by K. J. Young
“No, of course not.”
Mark pulls on his clothes in record time and takes the flashlight from Monica, who dresses while he talks to Alma. “I’m sorry if we woke you up,” he says. “We didn’t mean to interrupt your sleep.”
Alma gives no sign of understanding, just stands and watches as they frantically get dressed.
When Monica is finished, she comes back to Alma and says, “Time to go downstairs and go back to bed. Okay, Alma?”
Alma allows Monica to walk her out of the room. Mark closes the doors behind them, then leads the two women down the hall. Alma takes mincing steps, meandering from side to side. Monica steers her, cajoling as they walk, telling Alma that she’s doing a great job and that soon she’ll be back in her comfortable bed.
When they get to the stairs, they halt, and Monica and Mark exchange a glance. Considering how much time it took to get from the ballroom to the stairs, Mark can imagine what an ordeal it will be for the three of them to walk down the flight of stairs. There’s only one solution. He hands the flashlight to Monica. “I’ll carry her.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods and then scoops up Alma, who accepts this new development with a small sigh. She clasps her hands around his neck, and he carefully navigates one step at a time, using the beam of light as a guide. Alma nestles against his chest, making it easier to keep his balance. She’s as light as a child. Mark can’t help but feel a pang of affection for this old lady, as dependent on him as a newborn kitten. He can’t imagine what it must be like to need this kind of care. When they reach the ground floor, he lets out a breath of relief and eases her down onto her feet. She pats his face.
“We’re almost there, Alma,” Monica says. “You’re doing great.”
When they get to Alma’s bedroom door, Mark whispers, “Do you need my help?”
Monica shakes her head. “No, I’ll take it from here.” With one arm around Alma’s shoulders, she steers her into the room and gently closes the door behind them.
In his own bedroom, Mark peels off his clothing and heads into the shower. A quick rinse and he’s back out, toweling off, putting on fresh underwear, and ready to go to bed. The whole evening has been an odd series of events. The secret code, the disturbing sketches, Monica’s sudden urge to have sex in a hot, dusty room, and the inexplicable appearance of Alma.
What an obscenely weird night.
Lying in the dark, he feels a nagging sensation, one he’s had many times in his life. It’s a dark cloud telling him that something bad is going to happen and it’s all his fault. He’s fucked up royally and will be found out. It’s a guilty, sinking, sick-to-his-stomach feeling, telling him that he’s screwed because of something he’s done. Mark breathes in and out, wishing the bad feeling away, and then he remembers how he’s dealt with it in the past. If he can identify the root of the problem and work out a solution, the feeling almost always dissipates.
Like checking for a wiggly tooth by searching with his tongue, he weighs each event. The book with its secret code and strange artwork was off-putting, but it’s not the source of his worry. The sex? He once had sex with a girl on the lawn in her family’s backyard while her parents slept inside and didn’t think twice about it. Another sexual encounter occurred in a girlfriend’s office right on her desk after her coworkers had gone home for the night. And he is well acquainted with the gymnastics required to round home base in the back seat of a car. In the grand scheme of things, doing the deed on a table in a dusty room is nothing out of the ordinary for Mark Norman.
Alma’s sudden appearance? Now that, he suddenly realizes, is the tooth that’s troubling him. Not just that she grabbed him in the dark, scaring the crap out of him, but the unknown. How in the hell did she get up to the second floor by herself? And would she tell her brother that Monica and Mark were upstairs in the forbidden room going at it like randy teenagers? So often Alma seems out of it, but there are times when she is incredibly lucid. If confronted, would Mark and Monica admit to snooping around in the ballroom and getting caught by Alma with their clothes off?
No, he decides, he can’t possibly confess to such a thing. If Roy hears what he’s done, he might change his mind about the will, and Mark would probably get fired as well. And if he’s fired, then what? With Brenda and her sister ensconced in their former apartment, he has nowhere to live. His pride won’t let him approach his friends, and Mark will die before he’ll ask to move in with his family. He’d be out on the street homeless first. Just like Lisa, he realizes, he’s now out of options. Alden Manor has him by the balls.
