The Death of Wendell Mackey (13 page)

Wendell hurried himself up the flights of stairs to his floor. He walked down to his nest, the third door down.

He froze when he saw the footprints, the dirty tracks terminating at the apartment door.

Now his skin was on fire.
They’re here, already,
he thought.
That was fast.
The muscles in his back quivered.

The door across the hall opened. Wendell spun, almost falling. He was met by gray eyes looking out through gray wrinkles. Sister Agatha was smiling. The shawl was gone, and the dress was now yellow, but still worn and seemingly as old as the woman who wore it. Around her neck was a small wooden cross.

For a moment, both just stood and stared at each other.

“The footprints,” Wendell said, looking down at the floor. “Who was here?”

“Maurice, the landlord,” Agatha said. “You can tell by the dirt. But he doesn’t know you’re here, so don’t worry. He was going to check the ceiling for leaks, but he didn’t want the fuss. So you’re secret’s safe with me.” She winked.

“I don’t want trouble. I just came back to— I’m just putting my mom’s things in order.”

“Like a good son would. It was a while ago, her passing, I mean. By now, I thought Maurice would have had that place cleaned out and rented. But he probably doesn’t even know about her. Her bank account might still be paying her rent. It happens.”

“Yeah, I wondered about that too.”

“Plus, Maurice is lazy. He wouldn’t want the bother. Which is to your advantage.”

“Yeah, my advantage.”

“You don’t know how many sons would just forget dead kin, letting them recede into memory, until they evaporate, like they were never there in the first place.”

“My mom and I weren’t exactly close.”

“Doesn’t matter. You came back, didn’t you? It’s tragic,” she said, “all alone in there. I know I should have done something. Perhaps—” She dropped the rest of the thought. “Well, I was the only one in the front row at the funeral. The only one there at all.”

“Yeah, I just couldn’t make it, had a…had a work thing.”

“Life has a way of getting in the way, doesn’t it?” She smiled at Wendell. She tilted her head and regarded him. “You look like…” She paused.

“Like?”

“Like one of mine,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. One of mine, my kids.” She opened her door farther. “An old teacher can always recognize her own. Those kids—God love ‘em—don’t ever leave your mind. And God love ‘em, I miss it. But you,” and she pointed a finger at him, “you
have
something.”

Wendell backed towards his door. She was about as threatening as the Easter bunny, but the unknown was still the unknown.

“Something lonely,” she said. She took a step forward and extended her hand, but Wendell didn’t shake, out of fear that she would see the gloves. That would get her curious.

“So you’re Wendell.” She dropped her hand back to her side. “Diane mentioned you. I didn’t know her well, but…well, she mentioned you.”

Beyond her, Wendell saw a lit apartment, and he smelled bread. He had his cave, and the meager security of the gun, but he didn’t have bread.

“You look spent,” she said. “It’s a hot one out there. And I don’t bite. And I don’t like baking for just myself.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten warm, homemade bread. Possibly never.

“You don’t live in a convent or something?” he asked.

“Some do, some don’t. I did, years ago.”

“So why live here?” Wendell had backed up to his door. His hands itched under the gloves.

“In this city, where everything’s wrong, something just felt right. About living here, that is. You look nervous.”

“What? No, I’m fine.”

“Well then,” she said, taking another step forward. “We’ve had a presence here for a while, working with the homeless mostly. Runaways. Now there are only three of us left. But I’d see those girls out there, day after day, just drifting along, and I just couldn’t leave. Some of those girls were just a few decisions away from where I was at that age.”

“It was an elderly couple, in there,” and Wendell pointed into her apartment, “when I was a kid.”

“And they lasted a long time. When they passed, we moved in. Sister Darlene, who shared the apartment with me, passed last year.”

“So now it’s just you.”

“And you. This floor is largely empty. Two or three people more maybe, but I hardly see them. It’s nice to have another neighbor.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be… I mean, I think I’ll be gone soon.”

“Of course. If you don’t have to be here, then you’re foolish to stay.” Agatha paused, and he could see that she was trying to read his face. “You don’t eat much, do you?”

