The Memory Closet: A Novel (26 page)

That satisfied her. She turned and lumbered to the hall linen closet and dropped off the towels, then headed back down the stairs.

I looked at Petey. He’d made a mess on the floor. Whenever he fluttered his wings, he became a little green leaf-blower, propelling empty seed pods and feathers in a cloud out of his cage.

“Petey?”

“PeteyPeteyPetey. Give me a kiss. Pretty boy!” he chirped, hopped down off the swing, bird-walked to the bars of his cage and stuck his beak out, waiting for me to stroke it. I turned and walked out of the room.

I went into my bedroom, took off my running clothes, stepped into the shower and turned the hot water up full blast. It scalded my skin bright red, but I stood with it running into my face until it started to cool—meaning I’d used all the hot water in the water heater. When I wiped the steam off the mirror with a towel, I studied the pale face that stared at me with big, hollowed eyes.

“Are you crazy?”

No answer, not that I really needed one.

This morning’s sense of well-being was gone. My insides were tied in a knot—a hangman’s noose!—and I was hunkered down, cringing, tensed for a blow I knew was coming.

In other words, I felt perfectly normal again.

The work crew showed up about two o’clock, which was not my definition of “in the morning,” but I said nothing. I’d been sitting in Bobo’s platform rocker in the parlor for hours, pretending to read. All I was really doing was examining the image of a dead parakeet that appeared in bright, living color on every page of the nameless book I held in front of me.

Bobo and I went out onto the back porch as soon as we heard the rumble of the truck. Julia had gotten Bobo clean and presentable before she left for the day.

Four Hispanics and a black man climbed down out of the back of a big truck with high side rails. The Hispanic driver, dressed in a starched and pressed chambray shirt with HPWM embroidered on the pocket, had a round face and a thick mustache. He stepped up to the porch carrying a clipboard, with a pencil stuck behind his ear.

“Afternoon,” he said, and touched the brim of his sweat-stained Stetson. “I’m Juan Ortega with High Plains Waste Management. You ordered the truck, right, you’re Miss …” He started to finger through the papers on the clipboard.

“Anne Mitchell,” I said.

He found the paper he was looking for and nodded, then turned to look at the pile of burned lumber. “It’ll take a couple of days to haul all this out of here. We’ll load by hand today; I’ll bring the backhoe tomorrow. You want me to take out the foundation, too, or were you going to build the garage back?”

How in the world would I know?

“No, leave the foundation. We’re going to build a storage building and a woodshop there.”

Where did
that
come from?

He tipped his hat. “OK ma’am, we’ll get to work.”

He shouted out something in Spanish, and the men donned heavy work gloves and began to pick up burned timbers and toss them onto the back of the truck.

Bobo stood watching the process, squinting into the early afternoon sun. She had been particularly uncommunicative today. Maybe she was still upset about last night. Or maybe she didn’t remember it at all.

“Where’s your sun bonnet, Bobo?”

“It ain’t on the hook,” she said gesturing to its usual resting place beside the back door. “I must a’took it off upstairs.” She turned and fixed me with her rheumy blue eyes. “I got to pack it anyway. I’m going home the end of the week.”

“I’ll go get it for you, Bobo. You don’t need to be out here in the sun without it.”

I started up the stairs and the higher I got, the slower I went. My legs got heavier and I grew more and more afraid with each step.

Oh, come on. Petey’s fine!

My eyes cleared the top step, and I could see into the studio. Petey was in his cage. He was dangling from the top bar, a gold twine noose tied around his neck.

My legs folded and I pitched forward onto the stairs panting, a little cry squeaking out of my throat. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I lay my head on the cool oak stair tread until it passed. I didn’t trust myself to stand, so I crawled up the final few steps to the hallway, resolutely refusing to look into the studio. I got to my feet holding onto the banister post, crossed the hall and pulled the studio door shut. As I reached for the doorknob, I glanced at the clock face on the mantel. The crack was gone.

My heart didn’t seem to be beating right, in rhythm. It raced, then slowed, going thudthudthudthud, then thud … thud … thud, the sound mingling with the buzzing in my ears to form a symphony nobody could hear but me.

I bleated a hysterical little giggle—just like there’s a dead bird in that room nobody can
see
but me.

Question: What does it feel like to lose your mind?

Answer: Nobody knows because the only people who do know are crazy, and you can’t believe a word they say.

I smelled gasoline!

Suddenly, I was completely alert. Hyper-alert. I smelled gasoline. I did! I knew I wasn’t imagining it. And the smell was coming from …

Bobo’s room.

