Halfway Down the Stairs

by Gary A Braunbeck

  “Fuck….” I said aloud to no one and nothing. I pulled up my head, saw that I was almost to my floor, and got to my feet, wiping my eyes as best I could and hoping like hell that the damned elevator didn’t stop at another floor for someone else to get on. I did not want anyone to see me this way.

  The doors opened to my floor. No one was waiting there. I made a beeline for my door, key in hand, and slipped quickly inside.

  In the kitchen, Melissa was gathering together the ingredients for her popcorn while Lenny poured himself a generous drink. I walked by them as fast as I could, claiming a need to use the bathroom, and that’s when I heard Melissa sing:

  “A gentle breeze from Hush-a-bye Mountain

  Softly blows o'er lullaby bay.

  It fills the sails of boats that are waiting—

  Waiting to sail your worries away…”

  And I couldn’t move.

  “Hey, Neal,” called Lenny. “You want a belt of this stuff?”

  “That doesn’t go with my popcorn,” said Melissa. “Only soda pop. Or strawberry smoothies.”

  I pulled in a thick, snot-filled breath, went to my office, grabbed the box of Melissa’s personal effects, and stomped back into the living room, dropping the box on the sofa. “It’s time for you to pick something,” I said, a little more loudly than I would have preferred.

  Melissa stuck her head out from the kitchen. “It’s time for me to what?”

  “You heard me,” I said, pulling the lid off the box. “Time to go, Melissa. Get in here and choose something right now.”

  She looked at the box, then at me. She was trying not to show it, but I could see that inside of her, something had crumpled.

  “But that’s not fair! You said that I had to wait—”

  “My ‘dumb’ rules, remember? I can change them if I goddamned well want to. Now get your ass in here and pick something!”

  “But…b-but—”

  “But nothing! I don’t need this, I don’t want this. Everything was fine until you showed up, with your questions and your ‘dude’ and ‘freakazoid’ and touchy-feely and ‘You’d have been a pretty cool dad,’ and all the rest of it. I—look at me! I’m not your dad, Melissa, he’s dead, just like you, just like Lenny, just like Rebecca, just like I’ll be someday—and the sooner the fucking better!” Even I was startled at how loudly I was screaming at her.

  Lenny stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, Neal, buddy—what is this shit?”

  “This shit is none of your business, Lenny.” I threw down the lid and started toward Melissa, who backed up against Lenny, her eyes widening with fear.

  I stopped again. Jesus Christ, what was I doing? She was actually scared of me. And she’d been having such a good time at the playground, too.

  But of course I knew what I was doing. I was just being cautious. Remove the source of what makes me feel anything, and I would cease to feel once again, and all could continue as before.

  I covered my mouth with my hand. “Oh, God…”

  “Have you been crying?” said Melissa.

  “I think you need a belt of the good stuff,” said Lenny.

  I looked back at the box, at the lid on the floor, and realized what a horrible, terrible, vicious thing I had just done. Once the lid has been removed in their presence, they have to choose. I don’t know why it’s that way, it just is.

  “Oh, God, Melissa,” I said, pulling my hand away from my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I was…I was upset because…because…”

  “It’s okay,” she said, her tone neutral, her expression unreadable. She set down the bowl she was going to use for the popcorn, squeezed Lenny’s hand, and walked right up to the box, examining its scant contents.

  “All right,” she said, the slightest quaver in her voice. “I made my decision.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “We’ll have to see about that.” She turned away, picked up the lid, and placed it back on the box. “There’s nothing in there I want. Sorry, freakazoid. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making my choice.” She walked over to me, gave me that I’m gonna-touch-you-now look, and held my hand. “I choose to stay here with you. And I know you’re not my dad, but I never knew him.” She pulled on my arm, forcing me to bend down slightly. “But I know you. And I really wanna stay.” And then she kissed my cheek. “You need somebody to take care of you, ‘cause it sure looks like you can’t do it yourself. I mean, dude, have you looked at that bathroom of yours? I mean, really looked at it? I’ve seen science experiments that were less gross.”

  We stood in silence for a few moments, and then all three of us turned in the direction of the guest room.

  “Was that you, Lenny?” I asked.

  “Yeah, been working on my ventriloquist act, learning to throw the sound of my coughing—what the hell do you think, Cell-Boy?”

  I looked at Melissa. “She’s never coughed before.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then—maybe we ought to go check on her…?”

  The three of us moved toward the guest room. I opened the door and saw that the light of early evening, golden yet somehow gray at the same time, was filtering through the blind on the window, casting soft, glowing lines across Rebecca’s body.

  Melissa moved away from me and opened the blinds a little more—not all the way, just enough that Rebecca looked for a moment like a figure in a painting, the black patches on her skin looking more like deliberate shadows added toward the end by the artist’s brush or charcoal pencil.

  “There’s less of them,” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” said Melissa, walking over to the bed and sitting by Rebecca’s side. “She still doesn’t look too good, but she looks better, don’t you think?”

