Interference

by S. L. LUCK

  The nurse squinted in the semi-darkness, took in the splatter of blood below Sylvia’s nose, and slapped the overhead light on. Then she rushed to Sylvia, who was whimpering with confusion.

  “Sylvia, darling! What happened?” Georgia’s small arms went around the top of Sylvia’s shoulders to give the older woman a quick hug before pulling away. “Let me get a look at that.”

  Sylvia’s hands slid to the bloodstained blanket on her lap while the nurse inspected her face. Quickly, Georgia shuffled to the bathroom, wet one of the institution’s towels, and dabbed the mess from Sylvia’s face.

  It wasn’t so much the pain as the anticipation of pain that caused her to suck air through her teeth. “Owww,” she sobbed.

  “Well, now, Sylvia. I don’t know how this happened, but you’ve got yourself a nosebleed. Do you remember bumping anything in your sleep? Maybe the wall or your headboard?” Georgia asked helpfully, squinting as she lowered her head to get a better look at Sylvia’s nose. The nurse wiped Sylvia’s face and pinched the bridge her nose with a clean segment of the towel.

  Sylvia winced under the pressure. “I was sleeping when it happened. The pain, it just woke me up. This never happened at home. I want to go home.” Her half-working lips pronounced home like hobe and the sound set fresh despair over her. Her shoulders slumped and she wept while Georgia held the towel to her face.

  “You know, I used to get nosebleeds all the time when I was a kid,” Georgia said. “My mom said it was because I picked it too much but, I tell you, it was dry as hell where we lived. I don’t mean to use such language, Sylvia, but it was true. Farm fields north, south, east, and west, about sixteen hours from here and hot like you wouldn’t believe. You want to know what we had out there? Nothing. No river. No lakes. Not a spring of anything. I swear we had to truck in ice just to have room temperature tap water. The thing that worked best for me wasn’t pinching, it was always water. Hot water in the sink and my head under a towel over it. Kept me clean for days until the next one. You want me to put a humidifier in here, Sylvia?”

  Only, Pandora knew that the humidifier wouldn’t work. This wasn’t a dry nose or a bedtime bump. While Sylvia reluctantly waded into the depths of sleep, there had been a stirring inside Pandora. She’d felt it creep up her exterior and make the thing that she was shudder; and Pandora never shuddered. She was reposing restlessly inside Sylvia, wondering at the intrusion, when there was a great drawing of energy that issued outward, away from her host and Southbridge to somewhere else. It … hurt. It was her first experience with pain, but what shocked her more was that she, Pandora, couldn’t stop it. She wasn’t averse to Sylvia feeling pain, necessarily, but not herself. Sylvia’s bloody nose was Pandora’s … what? Decomposition? Yes. Decomposition. That’s exactly what it felt like. Whatever the interference was, it broke Pandora down and leaked her out of Sylvia’s nose. Weakly, she gathered herself together, intent on figuring where the interference had come from. But first she her strength back, so she exited Sylvia and wound herself toward the next room, where Hattie Freemont was asleep.

  While Pandora lurked, Georgia removed the towel from Sylvia’s nose and inspected the flow. “It’s stopped for now,” she said to Sylvia. “Let’s get you some fresh pyjamas, huh?” The nurse spun around and began pulling open the empty drawers, looking for Sylvia’s clothes. Understanding, she spied Sylvia’s suitcase in the corner, lifted it onto the reclining chair and opened it. She said kindly, “First days are always tough. You’ll feel so much better when you’re unpacked. I can help you with that tomorrow, if you’d like.” She found a pink nightgown and gave it to Sylvia, then returned to the aide station so Sylvia could change. A short time later, with her nightgown and slippers on, Sylvia left her room.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Baker?” an aide Sylvia didn’t recognize called out as she shuffled toward the recreation room.

  From a door at the end of the corridor, Georgia emerged with a stack of towels in her hands. “I’ve got some fresh towels for you, Sylvia. How’s your nose doing?”

  Feeling like she was about to be guided back to her room, Sylvia said, “I’m not tired.”

  “You might feel better with some sleep, hun,” Georgia reasoned.