I crossed the hall to her bedroom and opened the door. Sitting in the middle of her homemade quilt bedspread was a red, five-gallon gasoline can. It was muddy, blackened on one side with soot. It was the can I’d used to splash gasoline on the garage before I set it on fire.

Why would Bobo … ?

I gasped. My heart beat in perfect rhythm now, the thundering of a stampede of wildebeests.

Did I … ?

I raced to the bed and grabbed the can. It was almost empty, just a little splashing around in the bottom. But enough. If you poured it on a cotton bedspread, it’d be enough.

I whirled around and bolted out of the room and down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I lost my footing near the bottom and stumbled into the wall, bounced off it like a ball on a pool table, raced through the house and out the kitchen door past Bobo to the truck. Then with a mighty heave, I threw the can over the side into the pile of debris.

Juan was standing by the driver’s side door, clipboard in hand. “That can got a leak?” he asked.

“No. No leak. Just get it out of here! Haul it away.” I heard the rising wail of hysteria in my voice, but I couldn’t control it. “I don’t want it here; you hear me? Get it away from me!”

I clamped my jaw shut, because if I didn’t, I’d start screaming. I brushed past a wide-eyed Bobo and stormed back into the house.

This time, Bobo wasn’t the one going home the end of the week.
I was
. Only I was going to be out of here by the end of the
day.

I ran up the stairs, dragged my two big suitcases out of the armoire and opened them on the bed. Some part of me wondered which Petey I’d find in his cage when I picked it up to put it into my car, and hysterical laughter welled up in my throat.

Well, if he’s alive, I’ll take him with me; if he’s dead, I’ll leave him here.

Either way, I was outta here. I couldn’t stay. I’d hurt somebody if I stayed.

W
here will I go? 
The going
to
didn’t matter, just the going
from. 
I pulled open the top drawer in the base of the armoire and picked up a pile of pants —”trousers” in England. Pants in England meant undergarments.

Joel? I could go to Joel’s.

The next drawer had neatly folded blouses—Julia, not me—and I put them in the suitcase.

Yeah, and then I could set Joel’s bed on fire instead of Bobo’s.

Underwear was in the center drawer of the mirrored dressing table. Dusty had dumped it all out on the floor a lifetime ago.

The eye-watering smell of Vicks VapoRub hit me even before she spoke.

“What are you doing?” Her voice sounded lost, confused.

I turned to face her, and suddenly I couldn’t find any words to say, so I just dropped the handful of underwear on the dresser, walked over and wrapped my arms around her. She was so small it was like hugging a child.

“I have to go, Bobo,” I said into her wispy hair, struggling not to break down. “I can’t stay here any longer.”

She pulled out of my embrace.

“It’s my cookin’, ain’t it?” she asked, then hurried on before I could form a reply. “'Cause I know sometimes I leave things out that ought to be in there. Or put things in that ought not to be there a’tall. It’s just sometimes I can’t remember—”

“It’s not your cooking, Bobo.” My voice was thick and ragged. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s me. I can’t stay here because of me, because of what I might … do.”

She looked up at me with eyes sunk so deep in their sockets they were barely visible at all.

“You’re just going to go? Right now? And leave me here?”

This time, I actually caught the shift, watched her face rearrange itself, saw the lucid Bobo vanish and her crazy twin take her place. I watched her eyes—sad, confused, scared—turn into milky blue marbles with no emotion in them at all.

“Well, if you’re going, you can drop me off at the train station on your way out of town.” There was no train station in Goshen. “I’ll just be a minute; most everything I got’s already packed. You a’taking me there’ll save Jericho a trip.”

“You mean Edgar.”

“No, Jericho. He said to tell you hello. I asked him for a ride 'cause Edgar can’t very well take me to the train,” she grinned, “seein’ as how he’s a’waitin’ for me at the other end! He’s in Tahoka, going to pick me up when I get there.” A coquettish smile lit her face. “Me and Edgar—we’re going snow skiing!”

Ole Ed better have a mountain range in his pocket. The only ski slope in Tahoka would be down the north face of a speed bump.

I couldn’t do it, couldn’t just get in my car and drive away and leave her here by herself. I had to wait long enough to talk to Julia, to get her to stay here with Bobo, at least for a little while, until I could find somebody else. Because it was plain to see Bobo couldn’t live alone anymore.

“Tell you what, Bobo. How about I take you to the train after supper? I’m hungry. Is there any of Julia’s taco salad left over from last night? And I need Julia’s phone number, too. Do you have it?”

“I don’t know her number, but I ‘spect she’s in the book. Lives with her mama, the cook in that Mexican restaurant next door to the State Farm Agency.”

Mama
García.
I hadn’t put the two together. That explained what Julia did with all Bobo’s eggs.

