by Joel Arnold
She let Andy go. Glanced at her mother's grave. "I have to go. I have to check up on Dad." She turned and walked away.
Andy stood shivering, not knowing what to think, what to do. He stood unmoving, as still as the gravestones, until he could no longer see Natalie's form through the trees.
Follow her. Follow her back to her house. Ask her just what the hell that was all about.
The leaves had lost their crispness underneath his feet. Andy walked quickly, but didn't run, couldn't run, because of the bare branches poking at him. He pushed them aside as he strode forward, letting them snap back into place after he passed.
"Natalie!" he called out. "Wait up!"
He saw the clearing ahead, the end of the trail. It led out onto the grassy field between Natalie’s and Mae's property. As he emerged from the forest into the clearing, he saw a flash of red as Natalie disappeared through her back door.
"Natalie!"
The door slammed shut.
Andy walked into the field, full of grass and weeds, and strode toward Natalie's house. As he neared the back door -
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Hector appeared in his wheelchair, face red, eyes murderous. "Get outta here!"
Andy stepped back in surprise. "I just want to see Natalie."
Hector rolled outside, onto the back step. He looked ready to roll himself all the way to Andy. Andy took another step back.
"I don't care who you want to see!" Hector yelled. Drool dripped from his chin. He shook his arthritic fist at Andy, every vein, every artery visible. "Get the hell off my property!"
"Dad!" Natalie cried, scrambling out the front door, grabbing hold of the handlebars of the wheelchair.
"Natalie," Andy said. "I need to talk to you."
"Jesus, Andy. Not now. Just leave."
"Get outta here!" Hector screamed.
"I'm leaving in two days," Andy said. "Can't I see you again?"
Hector punched at the air, then slapped at Natalie's hands, trying to dislodge them from his wheelchair.
"Please leave, Andy."
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
He walked backward a few steps, then turned and ran across the field toward Mae's house.
TWENTY
Settle down. Calm - stay calm. Just take a deep breath.
Natalie studied her face in the mirror, and then looked away quickly. She worked up a thick lather in her hands with a bar of soap and applied it to her face.
Just settle down.
She splashed warm water over her face, rinsing away the soap, formed her hands into a cup, let it fill with water, and held her face in it for a good fifteen seconds, blowing bubbles from her nose.
Just settle.
Hector's rusty buzz saw of a voice came whining through the door.
"Emma? Almost done in there?"
Natalie took a towel off the rack and squeezed it for a moment, then placed it in her mouth, grinding her teeth into it until her gums ached. She dried her face off.
"Hurry up." Hector knocked on the door. Natalie forced herself to look in the mirror again.
Hector wheeled his chair back and forth, thumping his feet on the door. "Em?"
Natalie closed her eyes tight, opened them, forced herself to look in the mirror some more, taking a deep breath. Wrinkles forming. Dark circles under the eyes. Purple-blue, tired circles. Her cheeks had sunk in the last few months. Her lips were no longer full and ripe, instead becoming chapped and ruddy.
It'll be all right. Everything'll be all right. He needs you. He needs your help. How can you not help him? How can you not feel for him?
She backed away from the mirror and opened the bathroom door.
When Hector saw Natalie, he froze, then looked down at his lap and started to cry.
"Shhhh, Dad. Shhhh. It's all right, it's all right." Natalie walked behind him and stretched her arms over his back and around his shoulders, crossing them over his chest, hugging him. "Everything's all right. We're okay."
TWENTY-ONE
Mae looked up Edna's number in the phone book. It had been so long since she called her. So long. Why was her hand shaking so much?
Won't she be surprised to hear my voice, she thought? Won't she be delighted? Ha! Delighted? That was a laugh.
Surprised - yes. Delighted -
Still it had been five years. At least. Maybe she's changed. Maybe she'd be glad to hear from me. At least curious.
And how will I feel, Mae wondered. How will I feel when Edna picks up the other line. Hearing her voice. Oh, Jesus, her voice.
