Christine stood frozen in her spot for a moment. No one could help her.
Rosa stood and went to the ironing board as the drone of the dryer continued. The soft sizzle of the iron as she spat to test its heat was the only tiny sound in the room.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Thorpe," she said. "It's a bad thing - these thoughts. Like when it's too hot, sometimes bad thoughts make you crazy."
Like a boiling pot, Christine's temper flared. "Who in the hell are you to talk to me like that. You're only an employee - you only work here - and don't you forget it!"
She stormed out of the room, bumped into the two boys who were listening outside the door, and went down into the dim, cool studio to think
Rosa ironed and the boys came and sat under the table playing jacks, both quiet, the only sound the metal toys hitting the floor and the bouncing of the small rubber ball.
"That's good, you boys play quiet. Mrs. Thorpe, she no feel good. Her head, it hurts, it throbs bad, like when you slam your finger in a door. You good boys. She sick, we be quiet and I pray maybe soon God make her better."
The oldest boy stopped. "Who is this God who will make her better, Mama?"
"Ssh," Rosa cautioned. "Ssh, never say his name. Like I told you, he's our secret friend. We no say his name. We tell nobody. Ssh."
Chapter 15
"The computer beeped up the bill. Mother's nursing home fee was due yesterday."
"I'll have it sent today," Anderson promised as he left the house.
Christine breathed a sigh of relief. She was grateful he had pulled strings and saved her mother. She had passed all the requirements for mandatory euthanasia, but Anderson, for her sake, had intervened. She didn't know exactly what had been done in his shadowy world, but she knew her mother's date of birth had been changed on paper and that medical reports were invented daily indicating her mother's constant improvement. This was good and she felt love for him, that he did this for her. She still didn't really understand his world, but it was okay; acts like this one proved Anderson's worth to her; and the world echoed back his worth. He was speech writer for all the Presidents now - at least the past two. The world appreciated him, and so must she.
She called the nursing home. Maybe it was the counterfeit papers that led the direction of her conversations with her mother's nurse.
"Doris, how is she today?"
"Good, very good. She can't come to the phone right now - she's in the shower."
"Oh, feeling chipper is she?"
"Yeah, I think it's the nice weather."
"Yeah, me too. Would you give her my love and tell her we'll visit her very soon."
"Sure. She'll be looking forward to it."
"Doris, that's my other line. I gotta go."
They hung up. The nurse looked at the comatose woman and continued writing an imaginary progress report on the chart. "Shower - 8 a.m.; Healthy breakfast - cholesterol free; Exercise period..." She racked her brain trying to alter the report a bit from yesterday's.
Christine answered the other call but a buzz of silence greeted her. She repeated, "Hello?"
The tape began with a click. "Hello, welcome to Thorpe Industries. You’ve reached the Fun Line. We'd like you to meet Cindy..." Canned clapping began, and a sultry voice purred.
"Hi, I'm Cindy. I'm seventeen, but barely. The important numbers are 36-24-36, and I don't mean my phone number. I like guys and gals - even pets. I suck, I fuck, I do anything your little heart desires. Join the club. We switch partners on Wednesday - full blown orgies on Saturday."
Christine felt sick as she slammed the receiver down hard on the obscene voice. How dare they! She shook with anger. What if one of the children had answered. Australia - that word leaped to her mind constantly now.
She went to the cash room and punched up the buttons. She read "Cash" - "Cash Reserves" - "Stocks" - "Property Options". The computer told her what she needed to know. Anderson was just being stubborn - he could come up with the required two million dollars. He owned the advertising agency – the only one – he could bill his clients early; they could sell the house cheap.
Australia would be a challenge to Anderson. She knew he always complained that none of his product sold there. She knew the other facts, that Dope had been virtually wiped out there; divorce was down; religion had been revived and churches reopened - and people actually attended them.
Everything she read about Australia fueled her determination. She had to make Anderson see. She ignored the fact that the maximum number of children allowed was two. She wanted to read that paper again. But when she and Anderson had talked about Australia, she was sure he had put it in his desk, and most times he kept the drawers locked. "Sensitive information," he had said.
She went to his study, hoping that the desk would be unlocked and that Anderson hadn't thrown the paper away since it was outdated and the immigration requirements had changed. She pulled at the drawers futilely - locked, all of them locked - except for the middle drawer which she knew contained nothing of importance, just pens, paper clips, staples, etc.
She shifted the things around and her hand found something cold in the back corner. Drawing it forward, she saw a small ornate golden frame. She smiled, wondering what the picture was. Maybe he was sentimental after all. She opened the double frame and a current of shock went through her body. One side was blank, but the other...she knew the face that stared back at her with Anderson's brown eyes.
Who – What – Why –
Why? Why? she questioned over and over. Why would he keep such a thing, this photograph? And the veils descended - thin and gauzelike, shielding her vision as they dropped, hiding her from reality.
The veils sent her scurrying to the basement - to the studio. She grabbed a lump of clay. She touched, molded, smoothed. It was her frantic occupation. Like Elias before her, she could not fathom or find the figure she needed to create.
