs and dogs and cats in the night. And sometimes, she’d add with a sugary coating of extra inauspiciousness, stealing children.