Death Rhythm (15 page)

"Sorry to scare you again." It was Natalie. Natalie Plant.

Andy rubbed the top of his head. A bruise was taking shape. He smiled. "It's just my head."

"I tried finding you over at your aunt's, but she said you went for a walk."

He held up the binoculars. "Bird watching."

Natalie laughed. "Yeah, I bet." She looked over in the direction of her house. "Looks like you got a pretty nice view of my bedroom window."

Andy shifted his weight nervously between his two feet.

Natalie gestured toward the stone building. "Find anything interesting in there?"

Andy shook his head. "No. Just a bunch of flies."

"Do you know who these graves belong to?" Natalie asked.

"A few. My grandparents', at least."

"Well, this one here," Natalie said, patting the granite Apollo next to her, "is my mother's, as you know. This is the one I bring flowers to every week. And this one over here," she said, indicating a small cement slab next to it, "is my sister's. Natasha."

"I didn't know you had a sister."

"Yeah. I never knew her myself. She died shortly after she was born." Natalie looked closely at Andy, then shrugged. She pointed at a grave next to him. "That one there is your aunt."

He looked closely at where she pointed.

The gravestone next to her grandparents.

BURIED IN SORROW

WITH OUR TEARS

OUR DAUGHTER

E.S. 1936-1948

Natalie laughed. "I bet no one ever told you about her."

Andy turned a doubtful gaze back to Natalie. "My aunt?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

Natalie said, "I knew they were too chickenshit to tell you. You never knew, did you?"

"Knew what?"

"There was Edna, Mae - and Evelyn." Natalie took a step towards Andy. He suddenly felt cold. Natalie put her arms around him, squeezing him in a strong bear hug, grinning at him unnervingly. "Edna, Mae, and Evelyn," she seemed to sing, her breath hot in Andy's face, her lips moving closer to his. "Evelyn," she whispered, as she pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were firm against Andy's quivering mouth. She pressed into him hard, and for awhile, Andy was afraid her teeth were going to split his upper lip wide open. Then she drew her head back, still squeezing him, crushing him. "Learn something new every day, don't you?" she said.

She let Andy go. Glanced at her mother's grave. "I have to go. I have to check up on Dad." She turned and walked away.

Andy stood shivering, not knowing what to think, what to do. He stood unmoving, as still as the gravestones, until he could no longer see Natalie's form through the trees.

Follow her. Follow her back to her house. Ask her just what the hell that was all about.

The leaves had lost their crispness underneath his feet. Andy walked quickly, but didn't run, couldn't run, because of the bare branches poking at him. He pushed them aside as he strode forward, letting them snap back into place after he passed.

"Natalie!" he called out. "Wait up!"

He saw the clearing ahead, the end of the trail. It led out onto the grassy field between Natalie’s and Mae's property. As he emerged from the forest into the clearing, he saw a flash of red as Natalie disappeared through her back door.

"Natalie!"

The door slammed shut.

Andy walked into the field, full of grass and weeds, and strode toward Natalie's house. As he neared the back door -

"Who the hell do you think you are?"
Hector appeared in his wheelchair, face red, eyes murderous.
"Get outta here!"

Andy stepped back in surprise. "I just want to see Natalie."

Hector rolled outside, onto the back step. He looked ready to roll himself all the way to Andy. Andy took another step back.

"I don't care who you want to see!" Hector yelled. Drool dripped from his chin. He shook his arthritic fist at Andy, every vein, every artery visible. "Get the hell off my property!"

"Dad!" Natalie cried, scrambling out the front door, grabbing hold of the handlebars of the wheelchair.

"Natalie," Andy said. "I need to talk to you."

"Jesus, Andy. Not now. Just leave."

"Get outta here!" Hector screamed.

"I'm leaving in two days," Andy said. "Can't I see you again?"

Hector punched at the air, then slapped at Natalie's hands, trying to dislodge them from his wheelchair.

"Please leave, Andy."

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

He walked backward a few steps, then turned and ran across the field toward Mae's house.