Clocks ticked in the house; the water heater turned on and off; the hum of the empty house lulled her. Restless fingers touched, molded, until it was finished - another perfect lamb. A sacrificial lamb. Of course, that's the only answer. The restrictions are two children and I have three. She peered into the kiln and asked, "Which one?"
The silence breathed. The veils crashed at her feet. Blindly, and holding the banister she made her way upstairs to lie down until this spell passed.
Of course, that was the answer - the only answer available to her. She sobbed from the pain of the thought running through her mind.
Outside the fence hissed audibly. What if someone or something had touched it, but it didn’t matter – the premiums were paid.
Chapter 16
When the phone rang so early in the morning, Christine felt afraid. After the repulsive tape yesterday, she didn't want to answer. No friends called any more - they were all gone. But maybe it was Anderson - a pay day maybe. She hesitated, then picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Thorpe, this is Doris. Dr. Forest thinks you better come see your mother - before it's too late."
"You mean it's..." She left her sentence unfinished.
"I'm afraid so," Doris responded. She felt truly regretful herself. Jobs like this one weren't easy to find.
With shaking hands, Christine dialed Anderson's office. After two wrong numbers she got the right number and he answered himself. The visual button was on.
"What are you doing in your nightgown?" he snapped. "It's ten o'clock."
"I know - I'm sorry - but Mother..." She paused. "They called about Mother."
"You mean she's dead?"
"No, but the doctor felt we should come quickly. Can you come home now? You need to pick up the children at school." She paused, then added, "Please hurry!"
"Yes..." he sighed. "Yes, nothing's going right today anyway. All the secretaries are off. Seems they've all got the vapors. That's an allowed malady, you know. The leniency in the world does have its drawbacks."
"Please hurry," she repeated.
"No one's here to take a message - secretaries are off - vapors. It's becoming a national holiday."
"I know. Can you go to the principal's office for me? I need to let someone know the Thorpe children need to come home right away, and my husband will pick them up."
"Um...I don't know. I'm just the janitor. I really shouldn't have answered the phone."
"Please, mister, it concerns a death in the family. Please..." she sobbed into the phone.
"Well, I'll have to put this down as overtime extra duties."
"Fine, fine. I'll verify that. Please hurry! The Thorpe children - there're three of them."
"Thorpe..." he repeated before he hung up.
Christine sank into a chair. What should she do? She couldn't just sit here while her mother was dying. She checked the book - her allotment was used up - she couldn't call Secure Cars. The Convalescent home was thirty miles out of town. You could only get there by car and that was tricky enough - road blocks, bridges knocked down. No, she'd have to wait for Anderson.
The day dragged on. Maybe it was too late. She felt sorrow about all the promises; ashamed at how many times she had said, "Doris, tell her we'll visit real soon". How many times was it? Hundreds she was sure - and they never did.
With a sense of shame and shock, she realized it was over a year since she had seen her mother.
"She's out - like a light," Anderson would point out cruelly. "She doesn't even know you're here."
That was true enough, but when she did visit it made her feel better just to sit quietly by her bedside and hold the frail hand. Maybe she knew.
She dressed and sat down to wait. Within the hour the car pulled up. The children were livid.
"Do we have to go?" whined Luke. "I've got homework."
"Yes, you do!" Christine said firmly. "Get dressed - and no sloppy jeans."
Muttering, the three of them went upstairs. Rachael whispered something to them and she heard their laughter.
In the car, as the scenery flew by, Christine tried to distract herself by talking about the country. She pointed out the window. "See that creek. Why, when you guys were little we used to go on picnics there and fish. There was always a running battle over who could catch the biggest fish. It's a small creek, but then it had lots of blue gills."
Their heads swiveled to look. "I don't remember that," said Luke.
"Neither do I," Matt said.
The winds of forgetfulness...she was sure they had breathed them too many times.
They squirmed in the back seat like they had then, on the rides to picnics and on fishing trips.
"I don't see why we have to go. I don't even know her!" Matt protested.
"Ssh. Don't be disrespectful. She's your grandmother and she adored the three of you."
Christine leaned back in the seat. So far, so good. No road blocks and the bridge over the creek had been replaced. She watched the passing trees and reminisced.
"Why, when you were little, Grandma would bake the most marvelous chocolate chip cookies - it always ruined your supper - you ate so many. And she was a wonderful story teller - always reading you fairytales - and you always begged for more. She was a very loving person, my mother. She would spend hours playing games like 'Go Fishing' or 'Clean Sweep' with you." She smiled to herself at the tender memories.
"I don't remember any of that either," Rachael commented sourly.
"Never mind. Your childhood is somewhere in your brain. Funny, you can always remember it better when you get older."
Anderson drove silently, listening to their idle chatter. More of this boring nostalgia crap. They'd listen and nod and punch each other and snicker. As Luke consumed the "Ecstasy", Matt and Rachael smiled at his secret.
In half an hour they arrived at the nursing home. It was a tall, grey, ominous building with shuttered windows, most of which were closed.
It didn't matter that some days the sun shone brightly, for here in this place was the pause that money could buy. It held death at bay with pumps, pills, injections, drips; it kept the grim reaper waiting until all the miracles of science had run out - then he could collect his prize.
