Shadow

Chris Britt

Mary Burgess moved to Clifftown, Missouri, during the hottest summer that anyone could remember, with highs reaching 99 degrees or higher every day for a week, a heat that renders air conditioning useless and wakes Mary at 2 a.m. while a fan pushes warm air over her body as she flips her pillow again. The fitted sheet beneath her is damp, the other sheet long since kicked away. The wispy hairs beneath her ponytail feel infested with lice. She paws at the imaginary lice and when she pulls her hand away it is damp and she sniffs her finger, a mixture of sweat and fabric softener filling her nose.

            This is the smell of Missouri, she thinks.

            She flops her head to the left and finds their dog, Lance, awake and panting. Born in Maine and plucked from a blueberry farm down the road, Lance enjoyed two summers of open windows and cool nighttime breezes. He closes his mouth and rests his head between his paws, an accusing glare trained on Mary.

            Beyond Lance lies Jacob, Mary’s husband, inexplicably and peacefully sleeping, droning like a tiny outboard motor. He is the reason Mary bastes in her sweat, his crimes consisting of being born in Missouri–about an hour away–and thus accustomed to the humidity, and being employed by a manufacturer that recently transferred Jacob to the factory just outside Clifftown.

            “How’d you sleep?” Jacob asks at breakfast.

            Mary limits her response to a raised middle finger, playfully wagged.

            “I swear, it’s historically hot.”

            Mary lowers the finger. “Historical context doesn’t cool my body.”

            “You’ll get used to it,” says Jacob as he pats her forearm. Mary opens her mouth then swallows her reply.

            Mary spends their first couple weeks in Clifftown making soap. With Jacob occupied at work and the house littered with half-emptied packing boxes, she toys with lavender and coconut oil. Before the move from Maine, she’d sold a few bars at a cozy summertime farmers’ market near Lewiston, after lugging a rickety card table and affixing a sign that was too small to read until you’d nearly passed her table. Mary didn’t care how much she sold, enjoying the fresh air and smiling broadly at everyone who passed, calling, “Homemade soap here. Made fresh weekly!” She knew that most customers purchased out of pity.

Surely, she thinks, a town like Clifftown, which has actual farmers within the city limits, would have a farmers’ market. On their second Saturday morning, Mary and Jacob stroll two blocks to Clifftown’s diminutive shopping district, pass the bridal shop and the Christian bookstore, and arrive at the Methodist Church parking lot. Standing at the market entrance, Mary counts ten forlorn booths, a couple shaded by flimsy Cardinals canopies from Wal-Mart, the rest roasting in the sun.

Only one booth, selling local beef and pork, rightly belongs at a farmers’ market. Another booth features handmade bibs. The Baptists sell crosses made of salvaged wood and quickly correct Mary when she asks how much their crucifixes cost. A family of five sells spicy jerky and a white-haired gentleman offers samples of “Captain Pete’s Num Num Sauce.” A teenager with an acoustic guitar and an amp performs “American Pie” as heat glimmers from the asphalt.

            The remaining five booths, to Mary’s mounting dismay, sell homemade soap. The women stand stoically, fingertips resting on tables, refusing eye contact with one another.

            “I’m about to cry in public,” Mary whispers to Jacob.

            As they depart the market they pass a small table, shaded by an oak and staffed by a tiny bespectacled woman. The table holds one bowl containing chalky mints served at wedding receptions, along with a pile of brochures. The woman hands a brochure to Mary and says, softly, “If you’re in need or would like to help.” The brochure reads, “United Methodist Food Pantry” and “Open to All.” Mary turns the brochure and on the back finds a plea: “We are in need of volunteers to deliver to our homebound friends.” She smiles and waves the brochure at the woman as Jacob tugs her elbow.

            #

A blast of Pine-Sol-scented air conditioning shocks Mary as she enters the church before lunch on Monday, sending a shiver to her toes. She startles a woman working behind the desk in the otherwise deserted church office, with a limp sweater draped over her bare arms, and the woman directs Mary to the basement.

            Down a darkened corridor, past Sunday School classrooms with child-sized chairs tucked neatly under shrunken tables, Mary discovers the food pantry near the rear church entrance. A faint mildew smell mixes with the Pine-Sol scent, reminding Mary of dank Maine cellars. She gazes into a windowless room lit by fluorescents, filled with gun-metal shelving. The shelves are half full, mostly with canned goods and boxes of mac and cheese. A few cardboard boxes containing potatoes and apples sit on an island in the middle of the room.

