We’d married young, his father and I, but one look at that slow, playful grin had sold me forever.With all my heart, I wished for my best friend to come back to me. I took a shaky breath and blew the candles out.
Smoke curled across the slant of moonlight up to the ceiling. No one made a move to turn on the lights right away. We just sat there for a moment, in the darkness, wishing.
ONE TIMES ONE IS ONE
The wire cage eats diamonds into my back. I sit so the empty space is behind me because that space is nothing, a big fat zero.
One times one is one…
I start multiplying the ones together, not the zeroes. Zeroes are everywhere. Even the diamonds in my cage look like zeroes. All 12,151 of them. Numbers keep my brain working. But not the zeroes.
One times two is two…
Something growls in the black nothing underneath me. It shivers my stomach. A zero is down there, too. A hungry zero.
One times three is three…
I can’t see the cage I’m facing, but I know it’s there. A boy lives inside that one. He’s maybe a few years older than me. Small sounds come from his cage all the time – squeaking, banging, crying. I wish I could talk to him.
One times four is four…
Soon after the growl below comes the light. Always. It buzzes first, then flicks on above our cages. All our cages.Miles and miles of cages in both directions.Except behind my back. Not anymore.
One times five is five…
I blink into the light, then taste the milky sugar before it drips down the hoses into the nodes in my arms. Sweetener maybe, like what Momma used to put in her coffee. The light shoots sparks behind my eyes. I look away and see the boy’s hoses dangle loose.
One times six is six…
He’s fiddling with the top of his cage. He glances at me, the dark stitches across his mouth and neck shiny with sweat. Then he opens the top and springs out. I jump to my knees and cling to the diamonds.
One times seven is seven…
How did he get it open? He’s crouched on top of his cage, which creaks underneath him. He shakes his head at me. And the lights go out again.
One times eight is eight…
There’s nowhere for him to go. What if he falls into the hungry zero below us? Unless… unless he scoots himself across the bar our line of cages hangs from. But then what? I tear at my nodes and hoses, but they won’t budge.
One times nine is nine…
I feel his vibrations get fainter in the diamonds of my cage. He must know it’s too late for me because after the growl and the light, the next cage in line falls. Always. There’s a click above, and my cage drops. I can’t scream. I’m falling into the zero. All I see is zero.
One times –
A SHAVER IN MY HOUSE
Patterns of tiny roses crisscrossed their way to the end of my rug and almost teetered over the edges into the black hole of shiny wood. The white fringe at both ends acted as a barrier to protect the glorious flowers from certain death. The edges were almost perfect since I’d combed each fringe straight. Now it was time to trim all of them the same length.
My knees creaked when I stood. They had pressed into the hard wood floor as I combed, which did nothing for my old bones. I hobbled to the bathroom doorway to get the scissors. My weighted head spun as I flipped on the light.
Fluids filled my head and slowly leaked out my nose. Yet with all the seeping, there was no relief from the expanding pressure. This cold was just in its beginning stages, and it seemed like it would be around for a while.
The scissors were inside the top right drawer. They clattered to the tile floor as soon as I glanced inside the bathroom sink. Somewhere in the house, Beverly gave a shrill meow and skittered across the floor.
I wondered if I had a fever, and if I did, could it make me see short brown hairs in my sink? There were maybe twenty or more little hairs scattered at the bottom, clearly visible against the porcelain surface. It looked as if someone had shaved. The shaver seemed to have washed most of the evidence down the drain but had missed a few.
Beverly slinked into the bathroom then, her orange and overweight body twisting around my legs. I picked her up and held her close, and we gazed down into the sink for a moment before she grew bored and began nuzzling my face.
“Have you been having your boyfriends come over and shave?” I kissed the top of her head, and when I took my lips away, they were covered with fur. I always forgot I shouldn’t kiss Beverly when I wore Chap Stick. She jumped out of my arms like she was offended by my question and sat in the doorway licking her paws.
