by Joel Arnold
Mae poured another shot and screwed the cap back on the bottle. Andy thanked her and swallowed the fiery liquid, now the heat being readily absorbed into his relaxed system.
Mae set the bottle on the table and sat down. “Hector’s been very cold towards me for many years.”
“I can imagine.”
“And when Natalie used to live here before, she was also very cold towards me. They’re the kind of people who hold grudges, Andy. Grudges they refuse to let go of. they let them grow and fester like tumors. They used to scare me, Andy. Still do, I suppose, though it’s been some time since I’ve seen them.” Mae slowly backed her chair from the table and stood up. “They scare me. Natalie and hector Plant scare me. I was just afraid they might say something about me. Something bad. But they didn’t, did they?”
“No. Not at all.”
Mae smiled. “I’m sorry, Andy. Sorry about running all this nonsense by you like this. I can be a bit insecure at times.”
Andy stifled a belch.
Mae sat back down and grabbed Andy’s unbandaged hand, giving it a light squeeze. “Your mother never said anything about me?”
“No, I - ”
“Think, Andy. Think. She’d didn’t tell you anything? Not even about her own sister?”
“To be honest, she never talked much about anything.”
“Some people are afraid to talk,” Mae said. “Afraid of becoming vulnerable. It’s too bad, really. Because that’s what really helps people. Exposing yourself. Pouring your guts out into the open for someone to examine, no matter how rancid they may seem. It’s an important lesson. One I hoped your mother had learned. She’s kept herself quite far from my life, that’s for sure.” Mae tore apart her paper cup bit by bit as she talked. Eventually she was down to the base, the rest of it in tiny pieces spread over a small circle on the table. “So she never talked to you?”
“Like I said - nothing important. Nothing but small talk.”
“Of course, she must’ve confided in Abner. Your father. That’s the obvious thing. I mean, she had to talk to somebody about it.”
“About what?” Andy asked.
Mae looked away nervously, her eyes darting around the kitchen, looking for something other than Andy to settle on.
“Andy, I - “ Mae’s gaze settled on the kitchen table top, a calming sea of gentle plastic. “For years I had to talk to a doctor.”
“A doctor?”
“Yes. A psychiatrist.” Mae wiped imaginary dust off the table. “I spent twelve years in a mental institution,” she said quietly. Her eyes were bloodshot and moist. She wiped at them with the back of her hand. “Twelve years, Andy. Twelve years to get over a lot of pain and anguish. But I don’t know if I’ll ever really get over it. Some things you just have to accept and cope with the best you can. And I do a pretty good job, Andy. A damn good job.”
She grabbed Andy’s hand, startling him. “I’m glad you’re here, Andy. You’re someone I can talk to. After all,” she said - “You’re family.” She patted his shoulder. “You’re family,” she whispered.
Then - “You mean your mother never told you this?”
TEN
What was there to tell?
Edna talked about her job a lot. Trivial, uninteresting things. Never anything important. Never anything about her relatives. Not even Andy's father. All talk about relations was off limits, taboo, never brought up, or if it was, it was promptly redirected into some other topic of conversation.
She didn't tell you any of this?
Any of what?
When Andy was young, she'd coo in his ear. Talk to him about things he didn't care about or understand, as if he was a sponge, soaking up her tiny, everyday pressures. Cuddle him to death and Andy randomly nodding when he felt she needed a response, only half listening.
She never told you any of this?
What? What?
That her manager at work was a moron? That she'd had it up to here with some old bitch, some coworker who couldn’t figure out the filing system? That she couldn't understand what was so bad about stretching her breaks out an extra fifteen minutes in order to inhale those last two cigarettes?
Didn't she tell you any of this?
Oh, about you, Mae?
Edna didn't tell him shit about Mae. Not one smidgen of information passed through her lips except when she was confronted with that old fading photograph.
And isn't it interesting, isn't it interesting, Andy thought, that I wasn't even curious after that? Why? Why wasn't I curious?