  At the scratching of slippers behind them, Sylvia and the nurses turned to see Ed Norman saunter down the hall, tying the belt of his robe. He smoothed his white hair so that it lay flat against his head. “Those two trying to get lottery numbers out of you?” he asked Sylvia.

  Georgia giggled. “I still haven’t won, you know.”

  “I can’t make the numbers come up again, no matter how much I try,” Ed said.

  To alleviate Sylvia’s confusion, the man behind the desk explained. “Eddie here is the biggest lottery winner we got. He won twenty-thousand big ones on the 649. When was it? This past February?”

  “Beginning of March,” Ed admitted. To Sylvia, he said, “I played the same numbers for thirty years. Win one time, and now I’m everyone’s rabbit’s foot. I swear, if those numbers ever hit the big one, there won’t be a single loser in this building. I’m Ed, by the way. Call me Ed, Eddie, or Hey You, I pretty much answer to everything.” He offered his hand to Sylvia’s dead one and she shook it awkwardly with her good one. “Why don’t you walk with me and I’ll tell you the numbers? When I can’t sleep I like to get myself some cocoa and watch the racoons try to pry the lids off the trash cans out back. We can see them through the window. Join me?”

  He offered Sylvia his arm so earnestly that she took it without hesitation. Gloria mouthed her gratitude to Ed as they passed. Ed winked.

  They took their time through the building as Ed pointed to each door and explained a little about the residents behind them. There were Chatty Cathies and Nosy Neighbors and Boastful Braggarts. There were knitters, bakers, carvers, painters, gardeners, puzzlers, stamp collectors, scrapbookers, swimmers, walkers, photographers, and writers. It was a busy place, he asserted, where there was much to do if one had the will to do it. As an assisted-living home, Southbridge did just that: helped residents continue to enjoy life and do the things they liked best.

  “I know it sounds preachy,” Ed now confessed. “But I found that once I accepted the help, everything was easier, and I was much happier. It wasn’t good for me to be alone. Here, I get to be around people. I can also escape to my room when they get to be too much.” He lowered his voice a little. “I’ll introduce you to Chester later.”

  A small laugh rose up Sylvia’s throat. She hadn’t laughed in so long that the feeling was foreign, but very much welcome. “I look forward to it,” she said.

  “Don’t,” Ed replied and, giggling, they proceeded to the kitchen. He drew a chair from the dining area and set it near the island.

  Sylvia sat while Ed shuffled through cupboards and drawers, then to the fridge to get the milk. “Do you like it here, Ed?” she asked timidly.

  Ed poured milk in a pot and turned the burner on. “I suppose I do. After my wife died, I stared at the living room wall until I forgot what the rest of the world looked like. My kids didn’t like what it did to me, and I didn’t like what it did to me. Being here, I still stare at the wall sometimes, but at least there’s company to remind me that the world still exists. Depressing, but it’s true. I have good days here, and I know you will too. It’ll just take some time, and then one day you’ll find yourself in the kitchen in the middle of the night making cocoa for a new friend.”

  “I don’t plan to stay,” Sylvia said as she watched Ed stir powder into the pot. “My son put me in here for my rehab, but I’m going home once I’m done.”

  “It seemed like a prison sentence to me, too,” Ed agreed. “You’re in the Heartland Program, I take it?”

  Sylvia nodded. “I start tomorrow already.”

  “They don’t waste time, but that’s a good thing. We really don’t have any to waste, now, do we?” Carefully, Ed poured the cocoa into their mugs, adding three small marshmallows into each. Then they settled at
a table near the windows where, as promised, trashcans were rattling under the weight of two raccoons.

  “Do they ever get in?” Sylvia asked after a time.

  “Not yet, but they still try every night.”

  “Did you hear about the river, Ed?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “My son thinks it’s a drilling mistake.”

  “Could be,” Ed said. “Could be a blockage somewhere, could be Armageddon. Or maybe God was just thirsty.” He blew over the top of his mug to cool it and took two quick sips.

  “Are you a Christian?”

  “I’m not not a Christian. Is that an answer?”

  Sylvia held her cup against her chest. “I think everything is on a scale except math, science, and that. Either you believe or don’t believe. Once that’s settled, it’s the semantics that tangle us up.”