But his newly acquired indentured servitude, for lack of a better term, is just for now, and honestly, he has to believe he’s unlikely to lose his job. He reminds himself that Mark Norman always finds a way. He’ll lie, if need be. Alma is old and confused, and if Monica backs him up, they can pass off Alma’s story as a bad dream. It’s completely plausible—actually more likely to be the case than the actual truth.
Now that he’s thought it through, the guilt that grips him melts away. He hasn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he carried a woman down a flight of stairs, which was damn near heroic. All he needs is a full night’s sleep. Tomorrow they’ll see how much Alma remembers and deal with it from there. He might be worrying for nothing.
He’s been asleep for several hours when the sobbing wakes him. He lies still, listening for a moment. Most likely it’s Alma, in which case Monica will handle it. The clock radio says it’s three a.m., way too early to rise. The crying continues with some urgency. It wears on him, pulling him from his bed after several minutes. He doesn’t bother putting on pants over his briefs. He’ll just have a quick peek.
Out in the hall, the noise is even louder, and he can tell now that it’s coming from upstairs. His body moves as if self-propelled. When he reaches the entryway by the front door, he pulls the curtain back to look outside and takes in a startled breath when he sees the stranger from the other night. Again, the man stands facing the house, a cardboard mask obscuring his face, but this time he’s close. Right in front of the porch. He shakes his finger at Mark, as if to say, I know what you’ve done.
Mark flips him the bird, then drops the curtain and turns away. Well, screw him. If Mark had time, he’d go outside and rip the mask right off that asshole’s face and then beat him to a pulp, but he can’t do it right now. The sobbing is getting louder, and someone has to check it out. Up the stairs he goes, his hand sliding up the banister, his feet moving as if on autopilot.
By the time he gets to the closed ballroom doors, the sobbing is more subdued but still audible. His hand is on the knob when he hears more: the muted buzz of conversation, of multiple conversations, friendly chatting like people at a cocktail party. What? He checked after dinner to make sure all the exterior doors in the house were locked. How did all these people get inside? He glances down, wishing he’d taken a moment to put on his bathrobe.
He opens the door and blinks at the unexpected glare of light from the three chandeliers. Once his eyes adjust, he’s aware there are half a dozen people gathered around the table. Someone is lying there, strapped down. It’s a moment before he recognizes Lisa, openly crying, twisting and turning in a futile struggle to free herself. Mark feels almost light-headed in his confusion. Lisa is dead. Her fall was fatal. He saw the medics zip her into the body bag. Is he dreaming? But somehow this doesn’t feel like a dream. All of it is so real, right down to the way his heart is racing in his chest.
Mark walks into the room. “What’s going on here?” The room is no longer hot and dusty, but as comfortable and clean as a hotel banquet hall.
The six people, three men and three women, turn his way, and suddenly all of them are wearing cardboard masks, the eyes and mouths unevenly cut out as if to cover drooping facial features. A man’s voice says, “Mark is here!” and the others call out his name as well.
“Mark Norman!”
“Good to see you, Mark!”
“Come and joi
n us, Mark.”
Lisa seems oblivious to his presence, but she cries inconsolably, like a child who misses her mother. A confused thought crosses his mind that maybe her death was temporary and now she’s back.
All six of the masked people walk toward him, and suddenly his head is consumed by a throbbing pain while his heart races crazily out of control. “Stop right there,” he says, but the words come out in the tiniest of squeaks, and the people keep coming until they’re surrounding him.
“No need to be alarmed,” one of the women says. “We’re friends of yours.” His feet refuse to move, even as she moves closer and runs her hand down his chest, then underneath the elastic of his briefs and all the way down, cupping his balls. He reels with shame at the way he responds physically, the way the bulge in his underwear grows as she touches him, as if he’s enjoying having a masked woman fondle him in front of other people, which isn’t the case at all. It’s weird as hell, and it’s not his fault that his body is reacting. He wants to tell them that it’s just a physical reflex, as automatic as a knee jerk from a doctor’s tap with a rubber hammer, but he can’t say the words.