But for Andy's sake - that's why I'm doing this. For Andy.
Mae dialed the number, then quickly hung up. What good was it going to do to call her? To talk to her?
What good was it going to do to open up that window, that door between us again? Because the first thing both of us will feel when hearing each other's voices will be the memories. The memories. Oh, Christ, the memories.
Don't be a fool, Mae. Call her. Pick up the phone, dial the number, wait for her to answer, wait for Edna to answer, and say, "Hello, Edna, this is Mae, your long lost sister. How are you doing?"
And then it will all come flooding back, a tsunami of memories, washing them back over years, over decades, and will everything be all right? God oh Christ. I hope to God it will be all right.
As if she could reach through the phone, Mae thought. As if she could reach through the phone and grab me by the neck and sink her teeth into me. Ha! At least seven or eight hours apart, so what's the problem?
For Andy's sake. For your own sake, Mae. Pick up the phone.
And dial.
TWENTY-TWO
"No...no...no...It's important...You've got to..."
Andy leaned against his bedroom door, biting his lip.
"But Edna...No...You've got to..."
Mae's voice came muffled across the hall, her bedroom door shut.
"I think he's home now. I'll get him if you want me to."
Andy squeezed the doorknob, sweat forming on his forehead, dripping into his eyebrows.
"But Edna, you've got to...No, I didn't..."
His mother was on the other end of that phone. Andy's mother. He tried not to move, not to make a sound. No, Mae - I'm not here. You were hearing things.
"Really, Edna...I think I heard him...You've got to tell him."
I'm not here, Mae. I'm outside, out in the woods, in the cemetery, in the field. And I can't talk, Mae. Not now. Not to you, not to my mother. Not to anybody.
His throat was dry, yet Andy felt like he was choking on his own sweat, his own acids gurgling up from his stomach. He felt gagged, gagged by the mottled fur of Mae's dead cat, stiff and coarse, full of beetles and slugs, melting the enamel on his teeth, sucking the taste buds from his tongue.
"...I'm sure he's right here...you've got to..."
Andy couldn't. His limbs couldn't move. They were frozen. They were tied. Tied to the door by decaying, rotting strands of sinew and tendon.
"...I'm sure he's here...Let me get him."
Andy squeezed harder, feeling the grit from the doorknob rub off onto his hand. Birds flapped their wings in his stomach, piercing his inner lining with beaks and talons.
I don't want to talk to her, Mae.
He thought of sneaking downstairs and out the door.
"You've got to talk to him..."
No, no, no.
His mouth so dry, he couldn't talk if he wanted to. All the saliva, all the juice in him was flowing out of his palms, out of his forehead, out of his back in a flood of perspiration. He couldn't talk, could hardly breath.
What about the attic? Why not hide in the attic. Just until Mae hangs up.
He tried turning the knob of the bedroom door slowly, but his palm was too full of sweat. He wiped it on his shirt. Grabbed the knob again, his hand shaking. What's the big deal, he thought. It's only your mother.
Only his mother.
He turned the knob slowly and the door opened.
&nb
sp; Just his mother.
"Let me get him for you..." Mae's voice came through the walls.
Just your mother, Andy.
He snuck out of the bedroom and walked towards the attic. His pulse pounded through his veins, out to his earlobes, making his hearing super-sensitive, amplifying the creaking of his footsteps.
Just his mother.
Yeah, just my fucking mother, and things are just a little too weird for me right now, he thought. I don't know what it is, but everything that's been happening since I got here is like an echo, bouncing around in my head, getting louder with each rebound.
He opened the attic door. A vacuum of air blew past him. The stairs seemed to sway beneath him. He bit his lower lip hard. (c'mon, Andy, don't get dizzy, don't even think of passing out) The steps became solid again.