            A voice behind Mary creeps like fog. “We’re closed on Mondays, dear.”

            Mary yelps and turns, then lowers her gaze a foot to find the woman with the brochures, standing no more than five feet, with stern lips unmoving. The thick lenses in her glasses have the appearance of sliced ice.

            Mary’s heart beats behind her eyes as she exhales and pulls the brochure from her purse. “You gave this to me on Saturday,” she says in a squeaky voice, her throat suddenly dry. “I don’t need food, I just thought I could help.”

            The woman’s face relaxes as she pats Mary on the shoulder and steps forward, making clear that Mary should vacate the doorway. “Forgive me, I’ve had problems with folks sneaking in while I’m at the commode.”

            Mary follows in half-steps as the woman hobbles to her desk, which is littered with penciled lists on scraps of paper. “I’m Edna,” she says as she lowers herself into an office chair with duct-taped arms. “I’m only the assistant director. Carol is the director, but she’s in Branson for Shoji Tabuchi.”

            “Sorry, who is that?”

            “Carol, I said she’s the director.”

            “Right, I mean she’s seeing who in Branson?”

            Edna pauses and peers over her glasses as she considers Mary’s face for the first time. “I take it you’re not from here.”

            Mary raises her eyebrows and gives a half-wave as she says, “Guilty as charged. Just moved here a couple weeks ago.”

            “He plays the fiddle.”

            “Sorry?”
            “Shoji Tabuchi plays the fiddle.”

            A bubble of regret rises in Mary. “Ah, good to know,” she nods. “Um, so about volunteering.”

            “You have a car?” asks Edna.

            “I do.”

            “Okay, our biggest need is our delivery program. We’ve got some older folks who don’t get around so good anymore. Can you help out tomorrow?”

            “I can definitely do that.”

            “It’s just one delivery tomorrow, to Mrs. Armstrong.”

            “Okay.”

            “This is an outreach program, so we ask that you spend ten minutes visiting.”

            “Got it. I’m happy to spend the time.” Mary hesitates. “When you say visiting, do you mean proselytizing?”

            Edna chuckles. “Dear, if you want to spread the good word, the Baptists are across the street. We’re trying to keep meat on bone here, with a little friendly conversation.”

            Mary nods, her shoulders relaxing. “Good, I can do that.”

            “Mrs. Armstrong can be challenging, but I’m sure you’ll manage.”

#

            It occurs to Mary, as her Subaru idles in the Armstrong driveway, that she’s woefully unprepared for a conversation that veers into faith. She presumes that Mrs. Armstrong is a church member and may ask Mary how long she’s attended the church or whether she sings in the choir or if she approves of the new pastor from Kentucky. Mary dredges her memory for Jeopardy episodes that included a biblical category, but all she recalls with any certainty is that David v. Goliath occurred in the Old Testament. Perhaps that will suffice.

            Mary’s is the only car in the driveway and the carport is empty, without even a trash can or broom propped against the wall. The Armstrong house is situated in a neighborhood of single-story houses, modest and quiet. Mature oaks shade the tidy lawns. American flags hang motionless from most homes, but Mrs. Armstrong’s house displays no flags or hanging potted plants or zinnias. Mary glances at a piece of paper to confirm she’s at the right address.

Balancing on her hip a cardboard box containing the weekly goods, Mary reaches for Mrs. Armstrong’s doorbell and jolts back when the door immediately opens. Mrs. Armstrong pushes the screen door and says, “I’m so sorry to startle you. I heard your car in the driveway.”

Despite the heat, she wears a red cardigan over a creaseless white button-down, a black skirt, and nylons, her feet snuggled in tan house slippers. Mary guesses that Mrs. Armstrong is in her 80s, with alert turquoise eyes and rosy cheeks and fire-engine lipstick. Her silvery hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Mary blushes as she glances at her Provincetown tank top and flip flops.

Mary smiles and waves with her free hand. “No worries, I’m Mary.” She grips the box with both hands and raises it in salute. “I’m from the food pantry.”