Little brown hairs had been in the bathroom sink for a few days. I would come home from my volunteer work, play with my rug for a while, then end my day in the bathroom to see the shaver’s evidence. Nothing was missing or out of place in the rest of the house, which was why I was unsure if I should call the police. The shaver could come late at night, sneak into my bedroom, and attempt to shave me, but so far nothing like that had happened. Besides, my doors and windows were always kept locked.
I grabbed two Kleenexes, blew my nose into one of them, and the other I used to clean up the shaver’s hairs. Another sneeze snuck up on me, so I wrinkled my nose to keep it from coming. It came anyway and vibrated Beverly’s fur on my lips.
The outburst startled the cat. Her feet skidded this way and that as she took off down the hallway. I plucked her hair off me, one at a time, and searched through the top left drawer. I found some nearly expired cold medicine, popped two pills in my mouth, and swallowed them down with a glass of water.
While I waited for the drugs to begin working, I thought I would continue my quest for perfect fringe on my rug. Armed with the scissors, I lowered myself to the floor. After about half an hour of trimming, my congested head and indented knees couldn’t take it anymore.
I drifted to the front door to make sure it was locked, then to the spare bedroom. This is where I slept now since it was right next to the bathroom, and I thought I might be able to hear any strange noises coming from there. So far, I’d only heard the murmur of traffic outside and Beverly bathing herself at the foot of the bed.
Soon, I felt like I was underwater, swimming around aimlessly with the fish. Once I was in my nightgown and my rings were carefully lined up on the nightstand, I climbed into bed. I lay there for a while listening, then fell into a deep sleep.
Thunder and steady rain woke me the next day. I felt a little better, but after my shower, my head started to pound. After breakfast, my body ached. I refused to stay home from my volunteer work just because I was sick. Too many people depended on me.
I swallowed more medicine, hoping it wouldn’t make me too spacey to function. Then I sat and admired my rug, waiting for the car horn that would come from the driveway. I considered once again telling Paulina, the woman who picked me up every day, about the shaver in my house. She was nice enough, but I didn’t think she would take me seriously. She was always in her own little world anyway.
The car horn sounded. I locked the front door behind me and ran out in the rain without an umbrella.
As soon as I arrived to volunteer, I was turned right back around with a “You look terrible.” Paulina drove me back home through the rain while I sat in silence, frustrated and foggy.
An odd sound greeted me when I zipped the key in the door. Running water. The shaver was here.
I stood in the doorway, too shocked to move, and looked around to see what my options were. Beverly came to welcome me and sharpened her nonexistent claws on my left boot. It was always my left boot.
The water stopped.
I grabbed a candlestick holder off the fireplace mantel. Beverly sat and watched, acting as if everything was normal. As if a stranger shaving in the bathroom and me clutching a candlestick holder happened every day.
Footsteps. The shaver appeared in the bathroom doorway. Wrinkles etched his clean shaven face. Gray peppered his dark hair, which curled over the collar of his shirt. “Y
ou’re early. Let me make you some hot tea, then you should probably get some rest.” He smiled and gestured for me to follow him into the kitchen.
I gripped the candlestick holder and looked at Beverly, who trailed after the man.“Beverly,” I hissed and crept after her.
The man scooted a chair out for me and began making the tea, moving around the kitchen as if he knew where everything was. Something tugged at my brain as I studied his lined face, his graying brownish hair, and the ring that circled one of his fingers.
I rubbed my fingers where my rings should have been, but they were still on my nightstand.
The shaver was talking about something, but his words couldn’t penetrate the drug fog. He set a mug of tea on the table in front of me, gave Beverly some kitty treats, and then continued to bustle about and talk.
Did I know him from somewhere? He must know me, and Beverly had attached herself to his side, so they must know each other, too.
I slowly put the candlestick holder on the table and wrapped my hands around the steaming cup while I kept an eye on the man. He seemed harmless enough. I relaxed into a chair and sipped my tea, letting it soothe warmth down my aching throat.
Despite the heaviness in my head, I felt my mouth lift into a smile. Now I had the whole day to play with my nearly perfect rug.