  “I think there’s a gray area in belief,” Ed said honestly, openly, for the first time.

  “I think that doubt is transient. When things are going well, we believe, but when things don’t go well, we doubt. That’s just our weakness come to mess with us, but that seed—of belief, I mean—never really goes away even if it seems like it. It’s just planted so deep you can’t see it. I’ve believed all my life, even when the rest of my family didn’t. I don’t know, it just felt good to me, even as a little girl. Does that sound silly, Ed?” Sylvia asked. “Gosh, this is the most I’ve talked with anyone since my stroke.”

  “Should I walk you back to your room?”

  “Thanks, but I’m all right. I get dizzy from time to time, but I don’t know if that’s from stress or from the stroke. I like to be up whenever I’m feeling good.” A trash can fell against the window and they saw through a spray of light the racoons pounce and scratch at it. Sylvia tapped on the glass as she had done many times to Troy’s fish tank when he had them in his bedroom as a little boy. The raccoons turned to face the window. “They might be dirty, but they’re sure cute,” Sylvia said.

  In the darkness outside, the racoons scattered and then hurled their bodies at the glass where she’d scratched. The animals drew back, gathered company, and then five of them were battering the glass. Six. Seven. Eight. Fourteen. The sound of claws scratching the window made them cringe, so with a flat palm Ed patted the window, hoping to scare the critters away. Instantly, teeth gnashed near Ed’s hand. He stepped back, pulling Sylvia by the shoulder, spilling her cocoa.

  “They … they must be rabid!” Ed gasped. Teeth and tongues gnashed the space in front of them, and soon it was marred a dark, wet red. From the centermost racoon’s mouth spurted a tooth, yet the oblivious animal charged again. They heard a crack, and from the bottom of the windowpane, a thin fissure surged upward. Half-dragging Sylvia behind him, Ed dashed for the wall phone and picked it up. It immediately connected to the aide station and Ed stammered out the situation.

  “Oh my God, they’re going to break it!” Sylvia cried, moving as fast as her body would allow toward the corridor.

  They hurried along until, suddenly, the room was quiet. Sylvia closed her eyes, clutching Ed’s arm, but Ed stopped and chanced a backwards glance. “Would you look at that! They’re gone, Sylvia. They’ve up and left!” He slapped his forehead, wondering if he had dreamt the whole thing.

  Sylvia started to speak, but four aides were rushing past her to the kitchen, two of them with broom sticks.

  They left the aides to their business while Ed walked Sylvia back to her room. “I’m afraid you’ve had the most exciting first night ever at Southbridge. Here I take you to see our raccoons, and they didn’t want to be seen. They’re usually much quieter.”

  “Beats staring at the wall,” she reasoned.

  “You’re right about that,” he chuckled. “You know, I think you’re going to fit in real fine around here. You know where I live and that’s Hattie’s room right there.” He released his arm from Sylvia’s and pointed to Hattie’s slightly open door. “Great lady. I think you’ll get along well.”

  They said goodnight and began to turn toward their own rooms when Sylvia cocked her head. There was a sound coming from Hattie’s room. “Do you hear that?” she asked. “Like a … a mouse or a whistle.” She didn’t want to infringe on the other woman’s privacy, but something about the sound didn’t seem quite right to Sylvia.

  “She’s probably just snoring,” Ed said. “She’s got one of those machines for sleep apnea but sometimes she knocks it off in her sleep.”

  Sylvia did not look convinced, so Ed put his ear to Hattie’s door, concentrating on the whistling sound, when his foot accidentally nudged the door a little more open. There, on the bed, was Hattie Freemont, face blue, eyes bulging and bloodshot, with the corrugated tube of her CPAP machine driven deep inside her throat. The whistling sound they’d heard was the machine trying to push air into Hattie’s stomach. Ed’s friend and Sylvia’s new neighbor was dead.