- and she'd talk about her damn phone going kaphlooey, and the cleaning woman who'd come in with her pants hanging so low, you could stick her mop in the crack. But nothing important. Nothing Andy ever cared about. He'd just nod, and say "Aha" and "Oh" and "Mmm." Put a quarter in the back of his head and start talking and he'd just nod, nod, nod...
What was there to tell?
He was her comfort, her shoulder to lean on, like a pillow, like a pet, like a doll, a goddamn doll you could talk to anytime you felt like it.
You're my doll, Andy, my baby doll.
Like a rag doll, his neck so limber from the nodding, his lips flexible as yarn from all the "aha"'s and "mmm"'s.
A rag doll.
And she'd say that sometimes, when she'd come into his bedroom making sure he was tucked in, and thinking he was asleep. She'd say that, whispering it to herself, to Andy - "You're my doll, Andy. My baby doll."
So much affection. Too much, his mother’s praise grating inside his ears like fingernails across slate.
He pretended he was asleep so she'd go away, but she always lingered for awhile, whispering, whispering, "You're my baby doll, my baby doll," over and over to herself, to Andy, before she'd finally turn away and shut his bedroom door.
And this went on for sixteen years! Sixteen years. Andy tried to ignore her, tried not to listen, but it was inevitable, like the sunset, inevitable, like when he finally couldn't stand it and yelled, "Shut the fuck up, Mom!" so loud, so loud. It just came out in a rush, and he couldn't even believe he had said it, didn't know he was even capable of raising his voice so much.
Shut the fuck up, Mom.
And she did. She stopped looking in on him. Finally after sixteen years. There hadn't even been a reprimand. Her mouth had fallen open, so far open that Andy could see the back of her throat glistening behind her shining white teeth. But she snapped it shut, her eyes still looking dazed, almost guilty, as if she'd been caught stealing. Snapped it shut, swallowing her habit for good. Sometimes - sometimes - he heard her footsteps pause outside his bedroom door, heard her breathing through the walls, and he knew she wanted to open the door and coo and gush at him. He tensed up like wire, not knowing if he could hold back another fit of rage. But she never opened the door again, never opened it again to say, "You're my doll, my baby doll." Finally after sixteen years...
She'd still talk. Still talk about her job. About the weather.
She'd talk so much, yet she still said nothing to Andy. nothing at all.
But the funny thing was, Andy still heard her whispering to him at times. Like a voice inside his head.
You're my doll.
He'd hear it on the verge of sleep, like a ghost at his ear, the wind, and soon it became a gentle hum of nothingness, an imagined breath on his ear, then a buzz. A buzz. Like those flies in that stone building. Maybe that's what drew him in, made him not feel the glass cutting into his fingers. The buzz of the flies only echoed and rebounded with the murmurs his mother had etched permanently on his brain.
My baby doll...
"You mean she didn't tell you any of this, Andy?”
You tell me, he thought. You tell me. What is so special about you, or my mother, or my father, or my fucking self for that matter?
But as Andy shook his head no in answer to her question, shook his head no, no, no, she didn't tell me anything - the doorbell rang. The sound of it echoed through the house, loud and obnoxious, an off-key, electronic chime. I
t pounded through Andy's head like a rubber mallet, causing a dull ache to spread across his temples.
Mae looked up at Andy as if she'd been waken from a trance, wondering if she had really heard the doorbell, searching Andy's face for confirmation.
"Do you want me to get it?" he asked.
Mae shook her head. "No, I'll get it," she said and pushed away from the table. She got up and disappeared down the hallway. Andy heard the heavy oak door open, its hinges crying in pain.
"Andy." Mae's voice came from down the hall. "It's for you."
Andy got up and walked down the hall. Oh God, was it Cathy? he wondered. Could she have found me out here, trapped in the middle of nowhere, at his aunt's house? Has she finally come to take me away from all of this?
The door was half open, his aunt staring outside, blocking Andy's view.
"It's for you," she said again, her voice quiet. Distant.
Andy came up beside her.
"Hello, Andy," came the voice, earthy and resonant, from behind the screen door. The sun was at her back, creating a corona around her red hair, just as the lamp in her room had done that night. How long ago? Just last night?
"Hi," Andy said.
"I came to apologize," Natalie said. "I'm sorry my father blew up at you."
Mae's eyes were wider than usual, unfocused, her mind far away. Unfocused, yet staring through Natalie. Her eyes made Andy nervous, so he stepped in front of her.
"It wasn't your fault," he said.
"Still - I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to go through all that."
"And how are you, Natalie Plant?" Mae asked, her voice low, quiet. Andy felt her eyes piercing through his back like tiny laser beams.
Natalie's answer was quick. "Fine, thank you." She kept her attention on Andy. Andy opened the screen door and stepped outside.
"How's Hector?" Mae asked.
Natalie glanced at Mae through the screen, her eyes flashing through the wire mesh. "Oh, just fine, thank you." She turned to Andy. "Could we go for a walk? The weather's awfully nice. The air's so cool. Feels good to breath in."
Andy looked at Mae, but saw no answer in her eyes, only a blank stare. "All right," he said.
Mae sighed. "Stop by sometime for coffee," she said.
Natalie didn’t answer.
"See you later," Andy told Mae.
She ran a hand through her hair, and looked at him. A smile found its way to her lips, and her face reddened with a tinge of embarrassment. She glanced absently at the door latch. "Can I expect you back for supper?" she asked.
"Sure," Andy said. "Sure."
ELEVEN
Mae watched Andy follow Natalie down the long, narrow driveway out to the road, where they turned north and disappeared from view. How long has she been back? Mae wondered.
Her mind reeled with memories. All this talk, all this conjuring of the past made her dizzy, made her tired. Does the past ever go away?
Apparently not.
What a misnomer the word past is, she thought. Because it never really is past. It’s always there, hiding in the shadows, hiding behind a carefully produced smile, hiding in an old photograph.
What does Natalie want with him? What is she telling him? Why didn’t I stop him?
Mae laughed out loud. Right, she thought. What could I have done? Say, ‘No, Andy - please don’t go?’ He would have thought I was crazy. Besides, he’s a big boy.
But he’s Edna’s son, a voice in the back of her mind whispered.
Yes, he is, she thought. Edna’s son.
Mae’s thoughts turned again to Evelyn. Turned again to her father, her mother. Jesus, she thought. The exhaustion swept over her. She walked back to the living room, sat down at the piano once again and stared at the keys, remembering the spots of blood that had once been there. Her mother’s blood.
Mother.
She remembered the first time she went to visit her. The drive down to the state hospital. Edna didn’t come along. She had locked herself in her room, refusing to go. But Evelyn sat next to her father in the 56 Chevrolet, while Mae sat in back. The ride took less than an hour. They pulled up to the state hospital and parked in the shade of maple trees. The building’s facade looked big and fathomless, like the face of an old man.
“Do we have to go in there?” Evelyn asked.
“Of course,” Father said. “You want to see your mother, don’t you?”
Evelyn nodded, unsure of herself. She pointed. “She’s in there?”
Mae leaned back against the car, kept a hand on it to steady herself, to stay connected in some small way to home.
“Come on,” Father said, taking Evelyn’s hand. Mae followed a short distance behind, looking from side and side and up into the canopies of the maple trees. Behind them was a large corn field, the stalks bright green, the ears of corn ready for picking. The sky was hazy with humidity, but it felt good to get out into the open air, after having been stuck in the car. There was only one lone cloud that Mae could see, a thin feathery strand of white.
When Father opened the hospital door, the strong smell of ammonia hit them, with a hint of lemon. Not fresh lemon, but lemon that smelled dangerous and suffocating. They walked to the receiving desk over brutal white tile.
“We’re here to visit my mom,” Evelyn told the nurse behind the desk.
“And who would that be?” she asked without looking up from her clipboard. She was dressed in stiff, sterile whites, and Mae wondered for a moment if her hat was stapled to her head.
“Camille Stone,” Father said.
The nurse flipped back a few pages. There were circles drawn in pencil on the edges of the paper. “Room 345,” she said. “Visiting hours end shortly.”
“We won’t be long.”
They walked down the hall and up two flights of stairs. The echo of their shoes as they walked up the steps was disquieting.
When Father knocked on door 345 there was no answer. He pushed the door open quietly and peered in. Mae looked past her father and saw some old thing laying in bed. She thought briefly that the nurse had given them the wrong room number, but Charles walked over to the pale, thin creature strapped to the bed with restraints of wide, white canvas, and put his hand on her forehead. Camille opened her eyes.
“Mae,” Camille said, not looking at her husband. She smiled and struggled for a moment to reach out to her daughter before realizing she was confined. “Touch my hand,” she said. Mae walked over cautiously and gently took hold of her mother’s thumb. Camille squinted. “It’s so good to see you,” she said.
“It’s good to see you,” Mae said.
“Have you been a good girl?”
“Yes.”
“Where is Edna?”
“She didn’t want to come.”
“That’s not true,” Father said. “She had school work that needed to be done.”
Mae averted her eyes from her mother.
“Don’t speak so poorly of your sister,” Camille said. Then she looked at Evelyn. “Come here, Evvy. Let me take a look at you.”
Evelyn walked over and stood next to Mae. “Why are you tied up?” Evelyn asked.
“That’s not a polite question,” Father said.
Their mother winked. “They think I’m dangerous.”
“Are you?” Evelyn asked.
“Of course not.” A smile spread across her face and she looked up at the ceiling. Her eyes closed and tears appeared at the corners and dripped down her cheeks. An awful smell drifted off of her. “Of course not,” she said. “Of course not.” She struggled against the restraints, the smile still there, the smell overpowering. “Of course not.”
“Camille,” Father said.
“Mommy,” Evelyn whined.
Mae stared at the stain spreading against her mother’s crotch, yellow at first, turning dark brown.
“Of course not, of course not, of course not,” Camille sang.
“Mae. Evelyn. Leave the room,” Father said. “Go tell the nurse to come here
right away.”
They hesitated, unable to take their eyes off their mother.
“Now!” Father barked.
They turned and fled to the hallway, all the while hearing the singsong voice of their mother, a voice familiar from the many times she used to sing to them, but now tinged with an incomprehensible madness. And as they raced to the nurse’s station, her singsong voice rose an octave and broke into screams.
“Of course not of course not of course not!”
They arrived at the nurse’s station wide-eyed and breathless.
“What is it?” the nurse asked.
“Mommy - “ Mae said, unable to finish.
“What? Is she at it again?”
They watched the nurse get up and saw the syringe she carried, followed her into their mother’s room where the screams had turned to bulging eyes, sweat, and a squeaky panting. They watched as the nurse plunged the needle into their mother’s arm, watched Camille bite down on her lip until blood oozed down her chin. She went limp.
“Best to leave her alone for awhile,” the nurse said to Father.
They drove away in silence, Mae and Evelyn’s foreheads pressed against their respective windows, watching the road blur beneath them. Father wiped at the sweat on his lip with a white monogrammed handkerchief.
“A gift,” he said. “What do you want?” His voice was frantic and cheery. “Tell me what you want.” He sat hunched over the steering wheel like a protective hawk, his eyes darting about at the bugs smashed on the windshield.
The girls remained silent.
“Come on. Mae? Evelyn? What can Daddy buy you? Tell me. A puzzle? New shoes? A book? Anything. Just tell me what you want.”
There was the sudden blare of a car horn. Mae looked up in time to see a blue car stopped at a stop sign coming up fast. Father swerved to the left and stomped on the brakes. The front wheels thudded over the curb, and Mae bounced up in the back seat, hitting her head on the roof of the car. They came to a stop, the front wheels on the sidewalk, the back wheels in the street. Father held onto the steering wheel like it was all he had left in the world.
Evelyn’s eyes widened. They had come to a stop in front of Thompson’s Music store.