TWENTY

Settle down. Calm - stay calm. Just take a deep breath.

Natalie studied her face in the mirror, and then looked away quickly. She worked up a thick lather in her hands with a bar of soap and applied it to her face.

Just settle down.

She splashed warm water over her face, rinsing away the soap, formed her hands into a cup, let it fill with water, and held her face in it for a good fifteen seconds, blowing bubbles from her nose.

Just settle.

Hector's rusty buzz saw of a voice came whining through the door.

"Emma? Almost done in there?"

Natalie took a towel off the rack and squeezed it for a moment, then placed it in her mouth, grinding her teeth into it until her gums ached. She dried her face off.

"Hurry up." Hector knocked on the door. Natalie forced herself to look in the mirror again.

Hector wheeled his chair back and forth, thumping his feet on the door. "Em?"

Natalie closed her eyes tight, opened them, forced herself to look in the mirror some more, taking a deep breath. Wrinkles forming. Dark circles under the eyes. Purple-blue, tired circles. Her cheeks had sunk in the last few months. Her lips were no longer full and ripe, instead becoming chapped and ruddy.

It'll be all right. Everything'll be all right. He needs you. He needs your help. How can you
not
help him? How can you
not
feel for him?

She backed away from the mirror and opened the bathroom door.

When Hector saw Natalie, he froze, then looked down at his lap and started to cry.

"Shhhh, Dad. Shhhh. It's all right, it's all right." Natalie walked behind him and stretched her arms over his back and around his shoulders, crossing them over his chest, hugging him. "Everything's all right. We're okay."

TWENTY-ONE

Mae looked up Edna's number in the phone book. It had been so long since she called her. So long. Why was her hand shaking so much?

Won't she be surprised to hear my voice, she thought? Won't she be delighted? Ha! Delighted? That was a laugh.

Surprised - yes. Delighted -

Still it had been five years.
At least
. Maybe she's changed. Maybe she'd be glad to hear from me. At least curious.

And how will I feel, Mae wondered. How will I feel when Edna picks up the other line. Hearing her voice. Oh, Jesus, her voice.

But for Andy's sake - that's why I'm doing this. For Andy.

Mae dialed the number, then quickly hung up. What good was it going to do to call her? To talk to her?

What good was it going to do to open up that window, that door between us again? Because the first thing both of us will feel when hearing each other's voices will be the memories. The memories. Oh, Christ, the memories.

Don't be a fool, Mae. Call her. Pick up the phone, dial the number, wait for her to answer, wait for Edna to answer, and say, "Hello, Edna, this is Mae, your long lost sister. How are you doing?"

And then it will all come flooding back, a tsunami of memories, washing them back over years, over decades, and will everything be all right? God oh Christ. I hope to God it will be all right.

As if she could reach through the phone, Mae thought. As if she could reach through the phone and grab me by the neck and sink her teeth into me. Ha! At least seven or eight hours apart, so what's the problem?

For Andy's sake. For your own sake, Mae. Pick up the phone.

And dial.

TWENTY-TWO

"No...no...no...It's important...You've got to..."

Andy leaned against his bedroom door, biting his lip.

"But Edna...No...You've got to..."

Mae's voice came muffled across the hall, her bedroom door shut.

"I think he's home now. I'll get him if you want me to."

Andy squeezed the doorknob, sweat forming on his forehead, dripping into his eyebrows.

"But Edna, you've got to...No, I didn't..."

His mother was on the other end of that phone. Andy's mother. He tried not to move, not to make a sound.
No, Mae - I'm not here. You were hearing things.

"Really, Edna...I think I heard him...You've got to tell him."

I'm not here, Mae. I'm outside, out in the woods, in the cemetery, in the field. And I can't talk, Mae. Not now. Not to you, not to my mother. Not to anybody.

His throat was dry, yet Andy felt like he was choking on his own sweat, his own acids gurgling up from his stomach. He felt gagged, gagged by the mottled fur of Mae's dead cat, stiff and coarse, full of beetles and slugs, melting the enamel on his teeth, sucking the taste buds from his tongue.