A shadow passes over Mrs. Armstrong’s face. “Oh dear, did they change the delivery person again?”

Mary hesitates and says, “I’m not sure. I’m new in town and just volunteered this week.”

            “Hmm. I see.” Mrs. Armstrong’s hands, which were clasped at her waist, fall to her sides, her shoulders deflating. “I seem to run people off.”

            “Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case. I think they just need more volunteers.”

            “Hmm.”

            Sweat trickles down the small of Mary’s back as she readjusts the box. Mrs. Armstrong seems unsure of how to proceed.

            “So, maybe I can put these away for you in the kitchen?”

            Mrs. Armstrong recovers from her trance and nods, smiling. “Of course, yes. Please come.” She holds open the screen door as Mary crosses the threshold.

            Mary enters a living room with no radio, no record player, no television, no dog or cat, no sound save for the ticking of a grandfather clock. A stern couch sits against the wall, towering bookcases on each side. Two straight-backed wooden chairs without cushions face the couch. It is difficult to discern color with the windows guarded by black-out curtains, but as Mary slips out of her flip flops and steps onto the carpet that appears as a deep blue, her feet sink into the plushness, as if Mrs. Armstrong hovers from room to room.

            Mrs. Armstrong points across the room and says, “Through that doorway, please. You can place them on the counter.”

            As Mary crosses the living room, she spies on one of the bookcases, among carved wooden figurines and porcelain children, a gleaming white human skull. Her eyes bulge and she looks back at Mrs. Armstrong, who shuffles toward the couch.

            The kitchen is pristine. No dirty dishes, no trace of breakfast. Mary places the box on the counter and tries to think of a conversation starter.

            She re-enters the living room and Mrs. Armstrong, seated on the couch, motions to the cushionless chairs. Mary sits and the cool wood stings her legs.

            “You must be wondering about the skull.”

            Mary’s eyes shift to the skull, which is about a foot away from Mrs. Armstrong’s head.

            “It does catch the eye.”

            “It belonged to my son.”

            Mary considers the possibilities contained within this statement and errs toward reasonableness. “Does your son live nearby?”

            “That would be quite impossible.”

            “Because his work took him elsewhere?”

            “He never had the chance for work.” Mrs. Armstrong’s hands are clasped, resting still in her lap. A gold wedding band and matching engagement ring remain dim in the darkened room.

As the ticking of the grandfather clock fills the silence, Mary wonders whether her soul would be better nourished by making soap and selling it alongside soapmakers who avoid each others’ presence.            

            Mary feels the tug of the skull, wills her eyes to remain fixed on Mrs. Armstrong’s gaze. “I’m sorry, did your son pass?”

            A thin smile from Mrs. Armstrong. “I’ve never liked that term, ‘passed,’ like it was something that merely occurred, a tumble.”

            Mary nods in agreement. “Your son died, then.”

            “Even ‘died’ is rather passive, isn’t it? Depending on the circumstances.”

Mary thinks of her car keys, her purse. She left them on the kitchen counter. “Would you like me to put the food away, rather than leave it on the counter?”

“No, I would not.”

Mary scratches the back of her head. “Okay, well, I’m sure you have things to do, so …”

Mrs. Armstrong covers her mouth as she chuckles. She raises her hand, as if balancing a tray of martinis, and scans the room with it, landing on Mary. “I have nothing but time.”

Nodding and rubbing her hands down her thighs, Mary recalls her maternal grandmother, who died, bewildered, after nine months in a nursing home. Mary and her mother visited every other day.

Determined to engage in at least 10 minutes of conversation, Mary pivots. “How do you like the food from the pantry?”

Mrs. Armstrong smiles and points at the skull. “I know you’re thinking of this and its provenance. Everyone does.”

“Ma’am, I’m happy to talk with you about whatever is on your mind. If it’s the skull, let’s talk about the skull.” Mary stands and walks to the bookcase, squinting at the skull.

“It belonged to my son.”

Mary knows dementia. In her family it ended in fog and silence, but always began with repetition. Better to play along. “Is that so?”

“It’s the best he could do,” says Mrs. Armstrong, in a voice that tails off and reaches for the past.

Mary turns, concerned that Mrs. Armstrong is falling asleep. But she sits erect, eyes forward, now picking at her fingernails. “It’s the best he could do,” she whispers. Mrs. Armstrong sinks into the couch, resting her head on the couch’s arm. “Please come back next week.”

