THE WINTER OF A MIND


“Oh! Bobby!” She gasped, reaching out to steady herself against the bathroom door. “I didn’t hear you come in. Where’s Betty? Is she in the car?”
Silence swallowed up her words.
“I asked...?” Her eyes squinted to narrow slits; deep furrows drawing her brows close. “What’s the matter with you?” She took a step toward him; a finger jabbed the air. “Now listen…where is my daughter?”
The quiet lengthened.
A sliver of light moved through the narrow hallway. She spotted the tape and coil of rope held half-hidden by his leg. He lunged toward her.
A cry froze in her mouth, choking back the air in her throat. Fright hammered painfully against her ribs.

Her eyes flew open. She clawed at the bedcover, her fingers catching a hold; and with one final jerk, she had it bunched in a roll underneath her chin. In slow motion, her eyes traveled the small room. Obscure shadows of daybreak shifted and took on solid shapes, revealing the contents of a place she’d called her own for nigh on forty-seven years. She burrowed deeper into the mound of pillows cushioning her upper body. Freeing a hand, she wiped at the sweat beading on her face. Her arms instinctively crossed to cover her chest—as though the gesture might somehow slacken the frenzied flutter of her heart.
“Only a dream,” she murmured, but still...her mind rejected the too easy answer, so real and scary. She tried calming herself with deep breath intakes, and out; however, the fretful images lingered, refusing to give her rest.

Dawn’s first blush of light seeped into the room. She lifted her head, willed her body quiet; and with an ear turned toward the door, listened for any unusual sound. Now in her ninety-fourth year, she’d spent half her lifetime in this house, alone for the last twenty-five years. She knew it intimately, every creak, every pop and each cooling-into-nighttime settling, the noises—all as familiar as the well-worn bedroom shoes she kept by the bedside.

From the window, early morning rays laid a strip of warmth across the hardwood floor. Don’t let the day catch you sleeping. Her mother’s daily greeting…spoken so long ago. She smiled to herself. Lordy, Lordy, the things that popped into her head.
She threw back the covers and struggled to a sitting position. Her legs dangled over the side of the bed; looking down, her eyes studied their fullness, so like her mother’s in late life: log-like, shapeless. And her feet, her mind now thoroughly engrossed, once slender, elegant, someone had said, now appeared bloated and belonging to someone else. A long sigh added sound to the silence around her; her head bobbled; her mind slipping away….
Her eyes cleared abruptly. She drew in her shoulders, leaned over, and eased her feet into misshapen shoes. With balled fists digging into the mattress, she rose to a slightly humped standing. In her walk from the room, the gown swirled down and circled her ample body; the soft cotton brushing her legs with feather-like strokes as she moved. The rubber soles of her shoes smacked the bare floor in a sing-song manner, adding a rhythmic noise to the early hour hush.
When she reached the dream site, she hesitated, then darted a look around. Her mind fell back into the unsettling scenes; although in the last few months, she’d found it difficult to know reality from fantasy. And lately, there was the Family showing up uninvited and not wanting to leave. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, urging the visions from her mind. Her hands slackened their hold; she raked back straggling wisps of hair, her fingertips then patting the strands into place.
Stepping into the kitchen, she clicked on the light switch, painting the room a soft pink. She opened the refrigerator door; a blast of cold air sent goose bumps welting on her naked arms. Her hands crossed to rub away the chill. She peered at the shelves, her mind mulling the options. Her lips puckered—coffee, she’d have only coffee.
She lifted the tin percolator from a back burner. After filling it with cold water, she inserted the strainer, mouthed the count as she added four teaspoons of ground coffee and slid both tops into place. She sat the pot on the same burner. Her mind recalled the numerous gifts of electric coffee makers from her children at Christmas and birthdays, and their insisting that she throw out the old bent percolator. “No, thank you,” she’d told them, “I’m used to it. We start the day together…have for many years. And I don’t intend to change it.”
Her fingers curved the sides of her generous waist as she stood near the stove, waiting for the water to turn brown and burble up into the tiny glass globe at the top of the percolator. The garbling noise struck her as a happy sound, and like many mornings before, a smile lit up her face.
She stepped over to the sink, rolled out each side of the small window and in moving away, roamed mindlessly about the room. The smile remained as though placed, and there for the day.
In that same state of unawareness, she popped a slice of bread into the toaster and leaned against the counter. A blank stare looked out from her eyes. She started when the coffeepot hissed a final gulp in unison with the bread zipping up in the toaster.
With her breakfast at last gathered on a tray, she sat down heavily at one end of an L-shaped bench facing a square Formica-topped table. She began taking small bites of the dry toast. Her eyes drifted toward the window, its cloth shade rolled halfway up. A thickening haze promised a summer day’s intense heat. Her gaze held; she nodded at the thought—the day being so young and all—it wouldn’t be long before she’d have to turn on the window air-conditioner. Another nod followed.

