((Ok, maybe I\'m just a masochist, but I am putting up more of my work for critique. Harsh, biting, well thought out critique. This piece of work was presented to my English 321: Intermediate Creative Writing: Fiction Prose class in the spring of \'07. It got me an A there, but... I\'m about to submit a collection of my short stories to a few publication companies and want to see what some other writers have to say. This is one I\'ve done the least amount of work on, but I think it\'s pretty close to a final draft. There may be a typo or two. First person, literary writing with a flare of horror/experimental edge. Rip me up a new one, please.))
TOMORROW
“If someone told you I was going to die tomorrow, what would you do today?”
Sirens blared suddenly into the still of night air, their frightful shrieks killing what calm there was. Alice’s words had done much the same. The question was appalling; to even think about what my niece said was like admitting the possibility of such horror coming true. I did not want to give it a second thought, but Alice had taken to staring. Under the shine of the moon I could see her pale face staring square at me, big eyes almost looking as black as the sky. From the balcony I could not really see the stars, too many city lights to mimic them from below. There was no way we would be able to see that meteor shower.
“I’d tell them they were wrong, and stop it from happening.” My voice sounded hoarse on my lips, crackling about my voice-box before finally tripping unceremoniously from my tongue. Though I forced a smile, Alice did not move to mirror it. She was still staring at me. It was unnerving in a way; I should have been used to it by now after nine long days. She always looked too deep, so I stood, facing with my back towards her round and prodding eyes. “It’s late. Come on. You need some sleep.”
“I laughed.”
The sirens were dying down, probably the only way I heard her tiny whisper. I wanted to ask, but when I turned her tiny form was heading back through the screen door, sock encased feet not making a sound on the tile. It was the first time Alice had spoken since she arrived, the question my first impression of her voice. Mary had told me over the phone how smart her daughter was growing up to be, how St. Michael’s wanted Alice to skip up a grade. She was too stoic for her age. Then again, nine-year-olds should never have to bury their only parent.
* * * * *
It felt inappropriate to hear the birds chirping. I wanted to turn around and yell at them, take out all the anger and frustration I could feel churning in my stomach. Screw the butterflies; they were bats, and they wanted out of hell. The priest-- minister, whatever he was-- could not shut up, and for the love of God I wanted him to just stop blathering on in that Old English nonsense. Not a person was having fun. If any of them were, I would have taken the clergyman’s Bible and chucked it at them.
I did not recognize half the people in attendance, myself included. There was not a splash of paint on my immaculate black suit, my tie one of the old fashioned types, not a clip-on. I was even wearing my glasses, mess of red hair pulled back in a simulation of neatness. I almost looked presentable.
“And now, words from the dearly departed’s brother.” The elderly man stepped aside with a plastic smile, the type I was sure he wore for both funerals and weddings alike, the all purpose brand. He had introduced himself to me before the service, and the first thing I noticed was an indent where a wedding-ring should have been, might have been minutes before but was missing none-the-less. That bothered me more than the birds, but I refrained from giving him a piece of my mind, shooting him a death-glare before brushing past to the podium.
I did not want to leave Alice alone, but it looked like that was what she wanted. No tears left her red-rimmed eyes, no quiver to wan lips. The girl looked like a ghost. It did not really matter though; it was Mary’s daughter, my niece. No one else wanted her so the job fell on me. She looked like she was out of some old picture, severe black dress like one of those school uniforms from another generation or two up. Alice had been clutching a little notebook to her the entire time, yellow binding and cover all taped over with black construction paper. She did it all on her own, too.
“I want to thank everyone for coming to remember my sister....” I had spent hours rehearsing my speech in front of the bathroom mirror, pacing with a glass of my new favorite pass-time. Alice had just stayed in the doorframe, staring and generally creeping me out. The girl was good at that. It had only been three days since she had arrived on my doorstep, standing a few feet away from the detective who escorted her. Nice fellow, to put up with her perpetual silence like that. “Mary was a person of words, which I am not.” A panicky laugh followed before I could shut it down. “Well, she... she would have wanted us to remember her and her work. I have an excerpt from her last article here...”
Though it was still early, with a bit of chill clinging to the air I was sweating. I could feel a trickle running down my temple, flicking easily over nervous skin as I searched my pockets for the sheet. They were all staring. Minus Alice, of course, who always seemed to be looking down at something. Her shoes? I could not really tell, as much as I tried. I had even asked a few times, not a word coming out of her. It made me wonder if she even knew how to speak any more.