“If there ain’t no taco salad left, I’ll whip up something. How’d you like to have—?”

“Fried chicken? You know what, I think I’ll pass on that.”

“Good, 'cause I ain’t fried a chicken in so long I don’t remember how no more.”

She turned and hobbled out into the hall, her limp worse than usual. It always seemed to get bad when her mind went off the reservation. Maybe there was a connection. Somebody needed to mention that to her doctor, but it wouldn’t be me.

“We’re out of that orange sody pop you like,” she said. “'Less you want to go get some, you’re going to have to drink ice water.”

Ice water.

She moved carefully down the stairs, still talking about supper as if I was walking along beside her. I stood frozen, unable to move at all.

The movie had started again in my brain. I watched the little girl with blonde braids kneel down on the floor outside the kitchen closet and speak softly into the crack between the door and the frame. The scene was the frozen-frame snapshot I saw the day I met Julia. Only this time, the glass the little girl is holding is full of ice water.

“Windy. Windy! Can you hear me?”

I look back over my shoulder. Mama’s in her bedroom. Bobo’s not back yet, and Jericho hasn’t come home at all.

I hear a sound from the closet, a squeak, a voice, something, and I stand and put my hand on the doorknob.

“I’m going to come in, Windy. Don’t be scared, it’s me.” I ease the door open. The rank, heat-intensified stink hits me like a hammer blow. Obviously, Windy has gone again in the sack. Smells like several times. She must be very sick. She’s lying on her side on the floor right where Mama dumped her. Her face is pale, bathed in sweat.  Her hair is soaked, and she’s breathing too fast, panting.

“I brought you something to drink.” I step inside the reeking oven, put the glass of ice water on the floor, get down on my knees and help her sit up in the sack.

“It’s hot in here,” she says. Her voice is weak. I have to lean her against me so she won’t fall over. She’s as wobbly as a noodle. I put the glass to her lips and she takes a little sip, then drinks great gulps of it, all the way to the bottom.

When she’s finished, she makes a great Ahhhh sound.

“I was thirsty. Thank you. Annie?”

“What?” I’m digging around in the empty glass trying to retrieve the ice cubes.

“I didn’t mean to make a mess. I couldn’t help it. It just came out. It’s still coming and it’s all over me.”

“It’s not your fault, Windy. You’re sick.”

I’m suddenly seized with an almost uncontrollable rage at my mother. How could she do this? If I was bigger, I’d …

“I got some ice here. It’s mostly melted, but it’s cold. You want me to stick it down in the bag or something?”

“No, just rub it on my face.”

I rub the melting ice cubes over her cheeks and eyes and mouth until there’s nothing but water in my hand. Then, I brush the hair plastered down on her sweaty forehead back from her face with my wet fingers.

“That feels good.” Even whispering, her voice sounds like tiny bells. “I love you, Annie.”

“I love you, too, Windy.”

We both hear the telephone ring. I grab the glass and jump up.

“I’ll bring you more water as soon as I can.”

I step out of the closet and close the door behind me. There’s only one more tray of ice cubes in the freezer. After that, I’ll have to wait until the tray of water I just put in there freezes. Surely, Mama will let Windy out before that!

Mama’s in the parlor on the telephone screaming at Jericho. She wants to know where he’s been and accuses him of spending the night with Little Dove.

I can hear her pacing back and forth as she yells. It’s the same fight they always have; they could keep hollering for hours. Mama’s so mad, who knows when she’ll remember she put Windy in the closet.

And it’s so hot in there!

Suddenly, I have an idea. I go to the sink, pick up a dish towel and wet it with cool water. Then I go back into the closet, get down on my knees beside Windy and start untying the drawstring on the sack.

“What are you doing? Don’t. You can’t do that. You’ll get in trouble.”

I ignore the warning and open the sack and the hot stench of Windy’s diarrhea literally takes my breath away. I gag. I can’t help it. My eyes water, and I’m afraid I’m going to throw up, but I don’t.

“Here, I’m going to pull the sack down some, so it’s not so hot.”

“But what if—?”

“I’ll pull it back up and tie it if I hear Mama coming.”

I drag the sack down off her shoulders. The diarrhea has smeared all over her; it’s on her chest and arms.

“Don’t touch me, I’m all sticky.” Tears well in her black eyes. “I don’t want you to get this stuff all over you, too. It’s yucky.”

I pick up the towel I’d wet in the sink and wipe Windy’s face with it. Then I carefully wipe the poop off her neck, shoulders and chest. The towel’s brown and reeking, and I take it to the sink and rinse it out. I know I shouldn’t. Mama wouldn’t ever wash out one of Joel’s poopy diapers in the kitchen sink! But I don’t care, not one bit!