  I started to say something, but then Rebecca coughed again, a soft, dry sound, and moved her head ever so slightly to the right, as if getting more comfortable. I heard the bones in her neck softly crack as she did this, and then she released a small sound, a low, gentle, but satisfied sigh, There, that’s better.

  Melissa took hold of Rebecca’s hand. “Huh, that’s weird.”

  “What?” It was all I could do to say that much.

  Melissa looked at me. “She’s thinking about cheeseburgers.”

  “Oh, man,” said Lenny from behind me. “Neal, you have to let me take a picture of her, of all three of you.” Not waiting for a response, he powered up the camera and nodded for me to go over to the bed.

  I moved as if drunk or drugged, and sat on the other side of my wife.

  “Take her hand,” said Melissa.

  I hesitated.

  “I’ll make sure nothing happens,” she said. “I promise.”

  I took Rebecca’s hand in both of mine; it felt almost no different from the other times I’d dared to touch her hand; clammy, moist, lifeless…but I could sense, far beneath the facade of her tissue, the façade that was ultimately all flesh, the tiniest wave of warmth struggling to swim to the surface.

  “It’s gonna be a long time, still,” said Melissa. “But at least she’ll have company. So will you.” She leaned forward. “Please don’t ever yell at me like that again. You scared me.”

  “I know.”

  “You hurt my feelings.”

  “Never again, hon. Never again.”

  Lenny aimed the camera, got us in focus. “You know, there are some cultures that believe if you take a person’s picture, you steal part of their soul.”

  “Then take a lot of pictures,” said Melissa. “You can keep all of our souls together in there.” She smiled at me. “That way, we can be a family. Kinda. Does that make sense?”

  “Works for me,” I said, my voice suddenly hoarse.

  “I’m gonna make chocolate cake for your birthday,” said Melissa. “Chocolate’s good for birthdays.”

  I thought of the rest of my life, knowing that there was now more of it be
hind me than ahead, and of the days I would spend in these rooms, watching over Rebecca with Melissa nearby to take care of me, and wondered if maybe I’d find that it had some meaning, after all. Maybe Rebecca would come all the way back to me, and maybe she wouldn’t; but if there was even a chance I could win her heart as I should have, that I could love and treasure her the way I always should have, then I would not push it away. I would continue to collect the boxes of personal effects and help those who came to my door to find their way to…wherever they went once their choice had been made. I would grow old with my wife and this little girl for company, and the day would come when I would find myself in a hospital, nursing home, or hospice bed, and I knew they would be there, as well, watching over me, whispering memories into my ear, singing lost lullabies as I release the final, relieved breaths, feeling the weight of purpose and meaning forever lifted from my eyes; and afterward…

  Afterward, there will be a hallway, its polished floor shining under the glow of overhead fluorescent lights, and into this hallway there will be wheeled a gurney with a sheet-covered body, and the wheels will squeak softly as it is rolled toward the far end where only one elevator waits, and this elevator goes in only one direction. As the gurney is wheeled away, another person, dressed in hospital or hospice whites, will shuffle from the room carrying a box with my name written on its side, and they will carry this box to the front desk, knowing that come Tuesday, or Thursday, or Sunday, it will be discarded with the other unclaimed possessions, left to time, the elements, or other mysteries best not dwelt upon for too long. It is, after all, only a box of stuff, of left-behind things, items with no meaning to anyone except the person who can no longer touch them, hold them, or tell the stories of how this book meant something, this ring was precious, this cross-stitched picture is beautiful because…

  But for now, right now, this moment, I hold my wife’s hand, and Melissa holds her other hand, and in this way we are one, and it needs to be captured, to be noted, in order to make it true not only in the moment, but in memory, as well. I look at Melissa and smile and hope that all I want her to know can be seen in that smile, and hope—God, how I hope, how strange a feeling it is to hope—that we’ll know in a few seconds, after Lenny takes the picture. I look at him and think, Take it. Take it as we are now. We are looking at you. As we are now. Take it. Take it. Take it.

  For Want of a Smile

  Introduction by Sèphera Girón

  Who hasn’t felt the hollow ache of loneliness? The gnawing of sexual frustration? The yearn for companionship?

  When one is single, it seems as though everyone else has found love and is living a grand romance. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t.

  However, the reality remains that most people come into life believing they will one day have a partner.

  Even Frankenstein’s monster craved a mate and tried to get one.

  Some people spend years, even decades, an entire lifetime, looking for love. There is no guarantee that we will all find love and happiness. Media fills our minds with the idea that romance is only a mouseclick away or that marital vows will truly last, but the statistics prove otherwise. There are a lot of single people out there bumbling around, trying to figure out how to connect.

  Although it’s easy to point a finger at modern society and say we’re cold and disconnected with all of our technologies, the lonely have walked the earth since the beginning of man.

  Several years ago—wow, I guess it’s been fifteen!—Gary wrote The Indifference of Heaven/In Silent Graves and used my name. When he showed me his work, I was speechless, stupefied with honor and insanely flattered. It blew my mind that now I too was absorbed into his beautifully crafted renderings for eternity. His inclusion of my name in his creation remains one of my favourite gifts that I’ve ever received. And truly, despite my bias, In Silent Graves is a fantastic book and required reading for all Braunbeck fans.