A few heads turned, the body attached soon following with it. I could not interrupt my already jittery speech to scold them for leaving before the casket was lowered. It was a small funeral. Mary would have liked it that way.
* * * * *
The place was sterile. From the moment I opened the door I could smell air-fresheners, quickly spotting a few standing like sentinels in different places around the entry hallway. Three were in immediate view, little white watchdogs outside of doors. Despite the thin, almost unnoticeable layer of dust on the tile floor, the apartment otherwise looked clean. Spotless.
Alice’s lips were pressed into a straight line as she entered before me and headed straight down the hall. I hesitated outside, holding the doorknob with the key still in it, eyeing the white corridor with suspicion. Mary had never been that clean. When she was taking refuge at my apartment her room had been a disaster zone and she never complained about the constant chaos of the place. It took the edge off. Our parents’ house had been this clean.
I entered the first room I could, a sharp right off the entry, keeping the brass key in my hand, at ready. All the walls were stark white, nothing hanging on them. The couch still had vacuum marks on it. There were two air-fresheners on the coffee table, another over the unused fireplace, another on the table next to the balcony’s screen door and a last on the countertop between the living room and kitchen. It was a nice apartment, far better than my own. Though only across town from my place, it felt like a foreign country.
The phone was in the same place I put mine at my apartment, only the kitchen counter it rested upon looked like imitation-granite, whereas mine was old laminate. There were no new messages. Lifting the Caller-ID, I checked to see if anyone had even called. The date above the last received call was December 28. It was already well into April. I put the display back by its phone and glanced over the rest of the room. The stainless steel appliances did not even look used.
Alice was not done gathering what she needed yet, so I opened the fridge, expecting to see recently expired milk needing to be disposed of, perhaps some old eggs. The sight that greeted me verged on disturbing. Every item was packaged at least two ways, in containers or bags or cling-wrap or some combination of the three. An air-freshener stood guard on every shelf, as if any scent could escape the plastic world around them. Alice must have thought me a terrible slob...
I shut the fridge and went back into the long hallway, spotting the open door with light peeping from it. From there I could see Alice moving around, carefully placing calendars in to a bag. I moved to the next door. It would be good to look around, decide how large of a storage unit I would need for all Mary’s stuff. The landlord had given me two weeks to move it out. Now was as good a time as any to start.
My niece came struggling past, almost waddling as she carried her oversized bag of calendars past me, dropping it with a loud bang next to the door. Dusting off her hands, she turned stiffly and trotted past me with an air of importance. I made no move to stop her, either. If she wanted a bunch of old calendars, she could have them. No one else in the world found them useful, after all, better than polluting the world with their barely bio-degradable uselessness.
“Holler when you are done, ok?”
No answer came. I took a peek into the next closest door, soon stepping inside and closing myself off. The bathroom looked more like a surgery room than a lavatory. The shower curtain was completely clear and smelled of fresh plastic, not a spot of old water caking it. White tiles covered the wall. I tugged lightly at the mirror, its opening to a medicine cabinet. Acetaminophen, ibuprofen, vicodin, hydrocodone. I ran my fingers over the different bottles, two of them over the counter, the other two self-labeled orange bottles. Beneath them were empty containers with similar labels, used up, painkillers, all of them.
A knock made me jump, hand flying to close the cabinet as I spun towards the door. A few deep breaths later my heart and nerves were calmed enough to open it, Alice staring up at me from the other side. She did not say anything, big blue eyes unblinking. It was a relief when she turned, going to stand next to the door, waiting quietly. Three bags waited next to her. I was glad to oblige, taking the heaviest two and getting the door. Any excuse to get out was a good one.
* * * * *
The microwave beeped, going off five times before I could get to it. I grabbed the mugs with care, walking slowly as not to spill any of the steaming chocolate within. It smelled delicious. I expected to see Alice reading again, with as quiet as the next room over sounded; she liked to read. That and eat were probably the only two normal things I had seen my niece do. She barely slept. I had peeked into the guest room a few times the night before between layers of paint, Alice sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor. At least she moved during the day.
Mary had told me many times how much Alice liked to talk, and about all sorts of things. The girl had yet to say a word. It was worrying me but I did not want to call up a shrink. She was grieving, it was understandable, she would get better eventually. That was where I came in. Being the only living relative in state, it was my duty to take care of Alice, try and give her a normal life. As if that were even possible now.
