Halfway Down the Stairs

by Gary A Braunbeck

  She balanced on the edge of sleep, sensing her father. And the ceiling. And the walls.

  And the hole.

  She could feel it growing, slowly sucking air from the room, Daddy's voice on the tail of moonbeams most important because they're the ones that last...

  Finally the darkness swirled up to take her where there was only safe, warm peace. She slept without dreams.

  When she woke it was still night. But deeper. The covers were moist and warm. She moved back to press her shoulders into Michael's chest—

  —and was met by cold space.

  She blinked several times to convince herself she was awake. "Michael?"

  No answer. She turned onto her side. The cold space grew. Michael was gone. The ceiling rumbled. The other side of the bed looked so vast.

  Maybe he'd gone for a drink of water; she often did that in the night.

  She pulled the pillows close, waited for him to return. The clock ticked once. Forever passed. It ticked again.

  "Bring me some water too, please." There was no response. The gas snapped on. Something cold trickled down the back of her neck. The ceiling rumbled again.

  A slight breeze drifted by the bed, tickled her shoulders, then went toward the open bedroom door, through the corridor—

  —toward the living room. The beams of moonlight pressed against the foot of the bed to tip it over and send her sliding down to the floor. She closed her eyes, feeling the tightness of her flesh.

  "MICHAEL!" Her voice reverberated off the walls and left her ears ringing. He had to have heard that.

  No answer.

  Maybe he slipped out, thinking she'd be embarrassed when she woke in the morning because of her behavior; yet he said he loved her, that he wasn't going anywhere—but how many times had Dad said the same thing?

  The force of the breeze increased.

  She rose, put on her nightgown, and shuffled into the corridor.

  The breeze grew stronger, pulling at her.

  Once in the living room, she refused to look at the hole; that's what it wanted, for her to stand staring as the streams flowed out and—

  There was a stain on the carpet; a dark smear that hadn't been there before.

  Was it really moving like she thought? Perhaps it was just a trick of the moonlight casting her shadow, for it seemed to grow larger then smaller in an instant...

  The stain kept moving. Slowly. Back.

  As if being dragged.

  She put a hand to her mouth, breathed out, reassured by the touch of her warm breath against her palm; then she snapped on a light.

  She remembered a prank she'd played as a child on a neighbor who'd sent a dog to chase her from their yard; she'd come home and cleared the vegetable bin of all the tomatoes Daddy had bought at that market where he and Mom used to love shopping and thrown them against the neighbor's house, laughing when they splattered every which way, the seeds, juice, and skin spattering, widening with each new throw and moist pop!, some of the skin sliding off to the ground.

  The living room wall looked like the side of that house.

  Only the skin was crawling along the floor, being sucked back into the hole—which was so much bigger now, so much wider; she could probably shove her entire arm in up to the elbow.

  The breeze grew violent, edging her toward the wall.

  She saw Michael's Saint Christopher medal, still on its chain, near the wall. He loved that medal, always wore it, wouldn't even take it off to shower.

  The breeze increased, becoming wind.

  The ceiling rumbled.

  The hole was swirling under the seeds and skin and juice, opening wide with Daddy's smile on the tail of moonbeams...

  Yolanda turned, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace. She nearly shrieked, thinking how right her father had been.

  She looked a lot like her mother.

  The stain backed toward the base of the wall, nearer the hole.

  She could easily stick her head through it now.

  The wind almost knocked her off-balance—but she held firm, knowing something about feelings and night and love and tears: all of them could only be judged by what they drew from suffering.

  So long as that suffering never drew them back.

  —and if you can leave through a hole you can come back through one, even if it's one piece at a time. But she loved him—and weren't you supposed to help the ones you loved put the pieces back together?

  She ran to the wall, called his name into the aperture, watched as it gulped everything in like a last breath before dying. She jammed her hand through, hoped he might reach out to take it and come back—leave all the memories and pain behind like Mom had left them, without a backward glance of regret.

  She pushed in deeper, felt something close round her wrist, something so very strong, yet so gentle and loving.

  Suddenly the pressure of the grip turned to the prick of razors and sucked her arm in up to the shoulder.

  The ceiling started to thunder.

  She yanked back, knowing one of them would weaken soon because the stain and pieces were nearly gone now, and when they were gone the hole would...would...

  ...would keep growing until it had her, would still send the wind and thunder and memories and—

  She wrenched away with all her strength—

  —and felt herself pull free.

  Yolanda fell back-first to the floor but didn't wait to catch her breath, didn't look at the hole; she sprinted out of the room, knowing how she could get him back. She couldn't do it with her hand, didn't dare try that again, yet she could make the hole bigger, help it to grow—and Michael would see the way out, he'd come back to her because he loved her, didn't want her to be alone, never again. I'm sorry, Daddy, that you missed Mom so bad but Michael is my family now, all the family I've got left—

  She ran through the kitchen, into the bathroom, unlocked the door to the basement, flipped on the light, and took the stairs three at a time.

  The shotgun. She hadn't told the police about Daddy's shotgun, they'd only taken the pistol, but that was fine because she needed the shotgun now for Michael and—

  —she ripped open the door to her father's work cabinet and found the twelve-gauge under a sheet of canvas. She grabbed the shells and loaded the gun, smiling as she pumped back—

  —ch-chick!—

  —and felt the first round slide securely into the chamber.

  Back upstairs. Fast. In the living room.

  In the mirror she saw the reflection of her mother gripping the gun that had killed Daddy; she tried to work up enough saliva to spit in Mom's face but her mouth was too dry so she hoisted the shotgun, pressed the butt against her shoulder, and pulled the trigger—

  The ceiling thundered again as Mom shattered into a thousand glittering reflections. Yolanda looked down and saw how small the woman looked, staring up from the floor, shiny, sharp and smooth and empty-eyed pitiful.

  She readied herself—

  —ch-chick!—

  —and aimed at the hole.

  The wind slammed against her with angry hands, but it would not stop her. Nothing would.

  Again and again and again the ceiling thundered as she blew the hole apart, her shoulder raw from the pounding of the shotgun’s stock, her chest full of pain and fear, but she kept firing until the force of the blasts weakened her, knocking her from the garden wall.

  She dropped to the floor, gazing at the hole.

  Wide, dark, bloodied, she peered into the mouth of the web and saw forms moving within, like people passing on the street, and she listened for the sound of Michael's voice but instead heard different voices beckoning to her: Empty here, so empty without you, I love you I miss you I want you back please come—

  The hole began closing.

  She tried to rise because they were in there, Daddy and Michael, but she was too spent, too hurt and weakened by it all. She fell back, saw a thousand reflections of her mother's face glaring up at her�
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  —and knew what to do.

  “Wait for me," she said. Whispered. Weakly.

  She wanted to be in there with them, away from all the draining strength of suffering and the memories whose warmth was tainted by it. She fell forward, groping with shaking fingers for the shotgun, grabbed it, dragged it toward her, and sat up.

  The hole was so small now, so tiny—one shimmering globule was on the edge, winking at her, hurry, hurry, get across the ledge.

  She propped up the shotgun between her knees—

  —ch-chick!—

  —and shoved the barrel deep into her mouth.

  The globule smiled, then winked at her like Daddy letting her in on some little secret that's my girl just get over the mountain, don't fall off and I'll tell you something special, because you were brave, you made it back to me—

  From the corner of her eye she saw a thousand images of her mother, all of them screaming.

  Then Daddy's voice again: Almost there, honey, keep your balance, don't slip, don't fall away like Mommy did because I'll never leave you like she did, I'll always be here, I'll be right here waiting for you and always—

  —the ceiling thundered one last time, and a new web spread across the wall—

  —love you....

  After The Elephant Ballet

  "Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,

  Our fatal shadows that walk by us still."

  —John Fletcher (1579-1625) An Honest Man’s Fortune, Epilogue

  The little girl might have been pretty once but flames had taken care of that: burned skin hung about her neck in brownish wattles; one yellowed eye was almost completely hidden underneath the drooping scar tissue of her forehead; her mouth twisted downward on both sides with pockets of dead, greasy-looking flesh at the corners; and her cheeks resembled the globs of congealed wax that form at the base of a candle.

  I couldn't stop staring at her or cursing myself for doing it. She passed by the table where I was sitting, giving me a glimpse of her only normal-looking feature: her left eye was a startling bright green, a jade gemstone. Buried as it was in that ruined face, its vibrance seemed a cruel joke.

  She took a seat in the back.

  Way in the back.

  "Mr. Dysart?"

  A woman in her mid-thirties held out a copy of my latest storybook. I smiled as I took it, chancing one last glance at the disfigured little girl in the back, then autographed the title page.

  I have been writing and illustrating children's books for the last six years, and though I'm far from a household name I do have a Newbery Award proudly displayed on a shelf in my office. One critic, evidently after a few too many Grand Marniers, once wrote: "Dysart's books are a treasure chest of wonders for children and adults alike. He is part Maurice Sendak, part Hans Christian Andersen, and part Madleine L'engle." (I always thought of my books as being a cross between Buster Keaton and the Brothers Grimm—what does that tell you about creative objectivity?)

  I handed the book back to the woman as Gina Foster, director of the Cedar Hill Public Library, came up to the table. We had been dating for about two weeks; romance had yet to rear its ugly head, but I was hopeful.

  "Well, are we ready?" she asked.

  "'We' want to step outside for a cigarette."

  "I thought you were trying to quit?"

  "And failing miserably." I made my way to the special "judge's chair." "How many entries are there?"

  "Twenty-five. But don't worry, they can show you only one illustration and the story can't be longer than four minutes. We still on for coffee and dessert afterward?"

  "Unless some eight-year-old Casanova steals your heart away."

  "Hey, you pays your money, you takes your chances."

  "You're an evil woman."

  "Famous for it."

  "Tell me again: How did you rope me into being the judge for this?"

  "When I mentioned that this was National Literacy Month, you assaulted me with a speech about the importance of promoting a love for creativity among children."

  "I must've been drunk." I don't drink—that's my mother's department.