"...I'm sure he's right here...you've got to..."

Andy couldn't. His limbs couldn't move. They were frozen. They were tied. Tied to the door by decaying, rotting strands of sinew and tendon.

"...I'm sure he's here...Let me get him."

Andy squeezed harder, feeling the grit from the doorknob rub off onto his hand. Birds flapped their wings in his stomach, piercing his inner lining with beaks and talons.

I don't want to talk to her, Mae.

He thought of sneaking downstairs and out the door.

"You've got to talk to him..."

No, no, no.

His mouth so dry, he couldn't talk if he wanted to. All the saliva, all the juice in him was flowing out of his palms, out of his forehead, out of his back in a flood of perspiration. He couldn't talk, could hardly breath.

What about the attic?
Why not hide in the attic. Just until Mae hangs up.

He tried turning the knob of the bedroom door slowly, but his palm was too full of sweat. He wiped it on his shirt. Grabbed the knob again, his hand shaking. What's the big deal, he thought. It's only your mother.

Only his mother.

He turned the knob slowly and the door opened.

Just his mother.

"Let me get him for you..." Mae's voice came through the walls.

Just your mother, Andy.

He snuck out of the bedroom and walked towards the attic. His pulse pounded through his veins, out to his earlobes, making his hearing super-sensitive, amplifying the creaking of his footsteps.

Just his mother.

Yeah, just my fucking mother, and things are just a little too weird for me right now, he thought. I don't know what it is, but everything that's been happening since I got here is like an echo, bouncing around in my head, getting louder with each rebound.

He opened the attic door. A vacuum of air blew past him. The stairs seemed to sway beneath him. He bit his lower lip hard. (c'mon, Andy, don't get dizzy, don't even think of passing out) The steps became solid again.

He shut the door behind him and walked up the stairs, flicking on the light switch. Mae's voice was now a low murmur, indecipherable through the floor and walls. He looked at all the books surrounding him and took in a deep breath. He let his pulse settle down and dried his hands on his pants. His eyes wandered haphazardly, searching for something to lock onto, something solid, something real. Something to take his mind away for just a little while, to let it relax and calm.

He looked for something to read while hiding from a telephone conversation.

It wasn't his eyes that found the box. It was his head. As he bent over to pick up an Agatha Christie novel, his forehead banged against a shelf protruding from the wall above the bookcase. He heard a metallic rattle. He straightened up, rubbing his temples, cursing himself for his clumsiness. He saw a metal container, the size of a tool box. Drab olive green. A lock held it shut. Andy pulled it from the shelf and blew the dust off it, turning it over in his hands. Something inside made a thunking noise. There was a key taped to the bottom of the box.

Convenient.

Andy set the box on his lap, inserted the key, and opened the lid.

Drumsticks. A pair of wooden drumsticks. He pulled them out, holding one in each hand. The lettering had worn off them long ago, and they were dented and chipped. But they felt good in Andy's hands. Balanced. Solid. For some reason, they felt
natural
.

Andy set the box onto the floor next to him. He held the sticks clumsily in his hands, trying to imitate the drummers he had seen on T.V.

He started to play on his knee.

Whap! He felt silly, looked around embarrassed, then realized he was alone.

Whap! He'd never played a drum in his life, but anything to help get his mind off his aunt, off his mother. Off Natalie.

Whap! He struck his knee with the precision of a drunkard.

Whap! Whap! He tried to keep a steady beat, but it seemed hopeless.

Whap! His knee began to get sore.

He switched knees.

Andy had no rhythm, but that didn't matter. The sticks felt warm and comfortable in his hands. Balanced. They began to feel like a natural extension.

Whap! Both knees now throbbed. He set the sticks down.

Which relative played the drums?

He looked into the box again. There was a small medallion inside. He pulled it out by a red, white, and blue ribbon. The colors were faded, covered with grease stains. Sweat. The medallion itself was a dull copper color, turning green at the edges. The lettering was hard to distinguish, most of it worn down. Andy held it close, shifting it in the light to get a correct read off of the glare. The medallion said: