by A. R. Wise
Blair was at Alma’s back. “We’re all waiting for you.”
Alma didn’t turn, fearing that blood still stained her chin.
“Waiting for me? Why?”
“It’s time for your party. We can’t do this without you.”
Alma shook her head and got more paper towels to clean up with. “No, I’m not going. I can’t. Sorry, but I’m just too busy right now.”
“It’s your party.” Blair put her hand on Alma’s shoulder.
Someone started to play the harp, which startled Alma. She glanced over to see the principal, Mrs. White, seated beside the massive golden instrument, strumming the black strings. The instrument seemed warped now, as if it had been slowly melting behind her back.
“Don’t disappoint us,” said Mrs. White. She plucked the strings and the sound they emitted was unnaturally low. Each note seemed to fade in and out as if Alma was moving closer to the source and then away again, over and over.
“Okay,” said Alma. “I just need a little time. Maybe, like, ten minutes? Would that be okay?”
Blair looked perturbed, but nodded before walking away. Mrs. White got up from the seat beside the harp and met Blair at the door. Her hands were bloody, and Alma noticed that the instrument’s strings were dripping wet now.
“We’ll see you in the auditorium,” said Blair.
Mrs. White looked at Alma before she left the room. The principal’s teeth were chattering as she smiled and left.
Alma breathed a sigh of relief after they were gone and turned back to the sink. She set her hands on the counter and leaned forward. The water had finally disappeared, but the sink’s drain catch was missing, leaving only a black hole at the bottom now. Alma leaned further forward to peer into the hole when she felt something fall past her open lips.
Another tooth clinked against the porcelain sink and spun around the basin. She tried to catch it, but the tooth fell into the hole before she could stop it.
Alma clapped her hand over her mouth as she felt another tooth begin to slip out of her gums. She whimpered as she searched her mouth with her tongue. The metallic taste of blood overwhelmed her as more teeth sprang free. The blood gagged her, and she wretched. She had no choice but to open her mouth, but she didn’t want her teeth to fall into the drain. Alma stepped back and watched as blood and teeth fell from her mouth and hit the tile floor as if she were vomiting a macabre meal. She staggered to one of the student’s desks and fell into the seat. Blood covered her blouse and one of her teeth was stuck between her sock and loafer. There was glitter in the blood on her hands.
Students laughed from the room’s entrance. She looked over to see a crowd of children at the door.
“Get out of here!” She screamed at them. Blood and spittle trickled from her toothless gums.
They pointed and laughed.
A tall man stood behind them, shrouded by what appeared to be smoke in the hallway. She couldn’t see any details about him except his wide, smiling mouth. His teeth chattered as the children bellowed with laughter.
Alma opened her eyes.
Her pillow was wet from sweat and she pushed it aside as she sat up. It was still dark outside and she put her hand over her mouth to reassure herself that it was just a dream. This was a familiar occurrence. She’d suffered from the recurring dream of her teeth falling out for nearly as long as she could remember. The circumstances of the dream often changed, but the setting was usually the same. It almost always happened in a school, with children laughing at her as the tall man in the shadows watched it all unfold.
Alma looked at the red LED display on the alarm clock beside her bed.
3:14
“Fuck you,” said Alma as she reached out for the clock. She lifted it and paused a moment to calm herself. Her instinct was to throw it across the room, but that seemed childish. Instead, she decided just to pull the cord hard enough to unplug it, but when she tried the clock slipped from her hands and bounced off the edge of the bed to the floor. It landed with the time face up, blaring the reminder of her mother’s insanity in bold, red light.
She groaned in embarrassment, thankful that no one was around to see her pathetic attempt to pull the plug. Alma lay back on her pillow and stared at the ceiling as she recalled the details of yet another of her recurring dreams about her teeth falling out.