Christine vaguely understood that this was an illegal place. She knew her mother's age and state of health made her eligible for mandatory euthanasia, but when she had pleaded, begged, and wept, Anderson had agreed to arrange for her mother to be kept alive. It was over five years now since her mother had had the massive stroke.
Inside the dimly lit halls - green and grey - enfolded before them. They spoke in whispers.
"Anderson, could you wait here in the lobby? Maybe only the children..." They both knew - it stood between them like a blister. Her mother had never liked Anderson; in fact she hated him. She had horrible thoughts about him. She knew that there was something sinister about him, but Christine thought this so unfair.
The receptionist greeted them and Christine felt that the nurses, the doctors, anyone who saw them, thought how handsome and wonderful her children were. She imagined that others envied her, the proud mother, for when they saw her with her ducklings - obedient, clean, untouched by the world - that vast dirty world crumbling around them. It was all to her credit, she felt; Anderson had not helped. They walked through the filth all around them and it didn't touch them. They glittered in her eyes like pantomime angels.
The door swished open and in the room she saw her mother on the high, white bed. She looked the same as she had a year ago, but she must have worsened or they wouldn't have called her. Her mother was thin and gray. Her wrinkled arms, parchment thin, dry as twigs, lay crossed upon her chest like an "X".
"Mother, it's me - Christine." The old woman's tired eyes blinked and watered and continued staring at a crack in the corner of the room. "Mother, I've brought the children - look..." She tugged at them. "Here's Luke, and Matthew, and look at Rachael. She's the beauty at her school."
The children allowed themselves to be presented and Luke leaned forward and said, "Grandmother, I'm so glad to see you." Surprised, Christine's eyes clouded with tears - it was so gentle, so unexpected of him. And then Christine realized that something truly unexpected was going to happen - Luke was going to give his grandmother a kiss.
As Luke leaned over, he saw that his grandmother's thin, tired, chapped lips were open - and a truly remarkable thing was happening - her tongue - Jesus! Jesus! - her tongue seemed to be expanding.
He reached the arid desert of her lips. His tongue touched her expanding tongue in a gesture of sharing and he deposited a blob of crack on her coated tongue.
"Luke, it's all right," Christine said as she patted his shoulder in a gesture of sympathy. If she could have seen his face she would not have understood, for his face was incredulous with what he was seeing.
A pulse pounded in the old woman's head and a needle was placed lightly in her temple - feeding the almost dead. Luke could see the tiny droplets of blood pushing, pushing inward - feeding and watering the arid desert. His hallucination was vivid and fascinating. He could see the pacemaker leaping forward; he imagined he saw her heart - an incredible red, pulsating obscenity - now sitting on her chest, flopping with electrical shocks, trying desperately to be still. But the electricity would not let the tired organ rest.
"Holy shit!" Luke whispered to himself.
It was then that her eyes, tired, grey and unfocused, lit up. "My God!" the old woman said. "Oh, my God!" They were the first words she had spoken for five years.
In their bond of drugged communication, the eighty-seven year old woman and the sixteen year old boy shared a vision - each their own private vision. He stared at the mechanics of her body as it pulsated and pounded. Blood flowed; cancer cells rushed together, mated, split, making thousands of young - also rushing, scrambling - the new born giving birth to new borns. It was a 4th of July kaleidoscope of burning colors bursting in a million directions.
Her e
yes were seeing his sometimes face, melting, changing, losing form. This man, this handsome young man.
He was the angel of death who had come for her, he was not at all what she had expected - she had imagined he would look different. During the years, days, hours, minutes of waiting, while she watched the crack, expecting his shadow to fall across her face, she anticipated the feeling of fear that would accompany his arrival. But no, her pulse quickened with excitement; she felt a stirring in her chest, she felt love. His lips, expanding and dripping with moisture, had kissed hers. His tongue, moist and faintly tasting of oranges, had met and cooled hers. He had come to seduce her. Her thin, brittle arm reached up to brush away the fog before her eyes and with one quick movement the heel of her palm thrust the throbbing needle deep, deep into her temple. As she looked into his eyes, she knew he was, after all, the Angel of Death.
"My God, oh my God!" Christine screamed. "Nurse, nurse! Why did she do that!"
She went screaming down the hall in a frantic search for help, for a witness to confirm her mother's death.
The three children on Ecstasy were totally tripping. The children looked amazed, but not frightened. Rachael quickly lifted the sheet and there between the old woman's legs she put it - The Suncatcher. "Can you imagine their surprise?" she giggled in Matthew's ear. "Eighty-seven and just gave birth. I bet they'll have trouble figuring this one out."
Rachael covered her mouth with her hands and laughed into them. It was hysterical, wild laughter without any mirth. They huddled together. It would be a riot telling their friends about this practical joke.
It was something about the fresh air or the bright sunshine that suddenly made Matt feel uneasy. Luke was still tripping.
"That wasn't really funny, you know - it was really sick," Matt whispered to Rachael.
"Why look at me - what about Luke?"
"I didn't do nothing," Luke protested.
"I do sorta remember her. She always told us that story about Billy goats gruff," Matt said to no one in particular.
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