Authors: Joel Arnold
"My father was a doctor. He wasn't a psyche patient."
"No, he was your mother's psychiatrist. Mine, too."
"Jesus."
"We'd talk to him, tell him what was on our troubled minds. He'd do what he could to help. I guess after a while, for some reason or other, he fell in love with your mother. Had her released. Seeing I was her sister, and coming along rather well, if I might say so, he had me released, too."
"Jesus."
"I spent twelve years in that place. Back then, that was a relatively short time, mind you, but twelve years, Andy. Sometimes I get so depressed looking back on it all. I went in there when I was fifteen and came out at twenty-seven. Think of that.
"Your father was a good man, though. He talked to me as if I mattered. He talked to me like a father. He taught me how to talk my problems out, how to cope with them. He was very positive, very trusting. I think - I hope - a lot of that has rubbed off on me. Sometimes when I think of all those missed years and feel down about it all, I swat myself on the thigh. A good hard swat, and say, 'Goddammit, so what? Those years are gone. No use longing for them when you can't do anything to get them back. So just fuck it. Fuck it and get on with things, on with life.' And I go out to my tulips, or rake my yard, or mow the grass, take a walk - whatever. I just get off my ass and enjoy the weather. Can be sunny or rainy. doesn't matter. It can be the gloomiest day you can imagine, but it's still a million times better than the walls of that institution."
The phone rang, startling them. Mae got up to answer it, leaving the kitchen. Leaving Andy with a hundred new thoughts racing through his head. So many thoughts, they all blurred into chaos. He swallowed. Air. He pulled on his shirt, untucking it from his pants, giving his stomach, his chest some more room to flex, to expand and pull in more air. When he saw his mother again, there would be a lot of questions. He wouldn't know where to start. Jesus, maybe it would be better not to think about it, not to talk about it, not even to mention it to her. Why hadn't she told him about it? Embarrassed, he supposed. Ashamed? Nothing to be ashamed about, really. He could've handled it.
Mae walked back into the kitchen. "It's for you," she said.
"Who is it?"
"It's about your car."
Andy hurried into the living room where the phone waited on a coffee table.
"Hello?"
"Hi. This is the auto shop. We called up to Minneapolis about a replacement windshield, and they said they had a few in stock. One of my boys is going up there today, so we should have her in by tomorrow. If you'd like, we'll just drop it off there at your aunt's."
"Okay."
"Probably in the evening sometime. Around six or so. See you then."
"All right." Andy hung up the phone. Mae appeared around the corner.
"Finish your car?"
"It should be done by tomorrow."
Mae seemed disappointed. "At least you have the rest of today."
"Yeah, and it won't be until six or so in the evening when they bring it by."
"I guess that's good. At least we'll have that time together."
And then what would he do? Go back to Milwaukee? Andy figured that was all he could do. Go back. See Cathy. And see his mother.
But before he left, he knew he had to see Natalie again. At least once more.
At least.
EIGHTEEN
"Dad." Natalie lightly shook Hector's shoulder. His snoring stopped.
"Wha? Hunh?"
"I'm going out for a little while. You'll be okay, won't you?"
He straightened up in his wheelchair as much as he could, straining to bring the world into focus. "Where you going?"
"Out to the cemetery. Put some flowers on mom's grave."
"What?" Groggy. "Em? Is that you?"
"Dad, it's Nat. Your daughter. C'mon." She smoothed out his ruffled nest of hair.
"Uh," he said. "Ouch." He cupped the back of his neck, slowly rolled his head from side to side. "Ouch."
"That's what you get for falling asleep in your chair."
"Are you gonna see him again?" His voice came out filtered through syrup and gravel, a low rumble. A watery cough erupted from the back of his throat, sending a drop of spittle on Natalie's arm.
"Who?"
"You know who I'm talking about. That Stone fella."
"You mean Andy? His last name is Byrd."
"But he's a Stone." His hand grabbed the wheels of his chair, shaky, stiff. "I don't want you messing with any of them. You understand?"
Natalie massaged his neck, his shoulders, and patted him gently on the back. "Don't wait for me," she said. "I've got lunch all made for you. Tuna sandwiches. Without the celery. They're on the kitchen table."
"Look, I don't want you seeing that kid."