He shut the door behind him and walked up the stairs, flicking on the light switch. Mae's voice was now a low murmur, indecipherable through the floor and walls. He looked at all the books surrounding him and took in a deep breath. He let his pulse settle down and dried his hands on his pants. His eyes wandered haphazardly, searching for something to lock onto, something solid, something real. Something to take his mind away for just a little while, to let it relax and calm.
He looked for something to read while hiding from a telephone conversation.
It wasn't his eyes that found the box. It was his head. As he bent over to pick up an Agatha Christie novel, his forehead banged against a shelf protruding from the wall above the bookcase. He heard a metallic rattle. He straightened up, rubbing his temples, cursing himself for his clumsiness. He saw a metal container, the size of a tool box. Drab olive green. A lock held it shut. Andy pulled it from the shelf and blew the dust off it, turning it over in his hands. Something inside made a thunking noise. There was a key taped to the bottom of the box.
Convenient.
Andy set the box on his lap, inserted the key, and opened the lid.
Drumsticks. A pair of wooden drumsticks. He pulled them out, holding one in each hand. The lettering had worn off them long ago, and they were dented and chipped. But they felt good in Andy's hands. Balanced. Solid. For some reason, they felt natural.
Andy set the box onto the floor next to him. He held the sticks clumsily in his hands, trying to imitate the drummers he had seen on T.V.
He started to play on his knee.
Whap! He felt silly, looked around embarrassed, then realized he was alone.
Whap! He'd never played a drum in his life, but anything to help get his mind off his aunt, off his mother. Off Natalie.
Whap! He struck his knee with the precision of a drunkard.
Whap! Whap! He tried to keep a steady beat, but it seemed hopeless.
Whap! His knee began to get sore.
He switched knees.
Andy had no rhythm, but that didn't matter. The sticks felt warm and comfortable in his hands. Balanced. They began to feel like a natural extension.
Whap! Both knees now throbbed. He set the sticks down.
Which relative played the drums?
He looked into the box again. There was a small medallion inside. He pulled it out by a red, white, and blue ribbon. The colors were faded, covered with grease stains. Sweat. The medallion itself was a dull copper color, turning green at the edges. The lettering was hard to distinguish, most of it worn down. Andy held it close, shifting it in the light to get a correct read off of the glare. The medallion said:
1st Place
Drumming
Solo Ensemble
1947
Which relative was the drummer?
He picked up the sticks again and started to tap on the wooden attic floor. He felt his cut from the previous day begin to throb.
"Andy." It was Mae.
He suddenly felt sick, like a little kid caught watching his neighbors through their bedroom window, like being caught shoplifting.
"Hi," he said.
"I heard a racket coming from up here and I thought it might have been - " She saw the drumsticks at Andy's side. Her eyes opened wide, her hand shot to her mouth. Andy looked nervously behind him, wondering what Mae was looking at.
"Where did you get those?"
"What?"
Mae pointed at the sticks. "Those."
"In this box."
Mae took the box, pulled the medallion from it, held it in front of her, looking it over, studying it.
"Yours?" Andy asked.
"Huh? No. No." Mae squeezed the medallion in her hands, wringing the red, white, and blue ribbon, twisting it in a ball, then letting it dangle loosely once again.
"Mom's?" Andy asked.
Mae smiled, her eyes fixed on the medallion. "No," she said. "No way."
"Then whose is it?"
Mae looked at Andy sitting on the floor, then at the sticks lying next to him, then at the medallion she held. She set it down absently, gently, on Andy's lap. She began to poke around at the books, the hardcover ones. She searched behind them, between them, under them. Finally, from behind a pair of bloated, water damaged dictionaries, Mae pulled out a small black notebook. She opened it, glancing at the first page, then handed it to Andy.
"Here," she said. "Take it. Take a look through it. It was Evelyn's."
"Evelyn?" That name, that name, that name...Andy remembered the graveyard, the 'E.S. 1936-1948’. Natalie's voice echoed freshly in his ears. 'That one there is your aunt...I bet no one ever told you about her.'