Alma stared at the ceiling, which was now illuminated by the red light of the clock on the floor. She was waiting for the color to flash, a sign that the time had changed. It would feel like a miniature victory to wait for the minute to pass before putting the clock back on the nightstand. It was a ludicrous thought, and one she wouldn’t like to admit to anyone, but it felt sane to her. Perhaps it was a symptom of minor OCD, but her mother’s obsession with the date of Alma’s brother’s disappearance had turned into a curse.
The red light flickered on the ceiling.
Alma excitedly rolled to the side of the bed and stared down to see if the minute had passed yet. She felt like a child at Christmas, peeking down the stairs at her pile of presents.
3:14
“Mother fucker!” She threw the covers off and got out of bed. This time she would make sure the damn thing came out of the wall.
The number had defeated her, and she was furious. She would later say that her manic behavior was because of her lack of sleep and bad dreams, but in truth her battle with the ever-present number was all-encompassing at times. Alma gripped the clock in one hand while grabbing the cord with the other. She pulled it hard enough that the nightstand fell over as the cord whipped away from the wall. The kitchen knife that she’d placed beside the clock bounced on the carpet.
The clock’s number faded away, but that didn’t sate her. Alma threw the clock against the wall and it exploded into bits of plastic and pieces of electronics. She yelped as the shards flew back at her.
She started to chuckle at her own insanity as she stared at the remnants of her alarm clock on the white carpet. Her awakening from the dream had left her in a fragile state, and her thoughts didn’t make sense to her anymore. As bizarre as it sounded, she’d been afraid that the number 314 would be angry when she broke the clock. She was worried it would try to hurt her.
How ridiculous.
Someone pounded on the front door.
The sound terrified Alma. She cried out in surprise and then clapped her hands over her mouth. The door to her bedroom was open and the hallway led straight out to the front door.
The person outside pounded harder.
Alma looked for her phone, but it was in her purse on the counter beside the front door. She never bothered to get a landline, and instead used her cell phone for everything. Now she regretted that decision as she stared at her purse on the counter, just feet from the front door.
“Alma, open the door,” said a stranger. “Or I’ll break it down.”
She needed her phone, or better yet a weapon. A kitchen knife would do. She looked around for the knife that she’d left on the nightstand, but it had bounced away somewhere in the room and she couldn’t find it.
“All right, I’m going to break it down,” said the stranger.
“Stay out! Get away from here!” Alma knew she had to act. She ran down the hall and into the kitchen just as the stranger kicked the door. It rattled on its hinges and Alma screamed in shock. She tried to grab her purse, but then decided it was too late to try and call the police. The purse spun on the counter as she abandoned it in search of a knife. Her phone, wallet, keys, and Rachel’s business card spread out over the counter as the front door rattled again.
“Alma,” said the stranger. “Stay back. I’m coming in!”
“Who the fuck?” Her hands were shaking as she pulled a knife from the butcher’s block. “Who are you? Stop it! What are you doing?”
The trim around the deadbolt splintered and the door flung open. Alma was on the other side of the breakfast counter with the knife held out in front of her as a tall, thick man clad in a winter coat an
d stocking cap came bounding haphazardly in. He stumbled forward and lost his balance before cursing as he fell to his knees.
Alma wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to get the upper hand. She ran around the counter as the man crouched with his hand on one of the bar stools. He started to ask, “Are you okay?”
Alma was too quick to fight, and heard his question after already starting to kick. Her strike faltered when she realized he wasn’t threatening her, but her foot still collided with his face. The chubby intruder fell backward onto his butt and clasped his nose with one hand and held out the other to tell her to stop.
“Hey! Hold up, Alma. I’m a friend of Paul’s.”
“What?” Alma held the knife with both hands, unwilling to believe the stranger and ready to kill him if he dared try anything.
“I’m a friend of Paul’s. I’m Jack, well actually Hank, but everyone calls me Jack, it’s short for Jacker. Which is a nickname I got in high school because I liked computers, which is probably more than you needed to know. Point is, I’m a friend. Jesus H. Christ, girl, you nearly took my head off.” He spoke frantically, as if frightened or nervous.