TOGETHER FOREVER
A squeeze bottle of lemon juice completes the assembly line of wedding mementos and body parts. I crack open a new zip freezer bag, the fingers of my rubber gloves smearing it red. My husband’s severed hand lands in the bag with a thick glop. I throw in the photo of us smashing cake onto each other’s faces, then finish it off with a good soaking of lemon. He deserves to feel the same sting I did after I overheard that phone call. I seal the bag and throw it in the sink.
This will take a while. If he had picked up the trash bags like I’d asked him to, I could stuff his body into a couple of those. But no. He was too busy screwing my best friend.
I open another freezer bag and reach for his other hand. Blood coats his wedding ring. Forever is engraved on the gold band, but the word has disappeared. I slip off my rubber gloves and twist off my own ring. After I scratch off the crusted gore, I rub my thumb over Together. Eight years of marriage lay chopped up on the kitchen countertop. Not nearly enough time to be together forever. With my gloves back on, I drop his hand and my ring in the bag, and douse it all with lemon juice.
Feet or head next? I tap my chin. Head. The jagged hole right above his nose makes him look like a Cyclops. He turned into a monster the night before.
“She’s doing laundry,” he whispered into the phone in the bedroom. But I hadn’t been. I was in the walk-in closet. The broken hinge had swung the door shut behind me while I hung up my new clothes. “Oh, Pamela, I need to see you.”
I stopped stroking the red silk sweater I’d bought. Pamela?My friend Pam?
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he whispered. “All of you.”
A sharp sting pierced my heart, and I covered my mouth to keep from crying out. I stood perfectly still, not even blinking, and listened to every horrible detail of the one-sided conversation.
As soon as he snapped his phone shut and refastened his belt, my gaze settled on a pair of white stilettoes with shiny spiked heels. I lunged for a shoe and threw open the closet door. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the red geometric puddles on the carpet and the sprays on the blue-flowered contact paper that lined the top of the walls. Patrick lay crumpled behind me, the bloody stiletto resting on top of his torso, conquering him.
I reach for another freezer bag, though I doubt his head will fit. Then the doorbell rings. I freeze. Tears fill my eyes. I choke on the smell of Patrick’s blood. Thick, heavy, too warm, it smothers me.
The doorbell rings again. “Judy, it’s me. I gotta show you something,” a voice calls. Pam.
I back away from the counter, my shoes crinkling the tarp covering the kitchen floor. My apron looks like someone dumped red paint all over it. The apron that says The Secret Ingredient Is Love. I slip off my rubber gloves, quickly untie the apron strings, and step out of my shoes. Pam has something to show me. I have something to show her, too.
Patrick’s trench coat hangs from a peg next to the door. I throw it on. The long sleeves cover my crusted hands. Another glance down the front of my body, and I open the door.
Pam points to her head and squeals. “Do you like it?”
The bright morning sun casts a new light on her. I try to see her like Patrick did, and the sting in my heart grows acidic. She’s toned, curved, and perked in all the places men notice. No wrinkles. I doubt she has any stretch marks. Tiger stripes as Patrick used to call mine, back when he kept the light on so he could see me naked. A long, long time ago.
“More donuts?” he’d ask.
I would answer around the flaky, sugary treats, “It’s the mall’s fault for putting a Krispy Kreme right next to Macy’s.”
The thing that has Pam pointing and grinning on the porch is her new haircut. “I love it.” The sincerity in my voice surprises me, but it’s not a lie. Her short brown curls hang loosely on her forehead, showing off her elf-like ears. I flit a hand to my own hair. It’s damp, though I don’t remember showering.
Pam brushes by me into the house. “Oh, Judy, do you really? You’re not just saying that?”
Turning so she can’t see my red hand, I shut the door and lock it. “No, I really like it.”
“I’m so glad.” Pam’s green eyes twinkle. “I was coming home from dropping Jack off at his office and I saw that new salon and I just stopped and decided to do something drastic.” She tosses her head like a supermodel, flipping her curls. “So I did. And I—” The twinkling wavers, and she wrinkles her nose. “Are you cooking something?”