Wendell stared at her.

“Skin and bones, and a set of luggage under those eyes. And spray cheese and soda isn’t a meal, Wendell. Like I said, I don’t like baking for just one.” She smiled. “So, if you want…”

What is it about her?
Wendell thought. There was something warm, even familiar, about Agatha, exuding from that frumpy frame. She was leagues away from threatening, to the point of being little more than scenery, with her small worn face and her clothing’s almost bag lady sensibility. Perhaps that was it: she looked forgettable. Wendell wanted that.

“You mean in there?” he asked.

“Or right here on the floor if you’d like.” She laughed and something rattled in her chest.

Wendell’s back was now pressed up against his door, but his face was now calm, curious.

“I don’t blame you for being a little cautious,” she continued, “especially with some old lady you just met, and especially after last night’s festivities.”

“Yeah, that.”

Her face darkened. “That Drake. A little friendly advice: don’t let him back in. He was in your place earlier. I saw him through my peep hole. It’s not wise.”

“Yeah, he’s—”

“More than you think, Wendell. Trust me. He used to have his own goon squad, and he was their Pied Piper. They’d lace up those Doc Martens boots of theirs and stomp over anything that got in their way. Most of them are in prison for one thing or another. Drake, no stranger to prison cells in the past, has stayed out recently. Don’t know how he’s managed that. Now he’s—”

“Crazy.”

“He’s a true believer. His religion is dark.”

“You said I shouldn’t let him keep me up at night.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t dangerous.”

“How dangerous?”

“Just avoid him. He hurts people. He’ll hurt you. Some people, like Drake, are just born enjoying pain.”

But I stopped him
, Wendell thought.

“You just showed up here Wendell,” Agatha said. “You probably missed the commotion outside.”

“Yeah, I heard. Somebody got killed.”

“Now I’m not the police, and I’m no lawyer. And God help me if I’m a gossip, but with what happened down there and what I know lives in this building, well…”

“You think he did it?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“So he’s crazy,” Wendell said.

“Beneath that skull of his is more than just a hamster on a wheel. There’s something truly—” And she stopped herself, putting her hands up in front of her. “Well now, I’m going on and on.”

“I know,” Wendell said, “I’ll steer clear.”

She nodded, seeing Wendell’s anxiety return. “And if the landlord pokes around, I’ll tell him Diane gave me a spare key, and all’s well in there.”

“Thanks.”

“She seemed like a hard woman, your mom. Quiet, small, but tense. Hard. Is that right?”

“Yeah, hard.”

“When life gives us lemons,” Agatha said, “some of us just let the lemons rot.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Well, I don’t want to take any more of your time.” They both stood in the hall and stared at each other.

“So, nobody else?” Wendell asked.

“What?”

“Nobody else at my door. Just that landlord?”

“You expecting someone?”

“No, I just— But you haven’t seen anyone else?”

“Nope.” She saw his shoulders relax, and then added, “You’re not here just to put her things in order, are you?”

“What?”

“You’re not here just for that, for her estate or something like that.”

“No, I’m just—”

“I’ve dealt with runaways for years, Wendell. You’re a runner. What you’re running from, I haven’t the foggiest. But the truth is, no one can keep on running forever. At some point you have to stop.”

Or they catch you.

“Then what about you?” he asked.

“No, I can just spot them.”

“I’ll be okay.” He brought his gloved hands together in front of him, tapping the fingertips together.

“So then, now you know that a quick knock will get you through the door and sitting at my dinner table,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.” She smiled one last time, and entered her apartment and closed the door.

And with her went the aroma of bread. Wendell turned and opened his door.

DAY FIVE

P
LEASE DON’T SEE ME.

The bright sunshine indicated another day. A hammer and a few remaining nails sat in the middle of the floor. She had finished nailing the windows shut late the previous night, but the drapes weren’t yet sewn together. And over it all was a sense of anticipation, of anxiety.

No, dread.