  Most of you know that Gary has won many writing awards, seven Stokers alone, for his fabulous work. He was also the President of the Horror Writers Association for a while and did a fabulous job. I’ve been a member of the HWA since the early nineties and the Ontario Chapter Head so it was a thrill to work with him in that capacity as well.

  In “For Want of a Smile,” Braunbeck captures the poignant ache of loneliness, of yearning to love and be loved; all of the human things that are elusive to so many.

  Wayne is a middle-aged average man slipping in and out of reality and we are along for the ride.

  Braunbeck’s work is always well-crafted; lyrical and usually melancholy. His ability to articulate nuances of emotion is the reason he wins awards. In Wayne, we find a regular guy who just can’t figure out the code for getting a girl or even getting laid. We are treated to his misadventures through Braunbeck’s poetic prose with lines like “the bitter taste of alone in his mouth.”

  So now, dim the lights and sit back. Immerse yourself into the world of Wayne Bricker who is having a worse life than you.

  For Want Of A Smile

  I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost

  Who died before the god of Love was born.

  —John Donne, “Love’s Deitie”

  When Quasimodo awoke he found that sometime during the night he’d turned back into Wayne Bricker and the woman who was his Esmeralda had broken into particles of dust that drifted before his eyes like so many unattained goals.

  He dragged himself out of bed, stoop-shouldered, and made his way down to the kitchen where, for the umpteenth time, he prepared himself a breakfast of toast, tea, one strip of turkey bacon, and half a grapefruit. He ate in silence, trying to recapture the scent of Esmeralda’s skin, the soft fullness of her lips, the sparkle in her eyes that promised passion. No good; gone but not forgotten.

  Wayne Bricker finished his breakfast, started the day’s first cigarette, and thought about his life, all thirty-six years, four months, two weeks, six days, seven hours, and—he looked at the clock—eighteen minutes of it. It was not an extraordinary life—he was no poet, no visionary, no heroic leader of men—but it was usually a good life, if a bit solitary; but what else could an acne-scarred, overweight, prematurely balding bachelor who was still technically a virgin expect?

  He crushed out his cigarette and went into the bathroom where he showered and shaved. As he stood in front of the mirror drying what was left of his hair, he studied his average face and wondered why it was that everyone had to be exceptional these days. It wasn’t good enough just to do your best and get by; no, that was a bit unadorned for most people’s vision of success. If you had no grand accomplishments behind you at twenty-one, people smiled and said, That’s okay, you’re Young; if at seventy you could not compete, they smiled and said, That’s okay, you’re old; but if you were thirty-six and the best you had to offer another human being was a steady job, a nice enough home, and a life unencumbered by crowds of friends, meager though that life might be, well, then, these same people looked at you only briefly and whispered to one another: Failure.

  “Always start the day on a cheery note, eh?” he said to his reflection. It was a pleasant if unmemorable face (and if anyone did remember his face, they remembered only the terrible acne scars), and he decided—as he always did during this morning ritual—that he was happy with it and the man who accompanied it. If only he could find someone who would feel the same—

  —ah, the hell with it. That’s why he had Esmeralda at nights, or in the afternoons, sometimes during lunch, but she was always with him, more a part of his memory than those few people who were actually a part of his life.

  And so Wayne Bricker, perceived by those around him as an average, lonely, unimaginative but decent man, dressed and left for work, still trying to recapture the scent of his dream lover’s skin.

  Just another day. No fanfare, please.

  He stopped by the post office and mailed the letter he’d been carrying in his pocket for over three weeks. He’d never tried the Personals before. At leas
t the rejection he knew waited for him in print had the added appeal of not being face-to-face humiliation. Enough of that was … well, enough.

  He slipped the envelope into the slot and immediately wished he hadn’t done it. Oh, well—the noose was around his neck now, might as well step off that chair …

  * * *

  SWM, 36, steady employment, owns own home, seeks SF for companionship and possible romance. Appearance not at all important. “Who, being loved, is poor?” Do you know who said that? If so, we might be right for each other. Respond to P.O. Box 18012, Cedar Hill, Ohio, 43055.

  * * *

  Come, and I will you teach you the disillusionment of the body as it perishes in the rain of grief, the death in fading roses never sent to one you admire from afar, the emptiness of lonely orgasms in night-flooded, loveless rooms.

  How many nights had those words come to him while he was asleep and just about to hold his dream lover in his arms? How many mornings had begun with the bitter taste of alone in his mouth?

  Too many; far, far too many.

  And so he came to find himself writing, then re-writing the ad. Short but not too short, and there must be no hint in the words of the desperation in his heart.

  No more, he thought as he stood before the post office box, the key in his trembling hand. No more.

  He inserted the key and turned the lock.

  Inside was only one envelope. He knew that he should be happy that at least someone had responded, but he’d hoped for more than—