INFECtIOUS (2 page)

ONE WEEK LATER

I Used To Be One
Of
Them

I am on my hands
and knees scrubbing the faded-gray linoleum kitchen floor when my last decent
pair of jeans rips through at the knee. My shoulders slump as I let out an
annoyed groan. My carelessness has given unintentional support to her
announcement at breakfast this morning. All my arguments turned to lies with a
two inch long rip.

Maybe she won't
notice.

Fat
chance.

I should have
changed into older pants for this job, but my older pants are as ugly as the
rag I'm using to scrub this impossible floor. I look like a hobo circus clown
in them. Their different colored patches and hastily hemmed seams are
embarrassing to look at, let alone wear.

Everything I own
is old. My limited wardrobe is a mismatched collection of hand-me-downs, most
of which have holes and stains. My outfits span the last two decades and have
been worn by several people before me—generational hand-me-downs. Homeless people
wouldn't want them.

Who cares about
looking shabby anyways! No one else is any better off. I am fine blending in
with the rest of the equally unkempt. But she doesn't care what I want does
she? I wish she'd take someone else with her. Not that she'd find anyone else
more willing. The other girls my age—who are more image conscious than me and
who dream of days-gone-by and less sobriety in their lives—wouldn't dream of
venturing out of the community for new jeans.

My only Living
relative, Aunty Coe, is, of course, dissatisfied with what every other person
in our little community has accepted. Aunt Colleen is actually my Great Aunt on
my father's side—my dad's mother's sister. She took me in when I was twelve and
I've been with her for four years. I love her, but I am dreading the special
bonding time she has planned for us today.

Aunty is a prim
and proper lady, still very attractive for age 65—never married—and holding
staunchly to the axiom "cleanliness is next to godliness." This
applies to the neatness of a person's wardrobe as well. I spend a lot of my
time humoring her and pretending to agree with her.
Less
lectures that way.
I say she's my only Living relative as opposed to
other family members that are hopefully still living, but probably not Living.
So, she's not my mom, but she is the next best thing.

A
"shopping" trip could actually be fun.

God knows I'm
tired of being cooped up.

These are the
things I'm telling myself as I lazily wipe at impossible stains on the floor in
front of the oven. My mental pep talk is an attempt to avoid the other more
pressing thoughts that come with leaving our community—mortal danger and grisly
death. I'm trying to picture amazing shirts and new-in-the-box tennis shoes
that are so fantastic they are worth the risk of abduction and dissection. If
I'm being dragged along no matter what, it would be great if I could talk
myself into some level of acceptance before she comes back with the car that
will take us on our excursion.

Drawing a deep
breath that works its way back out in a long sigh, I decide that I'm not
convincing myself. I crawl under the table to scrub that section of the floor
and consider staying there and hiding. I used to drape the old table with
blankets and build myself castles and forts—imagining myself safe and hidden.
Imagination was enough back then. Enough to escape from all the trauma life had
thrown at me. Aunty used to play along and pretend she couldn't find me. I
don't think she'd be amused if I reinstated the old game today.

Maybe I could
fake the flu.

The nagging
thought that a spider could be lurking on the bottom of the table above me
makes me twist around to look at the back of the light
orangish
oak boards. No eight-legged monsters, just memories. My name is scrawled in
childish handwriting and various colors of crayon.

Ivy Mae
Lusato

If Aunty ever
found my rebellious
Crayola
graffiti, she didn't
mention it. A world of faded drawings hides beneath the boards we eat on every
day. Framed in clouds and rainbows, my extinct dreams cover most of the table's
secret side. I
lay
on my back and look up at the happy
thoughts doodled with care so many years ago. I can't help but frown, irritated
at my young, naive self. I thought my life could turn out like those pictures
from my daydreams. I'm glad that little girl is long gone. She'd be heartbroken
to find out how it all turned out.

Crawling out of
yesteryear, I stand back up in my rainbow-less world to survey my hard work.
The expression "sparkling clean" doesn't come close to an accurate
depiction of this hopeless floor. The twenty year old linoleum has cracks and
tears and several gross brown stains. I'm sure when it was new it sparkled, but
now, even after intensive scrubbing, it still looks dirty.

I'm thrilled
that I just wasted thirty minutes of my life on it.

Stinging pangs
of chapped discomfort draw my attention from the floor to my hands. Already dry
from the winter weather, my stubby fingers are red and irritated from the lye
in our homemade cleaning soap. I forgot to wear my gloves again. I open the
pantry and take an illegal dip into the last pot of store-bought lotion in
town. The fancy hand cream is one of the few things Aunty has claimed as
"hers." It is her favorite scent, Peony flower, and she uses it sparingly.
I may have snuck a dip or two of the precious cream over the last few years.
The pink perfumed lotion heightens the burning sensation at first but then
fades into a blissful cool tingling. My hands lose their redness almost
instantly.
Miraculous.
I miss modern conveniences. I
miss toothpaste. I miss Kraft cheese singles. I miss roll-on clear peach
sparkle deodorant. I miss normality.

Standing at the
pantry and mourning the past is only making me more depressed. I've been
dragging through my chores this morning and a glance at the red clock above the
stove shows just how behind I am. I still need to button things up around the
Inn and Aunty will be pulling up outside the back door in less than ten
minutes.