"He's really not a kid, Dad, and I'm definitely not a kid."
Hector shot out his hand and grabbed her leg, holding on firmly. "Goddammit, Nat, don't do this to me. Don't go messin' with that boy. You told me you'd help me."
"And I have, haven't I?"
He coughed again, doubling over in his chair. Natalie slapped his back. "Bring it up," she said. "Bring it up." She handed him a tissue and he spat into it. He dropped it onto the floor and grabbed at Natalie's slacks, taking hold.
"It wasn't enough," he said, wheezing, trying to refill his lungs. "Gotta cut that bitch to the quick for what she did to my Em. Seeing her son or nephew or whatever the hell he is ain't gonna do you any good. Probably just screw you and take off. Leave you with a belly full of his bad blood."
"Dad, let go of me. You can be really crude sometimes. Let go. I know what I'm doing."
"Gotta cut that bitch to the quick."
"I know."
"Fucking that boy's not gonna help."
"That's none of your business." Natalie pried his fingers from her slacks one by one.
Hector leaned back, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. "Push me around to the back, will ya, Nat?"
"You can push yourself. I want to go to the cemetery."
Hector rocked his chair back and forth, and then rolled a slow semi-circle around Natalie. "Gonna leave me here?"
"Only for a little while."
"Gonna fuck him?"
"Stop it, Dad."
"Cause if you're gonna fuck him, I want you to have a real nice time." This time he coughed at Natalie, not bothering to cover his mouth. "And I hope while you're doing it, you just forget about me. Forget about your mother. Forget about all I've done for you." His voice was hoarse, growing harder to understand. He coughed up phlegm and spat it into his hand. "You told me you'd get her. You told me you'd get her."
"Dad - "
"You promised me. You promised me you'd get her for what she did."
Natalie grabbed another tissue and wiped Hector's hand.
"How dare she flaunt herself back here. How dare she come back here to live, flaunt her health, flaunt her fucking life right under our noses. She killed my Em, and she's just over there shoving it down my throat." His vocal cords sounded blistered, cut with glass. "Whenever I see smoke coming from her chimney, or hear her mowing the grass, or the scrape of her rake, or even the goddamn cat meowing - it's just shoving it all down my throat and laughing. You understand, Nat, don't you? If I wasn't caught up in this chair, I'd go over and string her up."
"Dad. That's not true."
"I should've done it a long time ago. Right when she got back, moved back here, flaunting herself right under my nose I should've taken her out."
"Dad, you know I do everything I possibly can for you."
"Then string her up."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Who's being ridiculous? You tell me. Goddamn string her up."
"Dad - "
"Can't you do anything for me? Can't you at least do
something?
" Tears sprang up on Hector's face.
"You know what I've done," Natalie said. "Wasn't that enough? Wasn't that good enough for you?"
He shook his head, the veins in his neck filling with blood, sticking out like rope.
"I want my Emma!" he said. "I want my Emma! Goddamn it, where is she? Where the hell is Emma?"
"Dad - "
"GIVE ME BACK MY EMMA, GODDAMMIT!"
He swung a fist at Natalie, missing her by inches. She didn't flinch.
"WHERE IS SHE? GIVE HER BACK TO ME! EMMA! EMMA!"
Hector swung his chair around to face the wall. He banged his fists on the wheels. He spat out a stream of yellow-green phlegm onto the floor. "
EMMA!
" His screams became unintelligible as he doubled over again, coughing, screaming, crying.
"Dad!" Natalie turned and ran down the hall to the bathroom, fumbling through the medicine cabinet for his pills. She opened up a vial, spilling some into the sink.
She ran back to him, pried open his mouth, forced a pill between his teeth. He bit her finger. Growled. Natalie moaned in pain.
Hector began to choke on the pill.
"Oh god, oh god." Natalie pried open his mouth again, stuck two fingers down his throat, and dislodged the pill, scooping it out. He reswallowed. Slumped forward in his chair. His breathing was shallow, spasmodic. He stared at the wall, stared at an invisible Emma.
Tears streamed down Natalie's face, down her neck, staining her blouse with wet explosions. "Tell me what you want. Okay? Just tell me what you want. Please, Dad. Please."