“Come and join us,” one of the men says, leaning in. Even with the mask covering his face, Mark senses the man leering.
He sucks in a deep breath and manages to spit out, “No.” Saying the word gives him the strength to push the woman away. She laughs, and then all of them are laughing at him, and he knows it’s because of how weak he is, how pathetic. Loser. Never going to amount to anything. He doesn’t even care about Lisa anymore or the fact that they shouldn’t be there. Everything in him tells him he just needs to get away. His legs move slowly, but at least they’re moving, and after he leaves the room, he slams the doors behind him. Mark feels safer now. He thinks they can’t leave the room, that there’s some sort of rule about it—whatever put them in there keeps them contained—but he’s not entirely certain, and it’s all very confusing.
And then everything fades away.
At five thirty a.m., he wakes up, reeling with shame. He sits up, trying to make sense of what he remembers from the night before. The state of his underwear tells him at least some of it was true. Were there really masked people up in the ballroom? He can actually see them in his mind’s eye, which makes him think there might be some truth to it. Maybe there’s a secret way into the house? A passageway that allows people to come and go without detection? He sits in bed, sifting through what he remembers, and then thinks, No. Lisa was there, and Lisa is dead.
He knows Lisa is dead because he saw her body carried away in a black body bag.
None of it happened.
It was a nightmare, plain and simple. Not too different from his puberty dreams, the ones where he noticed neighbors staring through his bedroom window witnessing him masturbating. The shame of being seen by Alma has imbued the same kind of guilt he felt as a young teenager. The people with masks, Lisa being strapped to the table—this is just subconscious gibberish laced together from the images in the book and the appearance of the stranger on the sidewalk. All the oddities of the last few days have gotten mixed together in his head, manifested as bizarre dreams. He remembers something Lisa said: It’s like the house is putting ideas in my head. He shakes his head to dispel the notion and is able to shake the images and shame from his mind.
Only if you let it, Lisa. Only if you let it.
Mark isn’t like Lisa, who got rattled by the littlest things. Sadly, this was not the job for her. She was frail-minded to begin with—not like Mark, an adult man, someone in charge of his own destiny.
Enough thinking about the dream. He’s awake now and already has made sense of what happened the night before. In a way, he’s glad for his disrupted sleep and early awakening. Being up so early gives him time to mentally prepare for the possibility that Alma may narc on them. He will get dressed and get busy in the kitchen, making breakfast before anyone else gets up. Scrambled eggs are within his capabilities. He’ll make enough for all of them and keep them in a casserole dish in a warming oven. That, along with some fruit and toast, would be a great start to the day.
Having the meal prepared will win him points with Monica, he knows. Women love this kind of thing.
Hopefully, Alma will have forgotten the previous night’s escapade, but if she brings it up, his strategy will be to chalk it up to a dream, after which he’ll change the subject. He’s running things now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Breakfast is ready by the time everyone else gets up, and just as Mark expects, Monica looks pleased. As she helps Alma into the kitchen, her eyes widen in surprise at the already set table and the freshly cut fruit platter placed in the middle. “You’ve been busy,” she says with a smile. Alma, still in her nightgown, leans heavily on Monica in an alarming way. As if reading Mark’s thoughts, Monica says, “Alma’s feeling a little under the weather today.”
Alma doesn’t look like she’ll be ratting anyone out anytime soon, so maybe they won’t have to worry about her after all. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mark says, getting the eggs from the warming oven and setting the dish on the stovetop. He did a halfway decent job, if he does say so himself. The scrambled eggs are plump, and he also grated some cheese to sprinkle on top. No one could find fault with this breakfast. Now he stands sentinel at the toaster, waiting for the first batch to pop.