“Uh, no. I mean, yes.” My gaze darts to the kitchen. “I threw a roast in the oven just a few minutes ago.”
“Oh.” Pam swallows and rests a hand on her stomach. “Judy?”
“What?”
“You’ve got a little…” Pam points to her chin.
I force a laugh and smudge at my chin with Patrick’s jacket sleeve. “That stupid, stupid roast.”
Pam presses her lips together. “It smells like a slaughterhouse in here.” She moves toward the door. “I’m gonna go.”
“Wait. I have to show you something,” I say and snatch her arm. The sting in my heart pulses through my body and into my grip.
Pam winces. “Ouch.” Worry flickers in her eyes, but she blinks it away.
I uncurl my fingers and jam my hand back into the coat pocket. Dried blood specks her sleeve. Maybe she won’t notice. “There’s a new pair of shoes on my bed. Go take a look.” Just one shoe, actually. On top of your holey, delimbed and head free lover.
Pam looks at me for a moment. “Are you okay? And what’s with the coat? It’s warm out.”
“It’s cold in here.” I shrug. “I’ll go check on the roast.”
Her eyebrows pulled together, she turns and starts up the stairs. “I think you should buy your meat somewhere else next time.”
On tip-toes across the tarped kitchen, I grab the butcher knife. Pam’s shrill screams echo through the house. One thought makes me chuckle as I climb the stairs: I’m going to need more freezer bags.
CHAPTER 1 EXCERPT OF THE GRAVE WINNER
Dad, Darby, and I stood rooted in place at Mom’s burial. The weight in my chest threatened to suffocate me if I looked at the lid of her gleaming casket any longer. Instead, I focused on the black birds cutting across the sky in a sharp V formation. They pressed on until the tops of the trees took them from me.
The preacher had stopped talking a long time ago. People still crowded around us, heads bent, smothering their sniffles with tissues. Someone patted my back. I wished they’d stop. No attempt to comfort would help.
The white-haired old man hovering back by the fence hacked loudly then puffed on a cigarette with a dirt-spat
tered hand. When we arrived at Heartland Cemetery, I’d seen him preparing another grave for a casket. He bounced on the balls of his feet, probably anxious to get the body in the ground.
Mom’s body. Once the ground swallowed her, her death would be final, and that guy wanted to speed things up. He probably wanted to get to his coffee break or something. Heat flashed through my gut. I took a step towards him.
Dad grabbed the collar of my dress and yanked me back. I opened my mouth to say something, but the words died in my throat when I saw the tears slipping down his cheeks.
Darby had her head buried in his side. She looped her small fingers around my plaid belt, the one Mom got me for my fifteenth birthday. I grasped Darby’s warm hand and closed my eyes against the pricks of hurt inside them.
The people closing us in shifted and began to wander away. The old man inched closer to Mom’s casket. Dad tightened his hold on my collar. I gripped Darby’s fingers and glared at the man.
The few people who were left gave us consoling looks and said empty words before they drifted off. One was the woman who’d seen my funeral attire earlier and clucked her tongue in disapproval. Mom had loved my black eyeliner and these combat boots, though. She’d said I reminded her of herself when she was young.
“It’s time,” Dad said.
A choked cry forced its way out of my mouth. No, it wasn’t. If we left, the old man would lower Mom into the ground. It would be final, and I couldn’t stand it.
“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking.
Dad just shook his head, hugged us both to him, and turned to leave Mom with the old man.
I wriggled free and ran.
“Leigh?” Dad called.
I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing. But I needed to be away—away from that stupid man who wanted to put the final punctuation mark on Mom’s life. Away from the unfairness of her death.
My breath came in quick, sharp gasps as I wound around crumbling headstones. The sun threw bright rays on the maze of white, rocky paths and made my eyes tear up. I pumped my legs harder until I became nothing but movement. The untied laces of my left boot whipped my bare legs. Grass and mud around the graves muffled my steps until my boot flew off my foot and landed with a thwack in the middle of a cluster of trees.
Mad Flashes Page 3