Once it’s rinsed clean, I go back to the closet and wipe her shoulders, arms and chest some more. Not to clean her, to cool her off. I poke holes in the bag with my finger, just a few little holes you can't see, to let some air in, but I know it won't help. 

Then it’s back to the sink for more cool water. Back to the closet. To the sink, to the closet. I leave the door open so there’s some ventilation, but the sun is sliding down the western sky, heating the small kitchen like a barbecue grill. I’m not worried that Mama will stumble in on what I’m doing. I’ll hear her stop yelling in plenty of time.

From Mama’s end of the conversation, I figure out that Jericho is claiming he played poker all night, then spent the morning in the emergency room of the hospital getting stitches. He stepped on a piece of glass and cut his foot.

“What were you doing barefoot?” Mama sneers at one point. “Were you running around at a poker game without any clothes on?”

Windy doesn’t look good. She has gone in the sack again; I heard the gurgle. She’s breathing fast and shallow, and she’s all but stopped sweating. I don’t even notice the stench anymore. I bathe her with the cool towel, then flap it up and down in front of her face as a fan.

Finally, I hear Mama tell Jericho about Windy. I get up and go to the doorway into the dining room to hear better.

“Police brought her here this morning. Yes, here. They said they found her wandering down the road and her mother wasn’t home so they brought her here.”

There’s a pause as Jericho says something.

“She hasn’t said anything, just sits there like some dumb mute rabbit. No, like a rat. And you can come home and clean the disgusting little rat yourself. I’m not going to!”

Another pause.

“She crapped in the kitchen chair, that’s what I’m talking about. Annie and
your son
 trying to eat lunch, clean and decent, and that little vermin craps in the chair.”

I hear Mama bump into something, the coffee table maybe, and something thumps on the hardwood floor. She just keeps talking.

“Well, I grabbed her up and put her in the garbage can—what else was I supposed to do, it was going everywhere. And she just kept crapping in the garbage bag, so I dumped her and the bag in the closet.”

She bumps into the coffee table again, but nothing falls.

“I ought to dump her out front with the rest of the garbage, just a sack of stinking trash.”

Jericho says something.

“Leave her alone and you’ll clean her up? Oh yeah, you’ll be right home
now.
Now that your baby girl needs you! Well, I need you, too, Jericho, ever think about that? I need you, but you stay out all night whoring around … hello? Hello?”

She slams the receiver down and runs into her bedroom, crying.

I rush back to Windy with relief flooding through me. “Mama was talking to your daddy. It’s going to be OK now.”

“Daddy.” She repeats the word like a wind-up toy.

“Mama told him what she did to you, and Jericho said he was coming right home. Your daddy’s coming for you, Windy!”

Windy lifts her head and looks at me, and there’s no expression at all on her face. It’s as empty as the prairie. There’s a look in her eyes, though—not terrified like she was before, but not relieved, either. More like … like she’s just given up.

“Yes,” she says quietly, with no bells ringing in her voice. “My daddy’s coming for me.” Then she turns her head toward the wall and closes her eyes.

And I snap! The sight of her like that breaks my heart. Suddenly, my anger explodes into blind, raging fury—the same feeling I had when the tarantula climbed on Windy’s leg. Windy can’t lie here in the heat until her daddy rescues her. Mama’s got to let her out!

I get up off my knees and toss the wet towel into the sink. I leave the closet door wide open—I don’t care how bad it makes the kitchen stink!—and march into my mother’s bedroom. She’s sprawled across the foot of her bed sobbing.

It’s all I can do to control the rage in my voice.

“You have to let Windy out of the closet.”

She looks at me like she’s never seen me before. “What? What did you say?”

“You have to let her out. It’s too hot in there. She’s sick. You can’t leave her in there.”

Mama sits up slowly on the edge of the bed and her face changes, fills with a rage as violent as mine.

“What do you mean I 
have
to do this and I
can't 
do that? Who do you think you are, coming in here ordering me around. I can do whatever I want, Little Miss Annie. Don’t you dare talk to your mother like that.”

“But Mama, Windy…”

“Windy, Windy, Windy, Windy,” she wails. “I’m so tired of hearing about Windy!” She mimics my voice in a sing-song whine. “‘It’s too hot in there.’ Good. I’m glad it’s hot in there. Serves that little rat right, crapping in my clean kitchen. Like some kind of … of animal!”

She’s on a roll now, her words slur together in one long stream.

“She’s a little rat, a rat in a bag, a maggot in the slop, and I’m going to just toss her out with the rest of the rubbish, one more stinky bag of filth, let the trash men haul her away, a sack of garbage.”

“She’s not garbage and she’s not a rat! She’s my little sister!”