The television was on, just too low to hear it. It was some old black and white film, made me think of the dancing marathons they had in the Great Depression. The movie seemed a bit over a fourth-grader’s head, so I clicked it off using my foot. “Here. I made you some hot chocolate.”
The little head turned, red hair falling to cover her eyes. She might have been looking at the twin mugs I held or past me at the now blank screen. I could not tell. Much to my relief Alice soon reached up, taking the plain white mug and leaving the brightly hued floral one with me. So be it. Any response at all was progress.
A sip was taken, the white button of a nose wrinkling up. Alice set the mug down on the table, curling up on the couch again, arms hugging her knees. I wanted her to tell me what was wrong, but I already knew. It was like those television journalists who asked stupid questions like ‘your best friend just died, how do you feel’ only to shove a camera and microphone in their sobbing face. Was it not apparent? Alice had not cried at the funeral. I did not want to make her cry now.
Perhaps she should have been sent to our parents in Arizona, rather than to me. I could not imagine how hard it was for Alice to look at me. Mary and I were paternal twins. Same auburn hair, a bit wavy and unruly. Same freckles splattered across the nose and cheeks. Same cold blue eyes. I had not even found the courage to look in a mirror since the funeral. Alice had no choice but to see me around.
She was drawing again. That yellow-bound notebook was always with her, Alice clutching it to her at the funeral like other children her age might hold a blanket or stuffed animal. Surprisingly she had not closed the notebook when I looked. The page was covered in little pictures, most of them seeming entirely unrelated to the others. Amidst the chaos there was a milk jar with a plus sign next to it, my eyes searching for what it went to, a chocolate bar. She was coloring in a dark equals sign, connecting those two to a steaming mug. I wished she would have just told me that I made the hot chocolate wrong.
* * * * *
The shrill buzzer sounded in the darkness. I did not feel like opening my eyes, but the buzzer was zipping off again, like an incessant bee in my ear. With a groan I rolled off the bed, by some miracle landing on my feet. The tile was cold. Wiggling some warmth into my bare feet as I walked, I went straight for the door, pulling on a long coat for cover once there. I pulled the door open, the onslaught of a voice coming in unison with the grind of rusted hinges.
“You haven’t called me in over a week, Rick! What the hell is going on? You got another girl?”
I stepped back away from the door with an angry glance back at Julie. She would follow me in, as usual. For some reason she always paused with the door open, letting out any sense of heat the tiny apartment had while taking off her coat-- which was too warm for the weather anyhow. Fake fur had always disgusted me. Luckily she was not wealthy enough for real fur. I finally looked back when I heard the rustle of her coat being hung, Julie flicking her slick blond hair back and swiveling on too high heels to shut the door. It was like a scripted movie, watching her.
“Is there?” Julie’s voice sounded shrill, panicked almost. Though she claimed I had not called in over a week, I actually had not dialed her number for a month; she always called me, I just neglected to answer lately. Not much had changed with Julie. For how much effort she put in to painting her face and dressing herself in whatever was “in”, I thought she might have a bit less insecurity. It seemed the other way around. If I remembered correctly, those were even new nails glinting off the ends of her fingers.
“Keep it down. Alice is sleeping.”
Rounding a low table I walked straight in to the kitchenette, looking for where I stashed the coffee. I knew where it was, I just made it look like searching, not wanting to see Julie’s incensed face at the moment. If the script I had was still the same, she would be flicking back her stiffly sprayed hair again, glaring so hard her clumpy lashes stuck together. In a minute she would have to leave the room to find a mirror and untangle them. I never painted her with makeup. By the time she returned from the mirror, I would have a cup of coffee to give my mind the edge I needed to defend myself if not launch an offensive.
No such fortune this night. “Oh, so that’s the bitch’s name?”
I had to turn around and see this, swiveling to lean back on the counter, fingers thudding impatiently on the mauve surface. Her arms were crossed, red lips a firm frown. It almost looked as if she would ransack the place to find the one who offended her delicate senses. I rolled my eyes, sighing, “No. She’s my niece.”
“Babysitting? I hate children.”
“My sister’s dead.”
Julie blinked a few times, the hard facial mask of hers unmoving. Whether it was the makeup plastering her face in one position or a general lack of caring, I could not tell. She had not seemed so inanimate before. Then again, I could have been adding those emotions to the paintings without even realizing it. Julie pressed a finger to her lips, tapping for a moment before she finally spoke again, “I hate children.”