“What are you doing here?” Alma was suddenly embarrassed, not by the fact that she’d attacked an innocent stranger, but because she was only wearing a long t-shirt and panties. She pulled the t-shirt down further to cover herself as she backed around the breakfast counter from the stranger.
“Paul needed some sleep.” Jacker inspected his hand after holding his nose, seeming to expect blood. He sniffled and then rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. He was a rotund guy, tall and boyish looking. His whiskers were scant, but he seemed to be trying to grow a beard anyhow. He wore small, round glasses that would’ve been more suited for a German scientist than a man like him. He was embarrassed by what he’d done to the door and his cheeks were turning red, which gave him a cherub appearance.
“Sleep?” asked Alma. She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Jacker pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “He’s down in my van, getting some shut eye and I came up here to keep an eye on you. Well, I mean, not actually keep an eye on you; not spying or anything. I’m not a peeping tom, or my nickname would’ve been Tommy.” He chuckled, but Alma didn’t reciprocate and he continued to try and explain. “All right, I’m striking out here. You’re obviously okay, and I obviously, well, over-reacted a little.” He motioned at the broken door. His mannerisms were frantic, as if he’d taken caffeine pills to stay awake.
Alma nodded and stared at him with wide eyes. “Yeah, ya think?”
“Sorry about that.”
“Why are you here? Why is Paul sleeping in a van in the parking lot?”
Jacker was baffled and he scratched at his sparse, scraggly whiskers. “He said we had to keep guard; didn’t say why. He just said to keep an eye out for creepy old guys around the complex, and to listen for you to scream for help or something. So that’s why, well, yeah,” he motioned at the door. “That’s why that just happened.” He rubbed his nose again.
Alma finally relaxed and put the kitchen knife back into the butcher’s block. “For crying out loud, you scared the living shit out of me.”
“Well, you paid me back with a swift kick to the nose.” Jacker wiggled his nose back and forth and then snickered.
“Sorry, but you kind of deserved it,” said Alma, but her harshness softened. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine,” said Jack. “Although, swear to God, I think you got your pinkie toe like straight up in there.” They both laughed and Jacker continued, “Seriously, I think you scratched my brain. When I pay for your door I’ll make sure to throw in a couple extra bucks for you to get a pedicure.”
Alma laughed put then pointed at him as if in warning. “Watch it, mister. I don’t know you well enough to put up with jokes about my feet.”
Jacker put up his hands in defeat and then walked to door to inspect it.
“Everything okay down there?” asked the widow that lived upstairs as she peered down from the stairwell. Alma walked around the breakfast counter and past Jacker so that she could see Mrs. Peterson. The old woman was in her slippers and a pink robe. She was crouched near the top of the stairs and was bent down just far enough to peer into Alma’s apartment. “Should I call the cops?”
“No, Mrs. P., everything’s okay. I’m fine. Just a silly misunderstanding.”
Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker warily. She was a fragile, spindly old woman, but was fiercely protective of Alma. The two of them often had long conversations in the stairwell, and Mrs. Peterson was always concerned about Alma’s love-life. It was as if the old woman was trying to keep Alma from ending up alone in an apartment, just like she was.
“You’ve got men beating down your door in the middle of the night?”
“He’s a friend of Paul’s,” said Alma.
“Oh, Paul,” said Mrs. Peterson with a hopeful inflection. “Are you two back together? I always liked Paul. He’d be handsome if he cut his hair.”
“He did,” said Jacker as he ran his hand over his own head and pulled back his black, curly hair. “He shaved it bald.”
Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker and smirked, unwilling to communicate with the stranger that had just broke down Alma’s door. “Alma, you just yell if you need me. Okay? I’ll have my phone ready.”
“Okay, will do,” said Alma as she waved. “Thanks, Mrs. P.”