  16

  Unbeknownst to the twelve hundred residents of Garrett’s multi-family district, the power went out while they were sleeping and wasn’t restored for eight hours, when the first wisps of dawn began to break above the horizon. Over morning coffee, the city’s chatter involved a great deal of speculation as to the strange events, made stranger yet by distortions from the television and internet. The power, the water, the animals, the crash; all of it was sucked into the city’s gossip vine and spewed from neighbor to neighbor, where it germinated in the sludge of conspiracy.

  By the time Jesse Cardinal picked up his brother, a handful of protests had erupted against federal experimentation on municipalities. Briefly, a group of men blocked Jesse’s car from proceeding to the command station between the fairgrounds and the Callingwood Bridge, until Johnny shouted out of his window that he knew where every one of them lived and that the syndicate would know too if they didn’t move their asses.

  After they proceeded past the parting men, Jesse cuffed Johnny on the back of the head. “The Native Syndicate? What the hell, man. You better not be messed up with them, or I swear I’ll keep driving and drop you off in Indiana with Aunt Vicky. She’ll set you straight.”

  “Chill, man.” Johnny swatted the air in front of him. “They’re no so bad. Politicians kill way more people, you know.”

  Jesse stomped on the break pedal and the car skidded to a stop near a group of uniformed onlookers by the command center. His nostrils flared at his little brother. “It’s not funny,” Jesse grumbled. “I need you to be serious. There’s too much going on around here without me having to worry about you.”

  “No one asked you to worry about me,” Johnny said flatly, waving to a group of three women in orange vests.

  They continued to a flagged parking area, and Jesse turned off the engine. He squeezed the keys in his hand. “Want to know something? I think you’d be dead if I didn’t worry about you. How many times didn’t I get your ass out of trouble, huh? Mom and Dad keep bailing you out of shit, but they don’t know the half of it. You’re smart, damn you’re smart, but you sure don’t act like it.”

  “Good pep talk, bro. Next time remind me to bring ear plugs.” Johnny slammed the door and the two brothers separately collected themselves to a Ministry of Natural Resources official. They gave their names and were directed to a tall woman with a clipboard in her hand.

  “Myra Pearson, Provincial Emergency Operations,” she shook their hands. “But just call me Myra. We’ve gone through the spiel with our earlier groups, so I’ll just give you the short of it.” She spun away from them and paced toward the river so quickly, they were almost jogging to keep up. Myra pointed at people working along the riverbank and many more on the riverbed itself. “Neon yellow are your emergency services, orange are ministry folks, and the bright green ones are your NGOs. You’re going to be working with them.” She dragged a finger down her clipboard, turned the page, and tapped the top. “You’ve got the Animal Alliance of Canada, the David Suzuki Foundation, five municipal conservation societies, Ducks Unlimited, and ab
out thirty local citizens. We estimate there’s about eleven hundred birds stuck in the mud that need rescue. We also have two beaver habitats that will have to be relocated. Half a click down we’ve got a trapped moose and under the bridge there are some martens in a pile of deadwood that somehow heaped up and snarled them. The fish should be left for the wildlife but it’s too much of a temptation in this case, so they’ll have to be picked up. The mud is like quicksand if you’re not careful with it. We’re using snowshoes to distribute our weight, and I wouldn’t go out there without them. They’re right over there beside that box of vests. Any questions?” She blinked at them, waiting.

  “I think we’ve got it,” Jesse said for both. “Snowshoes, vests. Where do you want us right now?”

  “You okay with picking up fish? It’s not the most glamorous job we’ve got, but it’s one of the most important.” From under the bridge, a high whistle rang out and two men in hard hats waved Myra toward them. “Wish I could chat, but I’m being stretched today. If you need anything else, just go to the volunteer station near that tree.” She left them.

  They found gloves, garbage bags, and poke-sticks and grabbed their vests and snowshoes before proceeding to an unoccupied spot on the riverbank. This close, the thick smell of decay made them retch, so they put gum in their mouths before fastening their snowshoes to their boots. Tentatively, the brothers stepped out onto the riverbed. The mud sucked at their feet but held their weight, and they ventured further in the muck until Jesse stopped. “Stay close, okay? The way this is, I don’t want us to get stuck, too.” That he feared the water would return just as fast as it departed he did not mention to his brother, but Johnny seemed to be thinking the same thing because he didn’t stray more than a few feet away.