Monica makes up plates for both Roy and Alma and is setting them on the table as Roy enters the room. “Morning, all,” he says, leaning on his cane. “Did you all sleep well?” The old man has a twinkle in his eye. His question is to all of them, but he seems to be addressing Mark, who tries not to flush red. It’s almost like he knows.
“Like a rock, thank you,” Monica says as she turns to the stove to get her own plate ready.
Mark says, “Quite well, thanks,” but his gaze is on Alma, whose eyes are closed, head wobbling. While he watches, she drops her fork and begins to lean precariously to one side. Mark takes a dive from his place by the toaster just in time to catch her before she hits the floor.
Monica turns and witnesses his Herculean save. “Oh my God.” She rushes over to help, as Roy struggles to his feet to do the same.
Roy says, “Carry her into the bedroom!” And to Monica, “Call Dr. Cross!”
Mark’s breakfast is quickly forgotten. He lifts Alma and follows Roy into the bedroom. Limp in his arms, Alma is heavier today. Her arms dangle down, and her eyelids flutter. “Maybe we should call for an ambulance?” Mark suggests as he sets her on the bed. Alma is a mess, barely conscious, her limbs splayed out like a rag doll. Mark’s no medical expert, but his guess is she’s having a stroke.
If ever there was an emergency, it would be now.
“No.” Roy shakes his head. “Alma and I have discussed this, and she wants to be at home until the very end. Dr. Cross will know what to do.”
In other words, she’d rather die at home than in the sterile environment of a hospital. Mark nods in understanding.
Roy strokes his sister’s head and says, “Just hold tight, dear. Monica is calling Calvin, and he’ll be here soon.”
Alma groans, and her eyes widen. With much effort, she gasps out a few quiet words. “I don’t want to be like this.”
“I know, dear. Soon it will all be better, and you’ll feel like your old self again.” Roy turns to Mark and says, “Will you go to the front door and wait for Dr. Cross?”
“Of course.” Mark suspects Roy just wants to be alone with his sister, but he doesn’t mind being sent out of the room. He’s never been adept at dealing with sick people. His stepfather actually accused him once of being completely absent of empathy. Mark doesn’t think that’s true at all. He’s pragmatic. It just doesn’t serve a purpose for him to take on other people’s misery. Someone needs to be coolheaded in a crisis.
As he watches through the glass for Dr. Cross’s car to pull up, it occurs to him that Alma is dying and doing it before she can divulge his misdeeds. In a way, the timing couldn’
t be better. It’s entirely possible that the effort of going upstairs in the middle of the night may have contributed to her decline, which, he thinks, is lucky for her because she’s been miserable for some time now, and there is no point in dragging it out.
Or at least she seems miserable. Anyone would be, living like that.
And when Alma passes away, will Roy be far behind? One down and one to go. And once that happens, Mark will be a rich man. Or a richer man, anyway, depending on what it’s all worth.
When death is good, life is better.
When Dr. Cross arrives, he rushes from the car and up the walkway. His long legs take the steps two at a time, and when Mark opens the door, he dashes inside. “Where is she?” he demands.
“In her bedroom, lying down.”
As they walk, he peppers Mark with questions, wanting to know what caused her collapse, if she’s running a temperature, and if she’s spoken at all.
Mark answers to the best of his knowledge. When they reach Alma’s bedroom, Dr. Cross tells him to go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and then closes the door behind him. Mark wanders into the kitchen, where he finds Monica sitting at the table, her head in her hands. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“What’s wrong?” She sits up and looks at him incredulously. “What do you mean, what’s wrong? Alma is dying, that’s what’s wrong.”
“People die, Monica. Old people are even more prone to death. It’s sort of their thing.”
She shakes her head. “You are one cold fish, Mark Norman.”
“Just stating the facts. People are born, they live, and then they die. That’s life.” He pulls up a chair and sits next to her. “Besides, you just met her. How broken up can you be?”
Monica’s eyes meet his, and her brow furrows. “She’s a sweet lady, Mark. It’s easy to get attached. Besides, once she’s gone, is Roy really going to need both of us here?”