We live in a
sprawling Southern mansion in downtown
Toccoa
,
Georgia. Trust
me,
it isn't as glamorous as it sounds.
The old white siding is gray with dirt and age and the romantic wrap-around
front porch is getting more and more dangerous to walk on. The porch's old wood
is rotten and past reparable, more than half of the termite-infested boards
needing to be replaced. As run down as it is, it's still the only house I've
ever known to have a name. The faded wooden sign in the front yard whispers of
better times and days of plenty. Framed in gingerbread cut-out embellishments,
the cracked black letters almost too faded to read spell out: The Simmons-Bond
Inn.

A leftover from
the Victorian era, the ancient inn looks lost and out of place among the newer
brick buildings that grew up around it. The house sits slumped and haggard
right in the center of town, across from what used to be the Courthouse and
adjacent to what used to be the Library and down the block from what used to be
the Post Office. I've lived here just long enough to remember it all as it used
to be—a normal American small town.
Boring but safe.

Inside, the Inn
has five enormous bedrooms upstairs—each with its own bathroom. Aunty has taken
the largest room upstairs for herself. My room, on the other hand, is
downstairs.
A simple room with none of the fancy woodwork
that the grand rooms upstairs were
given. Tucked in the back corner of
the house, my bedroom was probably originally intended for the maid or house
servant. You know that expression "If the shoe fits, wear it."?

Well—the shoe
fits.

The carved Oak
moldings, stained glass windows, intricately patterned wallpapers, and unique
French tiled fireplaces used to be beautiful to me. I think I lost the sense of
awe when it became my responsibility to clean all the nooks and crannies. The
twelve foot ceilings lost their grandeur when I was given the job of dusting
all the cobwebbed corners. Aunty helps some with the cleaning, but it is mostly
my job now.

Aunty runs the
Inn for the good of the community—offering a clean, warm place to stay for anyone
who has need. There is usually at least one other family living here with us.
Often an orphan or two as well.
I'm butler, maid and
housekeeper to anyone who comes to stay. Unfortunately for me, we don't have
any guests right now. A rarity Aunty is taking advantage of today as it makes
it much easier to get away for our girl's day out.

Lucky me! I'm so
happy I don't have to clean any stranger's toilets today so I can jump in the
car and risk my life for a better wardrobe.

My sarcasm is
Aunty's
least favorite thing about me. She says I get it
from my father. When I get cynical, she starts lecturing. Apparently, sarcasm
is "unladylike." If you ask me, I think lecturing is unladylike.
Just
sayin
'.

Ok, mental
checklist: grab my coat, lights are all off, bars locked in place on all the
first floor windows, lock the doors to our bedrooms and the kitchen, front door
already locked, grab some shopping bags—whoops, blow out that candle—and,
finally, head to the back door. As I step outside, locking the back door and
pulling it shut behind me, I realize I forgot my
taser
.

Crap.

I can't go
without it. I have to unlock the back door and all the other doors I locked on
my way out as I work my way back to my bedroom where a frantic search finally
exhumes the
taser
from under a pile of dirty laundry.
By the time I get back outside, with the
taser
secured to my wrist band and all the doors relocked, Aunty Coe is waiting in
the alley for me. Through her driver's side window I see her lift her eyebrows
in that subtle correcting way she has. Translation: it's not polite to keep
people waiting.

Yup.
This is going
to be so much fun.

I paste on what
I hope is an enthusiastic smile and jump in the SUV she has borrowed for the
day. Pulling the door closed, I am accosted by cheesy Southern Gospel music,
Aunty's
favorite. I strongly consider jumping back out and
my hand lingers on the door handle. Aunty glances at me and lifts her eyebrows
again. I don't have the angst it takes to be a drama queen and Aunty is just scary
enough to keep me respectful; so, I grit my teeth and force another fake smile.
She pulls out of the driveway. This is happening.

Our borrowed
transportation is a bulky, black Ford Expedition. We've taken this same vehicle
on past adventures. I settle comfortably into the seat and pull my seat buckle
across me. It almost feels like it's our car. I wonder if anyone else drives it
regularly and feels the same way about
it?
I run my
hands slowly down the sides of the cold seat along my legs. The soft tan leather
interior still smells new, even though the car is an older model. The heater is
on high but the engine hasn't warmed up yet and it's still blowing cold air. I
shiver against the cold and maybe also the thought of leaving our safe town.

"I thought
you had a better pair of pants, Ivy. You said you didn't need clothes. Why
didn't you wear your nice jeans?"

Let the
nit-picking begin.

"These are
my nice jeans," I mumble, self-conscious.

Rubbing my legs
for warmth, I slide my hands down my thighs and leave them on my knees—covering
the new hole with my hand. Aunty is dressed immaculately as always. Her outfit
suggests a trip to some socialite function with other uppity ladies who would
probably have worn fancy hats. Her snooty obsession with looking one's best is
nauseating. It's not like we'll even see anyone while we are out today.
Hopefully.

She purses her
lips and I brace myself for her first, though—let's face it—not last, lecture
of the day. I'm saved as her favorite song starts playing. I glance sideways at
her and I see her face relax and a small smile replaces the scowl I caused. A
throaty man is singing a duet about Heaven with a lady who warbles like she's
sitting on a broken washing machine.

I smile at
Aunty,
glad the horrible singers still relax her and bring
her joy. I think her constant picking and lecturing are because she's sad that
the world is broken, human civility almost extinct. She wants us to keep her
old proprieties alive—maybe because it's propriety and manners that make her
feel safe in these dark days. Like if we just dress classy enough and speak
kindly enough we might be able to hold the evil at bay.