Wendell the child stood at the center of the kitchen. The wooden table…she had left the box there for weeks, the box that once held the birthday cake. An aunt he had never seen before eventually tossed it, after the ants tried claiming it as their own. Weeks ago, months.

A year? Could it have been a year? It all felt so fresh.

He looked around. No one there. He was alone.

With her.

Turned around, away from him. Sitting in the rocking chair in her black dress and faux pearl necklace, the one his father had given her. She was facing the corner next to the bathroom door, motionless.

No, he wouldn’t approach her. He would just make his way towards the apartment door and leave without attracting her attention.

Please don’t see me
, he thought.

But she did. She saw him, or could feel him move, like she was reading his thoughts.

“Wendell…” Deep, rusty sounding, like a car exhaust pipe.

Keep quiet
, he told himself, walking on his toes towards the door.

“So you’re leaving too,” she said.

“No, I’m just—”

“You’re leaving too.”

She stood up, and Wendell froze. Still, she kept staring into the corner.

“It’s all labor, Wendell. Always has been.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Told your daddy it would happen. Eventually, it would happen. Again and again I said it, but my word’s nothing. Never was to him.” She turned towards him, robotically. The lace edges of her dress barely moved.

No, not dread. Worse.

Her face was smooth, like egg shell, wiped of all the premature aging lines that had dug themselves in over the years. And there was neither sneer nor smile, but a jagged tear of a mouth on a papier-mâché face. It was blank, empty, a moving mask.

“There are spirits about, Wendell. I can feel them. Demons.” She looked around. “Are you with them?” She looked at him. “My own baby, my own little boy, you’re with them. Just another one of them.”

“Please, Mom, just don’t...” Her stare hurt like frost. There was something in her hand, but he couldn’t make it out.

She stepped towards him. “I was right Wendell.” Three steps towards him. “You and your daddy both, with them. So you go, you just go tell that lazy waste of a man that I was right.”

Tell him? He’s gone.

Wendell stepped back, but she was quick, and in four more steps she had him up against the wall.

“Just go after him Wendell, and you tell him I was right.”

She paused. Then she began to raise her arm. Wendell gasped and closed his eyes.

His eyes opened and he was alone. He was crouching with his hands holding his feet, his whole frame balanced on the edge of the tub, like some sorry gargoyle. Wendell didn’t remember entering the bathroom. He didn’t even remember waking up and getting out of the bed. He sat on the tub’s edge and stretched his legs, both sore and stiff. He could have been crouched there for hours. He stood up, unsure of his balance, and left the bathroom. Outside, his bedroom door was open, but he didn’t remember entering it either. He stuck his head in, seeing the piles of boxes, papers, and assorted medicines and esoterica. A few steps in from the door a box containing manila folders and papers had been overturned, the papers fanned out over the floor like a magician’s card trick. He turned and went into the kitchen, feeling on the top of the refrigerator for the apartment key and the gun, both still sitting where he had left them the day before.

She doesn’t feel dead.

In the corner the rocking chair sat empty, which brought an odd sense of relief.

“She’s dead,” he said.
Thankfully
, he thought.

The previous day had ended quickly, with Wendell still restless from hunger. But night had brought no relief. For hours, before finally falling asleep, Wendell paced the apartment, wondering if his hunger even felt human anymore. He slept, and dreamt of furry bodies and flying things. He awoke in a sweat, expecting someone to be standing over him. But the bedroom was empty. He soon fell asleep again and dreamt of meat, raw, slabs from the flanks of some unknown animal. He had been chasing it through a forest in the dream, finally catching up to it, hearing only his footfalls on the leaves, then feeling the animal’s fur in his hands, and his lips pulling back. An airplane passing low over the apartment building woke him abruptly, his mouth full of saliva. He leaned over the bed and spat onto the floor, turning to notice more hair on his pillow. Finally sleep came again, deep and thick, but soon penetrated by his mother, and that dream, that waking vision, whatever it was.

“Just a dream,” Wendell said, “nothing but a dream.”

Your head’s going
, he thought,
your mind’s just melting away in that skull of yours
.