“What, would you have put her in an orphanage?” I did not really want to hear her answer on that, but the question slipped through before I could stop it. I went back to finding the coffee. The kitchenette was old, compact. The white cabinets had no handles so it was hard to get a finger-hold with my hands shaking like they were. After fumbling a bit I pulled out the red tin of coffee, a dark roast. It had not been called upon for a week either, late nights working feverishly on one painting or another not so appealing. I did not want to wake up Alice with my pacing, not that she slept anyway. She would just stare at things.
“Well, she is an orphan.”
Slowly, I set the little plastic scoop down, not caring that grounds sluffed off on the counter. Julie knew full well that Mary was my twin. I had told her on multiple occasions, had to introduce them once when we ran into each other downtown. Mary had not liked Julie, said to ‘dump the tramp’. Facing Julie, I forced a smile, which she soon mirrored. “Julie,” I said, and my hands cupped her face, feeling that sickly transition between dry makeup and soft skin at her jaw, “you look great on canvas. If you don’t like children, go find another desperate artist.”
Next thing I knew, I was looking back at the coffeepot, cheek throbbing with that burn which comes from only one source: a slap with nails. Now I was clutching my own cheek, Julie’s heels clicking across the tile as she made for the door. Rather than the coffee I grabbed the bourbon, pouring myself a healthy glass. I could hear her let out a little gasp, heels clicking heavily as she jumped. Alice was standing in the doorframe of the guest room, staring inquisitively at Julie. She just continued on her way, shoving that faux-fur coat on, the door slamming behind her. She could have at least said ‘sorry for your sister dying’ before storming off.
* * * * *
The phone stammered into life, that grating noise drowning out what little music I could bear. It did not take much effort to turn off the CD player, though going into the hall was more of a stretch. The phone kept ringing. Alice peeked her head through the door as I passed and asked something; I could only make out a few of the words. “Who... it? Is... pa and Gran...” It was not hard to fill in the blanks. Alice talked a lot more, with that confession off her chest, about laughing at what Mary said. People could laugh at the most inappropriate times.
I raised a finger in answer, less paint-caked of the two hands lifting the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mr. Slater? This is Detective Phillips. The insurance company finally got back to us.”
I planted myself in the nearest chair. Alice snuck around me, clambering up on the counter to get a good view of the phone pressed to my ear. Whether or not she should be in earshot, I could not keep Phillips or my curiosity waiting. “Did you get anything?”
“Yes. The day before your sister died.... she called the company and demanded they allow her to upgrade her insurance package. She insisted it go into effect immediately. As per company policy, they said no, but the owner called her back later and allowed it because of her good customer rating.”
“The day before....?”
“Yes, sir. Would you mind if I come by to talk with Alice? The school says your sister signed her out sick that day, before the first phone call.”
“Ah....” I cast a look over at her. Alice was watching me intently, as if any sign would spark her excitement more than it already was. She looked cheerful. “We’ll be here.”
I hung up the phone slowly, expecting a barrage of questions, but Alice was staring again. Some of the color had returned to her freckled face, though not much. There were no pictures of Alice around Mary’s apartment, so I would not know if it was normal, the pallor. When I went back to Mary’s apartment, Alice had given me a list of things to grab, mostly pieces to add to my kitchen. She said the rest could be stored.
It felt like I was sitting there forever, swinging my right foot back and forth beneath the table. Alice had hopped down from the counter and gotten herself a glass of iced tea, complements of the machine she had insisted I get from the apartment. Immediately the “icky” water had turned to something fabulous and drinkable. It was a miracle. She was washing out her glass in the sink as best she could when the door buzzer prodded me to stand. I hoped it was not Julie again.
The chain snapped taut as I opened the door to a crack, peering through for safety first. Julie had sharp nails. It wasn’t her, but a man that looked about my age, maybe a little younger standing there. It was the same guy who had brought Alice to me in the first place. He flashed his badge and I opened the door the rest of the way, “Mr. Slater? Hi. I’m Elliot Phillips, been working your case.” He offered a tanned hand and a smile, neither of which I returned.
Alice was setting out two glasses of the iced tea, little slices of lemon on the rims. I would have scolded her for using a knife without supervision, but Detective Phillips was already helping himself to a seat and thanking her with that too-white smile. He sounded much older than he looked, voice low and gruff. His grey suit was too nice, blue tie straight. “Hi there. You must be Alice? I want you to tell me about your mommy, okay? So we know what happened to her. Was there anything... that she started doing different?”