Unsure, Mary eases to the coffee table and bends forward, sees Mrs. Armstrong’s closed eyes. A faint rattle sounds from her chest as it rises and falls.

On tiptoes Mary steps to the kitchen. Grabbing her purse, she notices a framed picture in the middle of a breakfast table. In the photo is a young man, a teenager, with Mrs. Armstrong’s turquoise eyes. He stands, beaming, before a bare tree, wearing a white doctor’s coat. A stethoscope is draped around his neck. He holds an empty plastic Halloween bucket with both hands, the jack-o-lantern grinning at the camera.

#

Jacob leans against the sink, gnawing at an apple, wearing khakis and a roomy polo. His factory ID dangles from a lanyard. “You don’t really think it’s her dead son’s head, do you?”

“Well, it’s a skull, not a head.”

“You know what I mean.”

Mary peels potatoes, the stripped skins collecting in the trash can. She pauses and points the peeler at Jacob. “Remember that serial killer from Lewiston? They found a bunch of bones buried in the cellar. That’s what you do if you have human bones in your house. You don’t display them like a tchotchke.”

“So you think it’s not real? Like a model?”

“It has to be, right? The kid in the picture was dressed like a doctor. He probably wanted to be a doctor so he had a plastic skull because he thought it was cool.”

Jacob tosses the apple core at the trash can and misses by a mile. Poor Lance sniffs the core then curls into a ball by the sink, his back turned in protest. “Did it look plastic?”

“It looked pretty damn real to me, but it was dark, so who knows.”

Adopting the tone he used whenever he thinks he’s landed on the definitive conclusion, however unsupported, Jacob says, “It’s not real, there’s no way.”

“It’s definitely real.”

“You know what I mean.”

“She said it ‘belonged to’ her son,” says Mary, using air quotes. “Like he possessed it. You don’t possess your own skull, right?”

Jacob stretches toward the ceiling as he walks to the living room. “People misuse words all the time. Especially when they’re 80. I wouldn’t hang my hat on the dictionary definition of ‘possess.’”

The peeled potatoes rest on a cutting board as Mary looks out the kitchen window that faces the park. A northerly breeze ripples the tree canopy, branches swaying and leaves dodging, tempering the afternoon heat. A mother rushes from bench to slide, consoling a toddler who took the slide headfirst and met the ground facefirst. The little one’s cries cross the street, filtered by glass and distance, and prick Mary’s ears. She places the knife on the cutting board, pausing as she watches, and rests a hand on her belly, now thirteen weeks.

#

Edna hums “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” as she meanders, stiff-legged, around the food pantry, selecting one item at a time for Mrs. Armstrong’s box. She is in no hurry.

“A little heads up about Mrs. Armstrong would have been helpful,” says Mary.

“I told you she was challenging.”

“Yes, you did, but you failed to mention the skull. That seems to be a noteworthy detail.”

Edna scoffs and waves off Mary’s critique. “Oh, that. That’s nothing. Decoration.”

“Not to her. She wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Your role is to provide human connection. Does it really matter what she talks about?” Edna pretends not to notice Mary’s hand placed across her stomach.

“I can tell she’s lonely,” says Mary.

“Aren’t we all, dear.”

Mary puffs her cheeks and exhales. “What happened to her son?”

“He died many years ago.”

“She wants to talk about him, so it would be helpful to have some details so that I don’t completely step in it.”

“It is not my story to tell,” says Edna as she strains for an upper shelf.

Mary crosses the room and snatches the box of oatmeal, handing it to Edna, who nods and places the oatmeal in the box. Edna turns to face Mary.

In a lowered voice, Edna says, “I don’t know many details. Timothy was his name. The family moved here when he was in high school. They would attend services but I don’t think he ever came to any of the young people activities. Very shy, kind. The family would sit in the back and did not mingle after services.”

“She still wears her wedding ring. When did her husband die?”

“Oh, he’s not dead. Not that I’ve heard.”

Mary stiffens at the thought of Mrs. Armstrong’s husband lying ashen in a corner bedroom, reaching for Mary’s murmurs in the living room. “He’s not in that house, is he?”
            “He left a few years after Timothy died. Just up and left.” Edna counts the items on Mrs. Armstrong’s list with a stub pencil and then confirms the number of items in the box.