“I’ve got your back, sweetie,” said the old woman as she went back up the stairs.
Alma tried to close the door, but it drifted open now that the trim was broken. “That’s not good.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jacker as he sheepishly shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”
“It’s okay,” said Alma. She’d already started to like the giant oaf. He was affable, like an awkward little brother, and she felt sorry for him despite having no reason to. “Come on in and have a seat. Want a beer?”
“You just said the magic word.”
“What’s that? Beer?”
Jack snapped his finger and pointed at her as he nodded. “Bingo. You don’t turn into a ton of fun like me by turning down free beer.”
“Considering how much it’s going to cost you to fix my door, I’d hardly call the beer free.” Alma went to the refrigerator to get him a Milk Stout.
Jacker sighed as he looked at the damage he’d caused. “Gosh, I’m real sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Alma. “I’m just joking with you. I’ll make Paul pay for it.”
“Shoot, he doesn’t have any money. Not after getting canned.” Jacker plopped onto the center of the sofa with his long arms stretched to either side along the backboard. He looked comfortable, as if the seat was a familiar spot for him despite never having sat there before.
“Paul got fired?”
Jacker’s posture stiffened and he grimaced. “I guess I should learn when to keep my mouth shut. I thought you knew that.”
“No, I didn’t. What happened?”
“It’s a long story, and one I’ve got no business telling.”
Alma got a glass out of the cupboard to pour Jack’s beer into.
“I don’t need a glass,” said Jack.
Alma sneered. “Yes you do. This is a good beer, and it tastes better in a glass. How long have you and Paul been friends?” She asked because of Jacker’s unfamiliarity with Paul’s preferred way of drinking beer.
“About six months. I met him at the shop under his place.”
Alma handed the beer to Jacker and suddenly remembered that she was only wearing a t-shirt and panties. “Hold that thought,” said Alma. “I’m going to go get some pants on. I want to hear why Paul got fired.”
Jacker spoke loud enough for her to hear as she retreated down the hall to her bedroom. “I’m not going to tell you. I don’t care how much delicious beer you give me.”
“Yes you will,” said Alma as she got to her bedroom. “I
can be pretty persuasive.” She started to walk over to her dresser, but stepped on the kitchen knife that had been on her nightstand. She gripped the edge of the bed and cursed as she lifted her foot to inspect the damage. “Fuck!” She screamed in anger and pain.
“You all right?” asked Jacker from the other room. “Is this for real, or are you fucking with me?”
Alma cursed some more and tried to hop to the hallway as her foot bled. The wound gushed and droplets of blood quickly started to fall to the floor. “Mother fucker.”
“Okay, it’s for real?” asked Jacker. “I’m coming in there. Okay? Don’t be naked or anything.”
Alma met him at the door. She propped herself up with one hand on the threshold and the other holding her foot aloft. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the blood. His face turned white and his jaw drooped.
“I stepped on something. Can you get me a towel?”
“Oh fuck,” he said in a whimper. He was wavering and put his hand on his head.
“Quick,” said Alma. “I’m bleeding all over the carpet.”
He snapped out of his momentary daze and nodded. “Okay, sure. Towel. Sure thing.” He spun in a circle in search of the bathroom, which happened to be right next to him on the left. “In here, right? Yeah, of course it is.” He retrieved a towel and then offered it with his arm extended out of the doorway, as if hiding his face from her.
Alma hopped forward and swiped the white towel away from him. She wrapped her foot and waited for Jacker to come out of the small bathroom so that she could go in. He stayed hidden in there.
“Are you okay?”
“Me?” he asked. “Yeah, fine. Why?”
“I need to go in there.”
“Oh, sure. Okay.” He hurried out of the bathroom with his hand held against the side of his face, shielding his view of her.
She glanced down at herself, worried that her odd position, with her leg lifted so high, revealed more of herself than she realized. “What’s wrong?”
“I got up too fast. I’m woozy. I’m not great with blood.”