A thin line of drool escaped Hector's lips and fell to his undershirt, joining a large stain of sweat. "I want my Emma."
NINETEEN
Andy lifted the binoculars to his eyes and turned the focus ring until the bird became clear. Its claws clutched onto the bark of a young maple tree. Its red head turned sideways for a moment, its eye looking in Andy's direction, studying. Andy tensed. He held his breath. It turned its attention back to the tree.
The woodpecker's head became a crimson blur as it hammered at the thin bark. A sparrow shot up from behind a fallen branch at the sound of the onslaught. The woodpecker stopped and looked around nervously. Its eyes locked onto Andy's binocular eyes. Its head twisted and convulsed as a trickle of sap bled out of the maple tree. Andy remained still, breathing slowly, barely at all, as the woodpecker started pounding on the tree again, sending tiny splinters of wood flying out of the widening hole. Sap began to pour in a slow, steady stream, covering the bird's talons on its way down the tree's trunk. The woodpecker continued to jackhammer its way into the tree until suddenly, it stopped. It turned its head from side to side, surveying its surroundings. Andy held his breath again, not daring to move, to blink. The woodpecker stuck its beak into the hole and pulled out a worm. It held its prize in its mouth for a moment, checking out the area for intruders, then tilted its head back and swallowed. The bird's body shook as its wings opened up, spreading against the wind. Its body shook as if repulsed by what it had just swallowed, repulsed by the worm's taste, by its feel sliding down its throat, wiggling still half-alive, struggling its way through the digestive tract.
No, Andy thought, shivering, feeling the urge to gag. No, that's how
I
feel. Not the bird. It eats that stuff every day, lives like that.
I'm
the one repulsed.
The redheaded woodpecker flew away, flew over Andy, as a drop of sap fell from one of its claws and landed on Andy's jacket. He brushed at it but only smeared the stickiness into a larger circle.
He let go of the binoculars, letting them dangle from his neck. The air felt crisp and cool. His eyes soaked up the shades and hues of the fallen leaves. He filled his lungs with their rich, fertile smell. The wind swirled over his face. The bare trees stood starkly silhouetted against one another, branches pointed in a hundred directions.
Andy found the trail again, the trail connecting Mae's property to the cemetery, and followed it. He was soon surrounded by tombstones. STONES and PLANTS. All around him. STONES and PLANTS. NATASHA PLANT. VERONICA STONE. BEATRICE PLANT. WALTER STONE. MILDRED PLANT. And off to his right, on that grave - that mysterious grave next to his grandparents -
BURIED IN SORROW
WITH OUR TEARS
OUR DAUGHTER
E.S. 1936-1948
There were other names, too. Johanson, Pierce, Bell, Ludwigson. But those markers didn't stick out like the ones in which he now stood. The markers of STONE and PLANT loomed before him, each one competing for his attention.
His attention, however, soon turned towards the stone building in the center of the cemetery.
He already sensed the drone, the buzzing, of a hundred flies. Their pin-point dark bodies darted in and out frantically through the window hole. Andy found a tombstone that had been knocked over, and dragged it to the building, his shoulders and back straining, and propped it in front of the door. He stepped onto it. This time he was careful not to touch his hands to the jagged edges of the protruding glass. He slowly leaned his head forward, through the tiny portal above the door, waving the flies from his face.
It stank inside. Shadows covered the floor, the walls. The buzzing grew louder, penetrating Andy's skull. Something glinted at him from inside. His head blocked most of the sunlight, and he shifted to let in more light. But the window hole was too small.
Something gleamed at him, sending a sliver of light into his eyes, illuminating a crescent on his face. He blinked. Waited for his eyes to adjust. He blew flies away from his mouth. Stepped down.
The door wouldn't budge, the hinges rusted shut. He banged his shoulder into it, but it wouldn't give. He stepped up on the tombstone again and looked. The object began to take shape. Andy's eyes struggled in their sockets, the muscles straining, the irises expanding and shrinking, trying to focus. It began to take shape. Something solid. Something metal. The glint, the cold gleam of metal. Cylindrical. Metal. Taking shape.
"Jesus, Andy - don't cut yourself again."
He jerked his head up, knocking it against the upper edge of the portal. He jumped back, off of the tombstone.