Sudden nausea strikes Mary. She can’t decide if it’s the pregnancy or the Pine-Sol stench of the church or the guilt she feels from so quickly dismissing Mrs. Armstrong last week. How many years had she sat vigil in that tiny, silent home, bound by grief and regret?

As the color drains from Mary’s face, Edna points to the door. “Make a left, second door.”

Mary returns after a few minutes, puffing through her mouth, her chin damp from gargling water.

Sitting behind the desk, arms crossed, Edna faces the pantry shelving but does not appear to take inventory or fret over supply. Her eyes fixed on a distant spot, she seems to take stock of her efforts. Mary gently wraps on the desk as she passes and then retrieves Mrs. Armstrong’s box from the island. She returns to the desk and Edna speaks quietly, saying, “We’ve had problems with volunteers and Mrs. Armstrong. She says things that disturbs them and it’s hard enough to find people to volunteer.” Edna pauses then points her pencil at Mary. “It’s important that we help everyone who needs help, even if it creates momentary discomfort for us.”

Mary fights the pressure building behind her eyes, resolving that her purpose in this moment is to project confidence. The unintended force in her voice surprises her, as if she’s motivating soldiers through an enemy swamp. “You will not lose me,” she says. “I’ll deliver these boxes as long as Mrs. Armstrong needs them.”

Edna offers a sympathetic smile and, glancing briefly at Mary’s midsection, says, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

#

Mary wears a knee-length skirt and navy polo for her second delivery to Mrs. Armstrong. A light rain begins as Mary eases into the driveway, marking the cement like brush pricks. She has no umbrella or rain jacket and resists the urge to scamper to the front door. Mrs. Armstrong, wearing the same clothing as last week, opens the door as Mary approaches.

Mary has a plan. She will overwhelm Mrs. Armstrong with a flood of kindness and a torrent of minutiae from her week.

Mrs. Armstrong greets Mary with a warm, hesitant smile and squeezes against the door as Mary enters. Mary commands the situation by announcing, as she crosses the living room, the contents of the pantry box, and then, after placing the box on the kitchen counter, commenting on the coolness of the raindrops, her failed search for adequate perennials at the hardware store on Linden Lane, Jacob’s boneheaded attempt to make an omelette, and the alarming strike-out rate of the Cardinals’ rookie center fielder (which reached Mary’s consciousness through the radio on the drive over).

This monologue draws from Mrs. Armstrong, now perched on the couch, a clearing of the throat.

“You came last week, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.”

“Can you tell me your name again?”

“Oh, of course, I’m Mary.”

Mrs. Armstrong nods and then keeps nodding as she kneads her hands together. “There’s something about your name. I don’t know if you’ll think it’s funny.”

Mary mirrors Mrs. Armstrong, nodding along, and her nods morph into cautious shakes as she says, “It’s a pretty common name. From the Bible. Doesn’t rhyme with a curse word, so . . . .”

“Maybe ‘funny’ is the wrong word. It’s just, I would say, a coincidence.”

“And how’s that?”

Mrs. Armstrong looks up from the carpet, continues to knead her hands, and confusion mars her face, as if she’s making sense of a memory she once understood as truth. “Just a coincidence, I suppose, but my husband used to call our son that name.”

Mary’s eyes dart to the skull and, like her last visit, her mind teases out possible meanings of this new information, seeking a conversational path that Mary hopes will end in something short of horrific.

“So,” offers Mary, “his name wasn’t Mary, I assume?”

“No, it was Timothy. But sometimes my husband called him Mary.”

Mary reaches for a plausible explanation. “It was a kind of funny term of endearment?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Mrs. Armstrong flashes a regretful smile. “He was such a tender soul. Once he came home with some dirt near the cuff of his new blue jeans and he was just beside himself. My husband felt very strongly that Timothy needed to be tougher to survive in this world.”

“So he ridiculed Timothy?”

“Not all the time,” says Mrs. Armstrong defensively. “I’ll give you an example. If my husband needed Timothy to mow the lawn, he would say something like, ‘Do you need help pushing the mower, Mary?’ He would usually laugh when he said it.”