“She said she smelled something funky. She kept telling me to clean the house.” Alice wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. She obviously recognized him, was ready to tell what she knew. “I didn’t smell anything.”
“Was there anything else, Alice?”
Detective Phillips bothered me. It had taken nearly two weeks for me to get Alice to talk, and now this hotshot rookie had her talking freely. I felt like telling him to back off, go easy on her but Alice interrupted my open mouth. “Mother got headaches, bad ones. She locked herself in her room with all the lights off and made me turn the television down.”
It suddenly made sense. All of the medication in the cabinet, the air fresheners, how Alice kept cleaning the apartment, how she watched the television almost at mute. I wanted to ask if that was why she did not talk, but it was the Detective who interrupted me this time. “How often did this happen?”
“A bunch a-bunch.”
“Thank you, Alice.” Detective Phillips stood, waving with a hand for me to follow him. He had only drunk half his iced tea, kept the lemon on the rim like it was some decoration on a fancy cocktail. He cupped his hand around the side of his mouth, like it actually served to deflect noise away from Alice. It looked childish. “Mr. Slater, I need you to sign the exhumation papers so we can conduct an autopsy.”
“No. I already told you, Mary would not have wanted an autopsy. There has to be some other way to find out what happened. There were tons of painkillers in her bathroom. Did you find out what those were for?”
“We checked all the hospitals and clinics in the area. None had records of giving her prescriptions. The only way to find out is by exhuming her body and doing that autopsy.” He shoved his hand into his jacket pocket, glancing back at Alice and sighing. He shook his head. “Kids should never have to go through this kind of tragedy. Wouldn’t it be better if she knows? Follow me back to the precinct. I can get those papers ready ASAP. The sooner you sign, the sooner you get answers.”
* * * * *
“I don’t want to go to a new school.” Alice was frowning, and doing a bad job at it. She was better at staring, or some other emotionless act. A frown just did not sit well with her face. “Please? Just one more week?”
“Would Mary have let you ditch school?”
“Well.... no.” The frown seemed a bit more real this time, more convincing at least. I forced a smile to counter it and lead on, tugging her along by the hand. Alice had donned her uniform without a fuss, packed her own lunch, prepared a book-bag and yelled at me to hurry up lest we be late. Now she seemed to be fighting it.
“Then you are going in.”
There was a slight grumble, but no more protest than that. It was only a few minutes before Alice was passed off to one of the office workers, a nice young woman willing to show Alice to her homeroom. I missed Elementary School, how simple it was. There were bright posters everywhere, and grinning faces with it. There was no talk of the war raging overseas or death or strife. The debate there was who had to get the discount lunch and whose shoes were shinier. Alice would win on the latter.
A blinking light was awaiting me at home, the little orange globe warning and beckoning. Another relative apologizing for not wanting Alice? That was over a few days ago, unless I had forgotten a name or two on the list, always a possibility. Whenever someone died, all sorts of people came scrambling out of the woodwork. Luckily Mary had made a will the week before...
I held the button down, half-hesitating though I knew the message would start the moment I moved. There was no way I could keep standing there forever, as nice as a clean kitchen looked for once in a long while. Alice had taken it upon herself to clean everything, to delay school another day. The apartment was sparkling though, the first time since I moved in so it was a plus.
“Hi, it’s Phillips again. The toxicology report came in today. Clean. The autopsy was finished up last night. There were no internal or external injuries. She was healthy. I talked with the chief, and he says homicide and suicide are both ruled out..... and natural causes. Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t’ve done more. But we’re busy and... I’m sorry for your loss.”
The ending beep sounded shrill in the calm of my Monday morning. Twelve days... It felt like years. I should have called Mary back, when she hung up that day before she died. When I left her the message that I was leaving Arizona, she had called back. We kept in touch, despite our parents acting as though I never existed. That was their prerogative. Mary left a message telling me she was pregnant, needed somewhere to go. That was when they disowned her, too.
I sighed, a loud pop as I pulled the top from the bourbon bottle. A moment later I was pushing the top back in and pouring the already cold coffee into a mug. It was bitter, but had the kind of kick I needed. There were canvasses to be covered, to pay for the rent, breakfast dishes to wash, a pea plant on the balcony to water. If Alice could go to school, I could at least try.