  Gina looked at her watch, took a deep breath as she gave me a "Here-We-Go" look, then turned to face the room. "Good evening," she said in a sparkling voice that always reminded me of bells. "Welcome to the library's first annual storybook contest." Everyone applauded. I tried slinking my way into the woodwork. Crowds make me nervous. Actually, most things make me nervous.

  "I'll just wish all our contestants good luck and introduce our judge, award-winning local children’s book author Andrew Dysart." She began the applause this time, then mouthed You're on your own before gliding to an empty chair.

  "Thank you," I said, the words crawling out of my throat as if they were afraid of the light. "I. . .uh, I'm sure that all of you have been working very hard, and I want you to know that we're going to make copies of all your storybooks, bind them, and put them on the shelves here in the library right next to my own." Unable to add any more dazzle to that stunning speech, I took my seat, consulted the list, and called the first contestant forward.

  A chubby boy with round glasses shuffled up as if he were being led in front of a firing squad. He faced the room, gave a terrified grin, then wiped some sweat from his forehead as he held up a pretty good sketch of a cow riding a tractor.

  “My name is Jimmy Campbell and my story is called 'The Day The Cows Took Over.” He held the picture higher. "See there? The cow is riding the tractor and the farmer is out grazing in the field."

  "What's the farmer's name?" I asked.

  He looked at me and said, "Uh...h-how about Old MacDonald?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I'd give him a better name, but I don't know no farmers."

  I laughed along with the rest of the room, forgetting all about the odd, damaged little girl who had caught my attention earlier.

  Jimmy did very well—I had to fight to keep my laughter from getting too loud, I didn't want him to think I was making fun of him but the kid was genuinely funny; his story had an off-kilter sense of humor that reminded me Ernie Kovacs. I decided to give him the maximum fifty points. I'm a pushover for kids. Sue me.

  The next forty minutes went by with nary a tear or panic attack, but after eight stories I could see that several of the children were getting fidgety, so I signaled to Gina that we'd take a break after the next contestant.

  I read: "Lucy Simpkins."

  There was the soft rustling of movement in the back as the burned girl came forward.

  Everyone stared at her. The cumulative anxiety in the room was squatting on her shoulders like a stone gargoyle, yet she wore an unwavering smile.

  I returned the smile and gestured for her to begin.

  She held up a watercolor painting.

  I think my mouth may have dropped open.

  The painting was excellent, a deftly-rendered portrait of several people—some very tall, others quite short, still others who were deformed—standing in a semi-circle around a statue which marked a grave. All wore the brightly colored costumes of circus performers. Each face had an expression of profound sadness; the nuances were breathtaking. But the thing that really impressed me was the cloud in the sky; it was shaped like an elephant, but not in any obvious way: it reminded you of summer afternoons when you still had enough imagination and wonder to lie on a hillside and dream that you saw giant shapes in the pillowy white above.

  "My name is Lucy Simpkins," she said in a clear, almost musical voice, "and my story is called 'Old Bet's Gone Away.'

  "One night in Africa, in the secret elephant graveyard, the angels of all the elephants got together to tell stories. Tonight it was Martin's, the Bull Elephant's, turn. He wandered around until he found his old bones, then he sat on top of them like they were a throne and said, 'I want to tell you the story of Old Bet, the one who never found her way back to us.'

  "And he said:

  "'In 1824 a man in Somers, New York, bought an elephant named Old Bet f
rom a traveling circus. He gave her the best hay and always fed her peanuts on the weekends. Children would pet her trunk and take rides on her back in a special saddle that the man made.

  "'Then one day the Reverend brought his daughter to ride on Old Bet. Old Bet was really tired but she thought the Reverend's little girl looked nice so she gave her a ride and even sang the elephant song, which went like this:

  "'I go along, thud-thud,

  I go along.

  And I sing my elephant song.

  I stomp in the grass,

  and I roll in the mud,

  And when I go a-walking, I go along THUD!

  It's a happy sound, and this is my happy song

  Won't you sing it with me? It doesn't take long.

  I go along, thud-thud, I go along.

  "'Old Bet accidentally tripped over a log and fell and the Reverend's daughter broke both of her legs and had to go to the hospital.

  "'Old Bet was real sorry but the Reverend yelled at her and smacked her with a horse whip and got her so scared that she ran away into the deep woods.

  "'The next day the Reverend got all the people of the town together and told them that Old Bet was the Devil in disguise and should be killed before she could hurt other children. So the men-folk took their shotguns and went into the woods. They found Bet by the river. She was looking at her reflection in the water and singing:

  "'I ran away, uh-oh, I ran away.

  And I hurt my little friend.

  I didn't mean to fall, but I'm clumsy and old

  I'm big and ugly and the circus didn't want me anymore.

  I wish they hadn't sold me.

  I want to go home.

  "'The Reverend wanted to shoot her but the man who'd bought her from the circus said, "Best I be the one who does the deed. After all, she's mine." But the man wasn't too young either and his aim was a bit off and when he fired the bullet it hit Old Bet in the rear and it hurt and it scared her so much! She tried to run away, to run back to the circus.