Mary’s hand reflexively caresses her belly. Her mind retreats to a childhood memory of children taunting her as “Scary Mary.” Her older brother had thrown an elbow that caught Mary in the face, blackening her eye like a prizefighter. The children chased her around the playground, screaming in a pitch that teachers mistook for play. She came home crushed, refusing to eat, her fawn legs tucked underneath her at the dinner table. Her father picked her up like a laundry bundle, cradling her while whispering encouragement and advice, then carried her to the basement for a demonstration. The next day, as the recess chasing resumed, Mary feigned fear and took flight. At the chain-link fence she halted and swiftly turned, leading with a left hook that found Tommy Silver’s navel. He hunched and moaned before vomiting all over his shoes.

Mrs. Armstrong notices the hand on the bump and her eyes narrow. “You’re expecting.” 

“I am, yes.”
            “And you’re judging me, aren’t you?”

“No, not at all.”

“Yes, you most certainly are. You think I stood by while my husband ridiculed my son. You used that word. Ridicule.”

“I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that, my thought was that if your son was so gentle, it must have been hard for you to see your husband speak to him in that way.”

Mrs. Armstrong stands, slowly, and balances herself on the arm of the couch as she takes half steps to the bookcase. She slips her hands under the skull and turns to face Mary, the skull resting at her breast. “I’ll tell you what was hard for me. Receiving a call from the police on Halloween night, telling me that they’ve found my boy. Bloodied after being beaten with a bottle. Naked below the waist. Left in a field by boys who wore masks. They gave him pants worn by prisoners because that’s all they had.” She glares, as if challenging Mary to counter with her own inconsolable grief.

“I’m so sorry you went through that,” Mary whispers, her eyes downcast.

“Look at me,” growls Mrs. Armstrong. “They did this to my son. Not my husband. He didn’t know how to deal with a son who was so different. Timothy wouldn’t play any sports, would barely play at all with other boys. He wanted to be left alone.” Mrs. Armstrong’s grip on the skull tightens, her bottom lip trembling. “He read encyclopedias, the pages on the human body and biology. He bought models of different body structures and built them and played with them.”

“Is that where the skull came from?”

“After the boys attacked him we couldn’t stay in that town so we moved here.”
            Mary nods. “I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

Mrs. Armstrong’s energy sags and she shuffles to the couch, placing the skull at her side so that it stares at Mary. She reaches for a tissue and dabs her cheeks, wipes her nostrils. Mary fears that Mrs. Armstrong will fall asleep again on the couch. But she places a steady hand atop the skull and continues. “Things got worse in Clifftown. Timothy made one friend. His name was Jeremy. He was quiet, like Timothy. Jeremy would invite Timothy to his house. One day Jeremy was here, they said they needed to study for a test. My husband went to Timothy’s room to tell them that dinner was ready.” Mrs. Armstrong falls silent as she strokes the skull with her fingertips.

The grandfather clock ticks as rain strikes the roof like specters tapping in the attic.

“I heard my husband shouting in a sound that I hadn’t heard before, like he was wounded. He kept repeating ‘Get out!’ And then Jeremy ran out the house and we never saw him again.”

Mrs. Armstrong fumbles with the tissue wrapped around her fingers and looks over her shoulder toward the hallway, as if expecting Timothy to appear and explain everything.

“My husband said they were laying together on the bed, touching each other.” She looks Mary in the eyes. “Timothy stayed in his room all night. He didn’t eat a bit of food. Wouldn’t come out of his room.”

The tears gently flow and Mary stands and pulls a tissue from the side table before sitting next to Mrs. Armstrong on the couch. She shudders when Mrs. Armstrong inhales, sending forth a frightening rattle.

“Can I make you some tea?” asks Mary.

Looking straight ahead, Mrs. Armstrong nods and says, “There is a kettle and some bags near the sink. I don’t remember where, exactly.”

In the kitchen Mary uses her palms to dry her eyes, bent over at the waist. She straightens and feels her belly again, knowing it is too early to detect any movement. She finds the kettle, adds water, and begins heating it on the gas stove. Mary takes a couple steps back and looks into the living room. Mrs. Armstrong is no longer on the couch.

After a few minutes the water boils and Mary prepares a mug of tea. She carries it to the darkened living room, where she discovers that Mrs. Armstrong has not returned. She places the mug on a wooden coaster on the coffee table.