"Who was she, Mae?"
"Your aunt. Your other aunt. My sister. Your mother's sister."
"My aunt," Andy said. He opened the notebook. An adolescent scrawl proclaimed on the first that he was looking at the diary of Evelyn Stone.
"I can't believe that your mother never told you about her." Mae sat down next to Andy. "I can't believe it. Never a word about her?"
Andy didn't answer, thumbing through the pages, scanning over the entries. The black ink was faded and smeared, but still readable. A faint whiff of perfume and dust tickled Andy's nose. He flipped back to the beginning and started to read.
"Never a word about your aunt Evelyn?"
Andy didn't hear her. He turned the pages slowly, becoming lost in the passages.
"Not one word?"
Andy began to learn about an aunt he never knew existed.
TWENTY-THREE
There were many entries in Evelyn's diary, and Andy skimmed over all of them, as Mae read over his shoulder. She had read and reread them all before. "I found it two years after coming back here from the hospital," she told Andy. Many passages talked of everyday things. What Evelyn did in school, what she wanted to do when she was older. When she was sick. When she was mad at her parents. Some of the passages stuck out at Andy, struck some nerve deep inside of him.
July 4, 1947
Hello. My name is Evelyn June Stone. You can call me Evvy, of course. That's what everyone calls me. Daddy gave me this notebook today. He said I can draw in it or write letters or make up stories. I told him I will start a diary. I have always wanted to start a diary. This isn't the real kind, with a lock and key, but it will do. I can hide it from everybody else. Especially from Ed and Mae.
Today, Daddy gave us firecrackers. But he gave matches only to Edna. He said she was the only one old enough to use them. Ha! I've lighted matches before. Edna will probably burn the house down. Daddy said we can go in the cemetery tonight when it's dark. He said to light them on an old cement grave, one that nobody visits anymore. He doesn't want us to start the grass on fire. Daddy owns the graveyard, so it's okay.
July 15, 1947
Today I played in the woods in my favorite tree. It's the biggest one out there. It has lots of branches high up, and they keep Edna and Mae from seeing me. I can watch them when I like. I have to be very quiet, because I don't want them to get angry. Especially Big Ed. Sometimes I hate her so much. I shouldn't write that, but it's true. I hope she never finds this.
Daddy's gone today. He always goes away. He
tells Edna to take care of us. I used to cry about it, but that never works, and it only makes it worse when they leave, because Ed just gets mad. They think she's a young woman now, but I know that she's not. She can't be a grown-up the way she plays.
August 3, 1947
It is late at night now. I'm trying to write under the moon light, so forgive me if this is hard to read. I just had to get out of the house, and it is so nice outside. It even smells nice for a change. This morning was awful, though. Daddy asked me for help. He was having a bad day and he was working in the basement. I hate the basement. I never like to go down there, but Daddy dropped a bucket of this awful liquid and he wanted my help. He was sick today and yesterday, and he doesn't like to do much work when he's sick. I went down into the basement and covered my eyes. He said don't worry, I have him covered up. I tried not to look, but I couldn't stop myself from peeking. I hate it when I peek, but I can't help it. The bucket had spilled right under the table, right underneath Mr. Parsons. I asked Daddy, can't you please move him away, but he said no, the table is too heavy for me today. I cleaned up the liquid with a mop, and once I bumped my head on the table. My head made a dull thump and I said sorry Mr. parsons, and Daddy laughed. He thought it was funny, but it made me want to get out of there in a hurry. Daddy told me thank you, and he said he had some gumdrops for me upstairs, and a new set of pencils, but the gumdrops didn't taste so good when I ate them. At least the pencils work, as I am using one of them now.
Mr. Parson's funeral is tomorrow.
September 1, 1947
Dad got mad at me for playing my drum in the house. I went outside to play, and when I stopped, I could hear Mr. Plant yelling at me from across the field. I yelled that I was sorry.