Mary steps tentatively into the hallway. There are three doors; two on the left and one on the right. All three doors are open. Mary hears no movement, only the sound of rain striking the roof. There are no pictures on the walls, though a few nails remain from where pictures once hung.

The first door, on the left, is the bathroom, with fixtures and tiles at least thirty years old. A toothbrush sits parallel to a tube of toothpaste on the sink. Mary pushes the door fully open to confirm that Mrs. Armstrong is not there.

The next door, on the right, is two short steps down the hallway. Dim light seeps through the door and Mary sees that, unlike the rest of the house, the curtains are parted, just enough for daylight to tease a twin-sized bed, tightly made, wedged in the far corner. This is Timothy’s room, she thinks. The door creaks as Mary presses, revealing two bookcases aside a small desk. There are no toys or trinkets, just books arrayed in height order. As rain drips down the window, Mary squints but cannot identify the books.

She steps into the room, still pressing the door, and screams when she sees a figure standing in the darkened corner. Mary scrambles in reverse, the middle of her back striking the bathroom door frame, sending spasms down her legs. She hunches in the hall, alert and panting, thinking of her purse with the keys and pepper spray. After a beat, her eyes scanning the hallway for movement, Mary realizes there is no new sound, no new movement, no indication of someone coming to batter or rescue her.

She musters courage and, while slowly raising to full height, eyes trained on Timothy’s room, says, “Mrs. Armstrong?” There is no response.

Mary holds her belly, her breath as she steps toward Timothy’s room. She expects to find a disoriented Mrs. Armstrong grieving in her dead son’s bedroom. But as she pushes the door fully open she finds, in the heavy grayness, a human skeleton displayed on a stand, keeping watch over Timothy’s room.

“Jesus fuck,” she whispers.

Mary curls her head around the door to ensure Mrs. Armstrong isn’t hiding behind. Finding nothing, she inches toward the final door, across the hallway, which must be Mrs. Armstrong’s bedroom.

Crumpled on the bedroom floor, just inside the door, lies Mrs. Armstrong’s red sweater and black skirt, mingled among other garments. The rain has stopped, but from the hallway Mary detects the faint beat of water dripping against metal. The steady drum continues as Mary creeps into the room, opening the door and finding Mrs. Armstrong in bed, under a gray comforter, her back turned to Mary, a ghostly white shoulder peeking from between the comforter and the mass of Mrs. Armstrong’s hair, set free from its ponytail.

“Mrs. Armstrong,” she whispers.

Mary steps closer after hearing no response. She steps again and, holding her breath, sees the faint movement of Mrs. Armstrong’s shoulder, rising and falling with her ragged breathing.

Mary’s eyes are drawn to a glimmer in the bed just past Mrs. Armstrong, mostly obscured by her shoulder. She rises on her tiptoes, squinting, and finds the skull, resting upon a pillow, with its eye sockets directed at the ceiling, tucked under the comforter like a dreaming infant.

Mary’s mouth falls open as she steps away from the bed, her head swiveling around the room. No one lurks in the corner. The drip-drip of water against metal continues at a slowing pace. The carpet is thin under Mary’s bare feet, the floorboards groaning with each step.

Mrs. Armstrong mumbles and rolls onto her back, eyes closed. She gulps air and Mary hears the lung rattle. She ends her retreat and steps closer, wondering whether an ambulance is necessary. The floorboard snaps.

Her eyes flying open, Mrs. Armstrong pivots her head to Mary. “Why are you here?” she asks, her voice chapped and weary.

Lifting her palms in a surrender motion, Mary steps closer. “Mrs. Armstrong, I brought your delivery from the food pantry.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

With another step, Mary says, “Should I bring you the tea? Would you like that?”

“Come here.”

Mary inches forward and rests one hand’s fingertips on the comforter, near Mrs. Armstrong’s knees.

“Sit down.”

As Mary sinks onto the bed, Mrs. Armstrong, staring intently at Mary’s stomach, slides an arm from under the comforter and wraps her clammy hand around Mary’s arm, her grip as strong as a vice.

“You must not have this child,” she implores through gritted teeth.

Mary, aghast, pulls back but Mrs. Armstrong holds fast. “How dare you say that to me.”

“You must not have this child.”

 

The End