Because of her declining eyesight, as well as her hearing, her two grown children often questioned the rationale of her living alone, citing a list of things that could go wrong. She grinned in remembering her ready response: a sly smile and a change of subject. The grin abruptly whipped from her face. No! She’d not lose her independence, the choosing of her meal times, when to go to bed, and playing cards whenever it suited her. No! Her children would definitely not become her parents. Her hands pressed together, fingers restless, kneading the worry.

At mid-morning, the phone rang several times before catching her attention. She lifted the receiver and pressed it close to her ear. “Hellooo.”
“Goodmorning."
“Who is this?”
“John.”
“Who?” she strained for some recognition, her eyes flitting about—nothing came.
“John. You know…your son.”
“I’m sorry I can’t talk now, I’m expecting a call.” She slammed the receiver in place.
Her eyes clouded over. Now...what had made her say that? She put a finger to her lips and gazed at the phone…was someone supposed to call her?
She stood tapping her lips. That call she’d mentioned…who? Oh, of course…it must be Betty. Her daughter was going to call today, she’d written it down somewhere….
She eased down to the bench and slumped into a comfortable pose—to wait.

A scraping noise across the room drew her look toward the cabinet underneath the sink. One door stood ajar. Her gaze widened when she saw a small gray mouse come into view. The little animal scurried boldly across the floor, his tail twitching and head bobbing as he slithered underneath the refrigerator. She sat watching. Silence moved in, stretching; no rustle of long-stored debris, no feet scratching about, nothing.
“That’s it,” she said, when her eyes began to smart, and her lids started blinking like a bird’s wings in flight. She moved to one side and pushed from the bench. “I’m going to the store, little mouse; you’ll have a nice dose of rat poison for your dinner tonight.”

She hurried to her bedroom. With a quick yank of a sliding closet door panel, she stood looking at the array of clothes: blouses, pants, sweaters, a few dresses, and a couple of short coats. Out of the corner of an eye, she saw movement. She twirled around. There he was—hovering in a far corner of the ceiling—the movie-star-handsome Tuxedoed Man! A rush of air shot from her mouth. “What are you doing here this time of day? Night-time is when you always show…or have you become like me…lost in time? Oh,” she snickered, “you thought to catch me in my ‘altogether,’ didn’t you?” She wagged a finger at him, noting the grin on his face. “I keep asking you to come down off that ceiling…but you like playing me for the fool. I know you, you know, you’re that salesman I slammed the door on one day. You thought because of your looks I’d buy whatever you were selling, but I didn’t, did I? Instead, I slammed the door; I’d been watching from the front window and saw you flirting with old Mrs. Wiggins and Gloria, too. I heard you call her a darling girl as you were leaving and waving at her. But later, I heard you laughing, like you’d put one over on her—and you probably had.” She went quiet. “Is that all you can do…just grin?” She waved him down. “Come on, get down here, I’m tired of talking to you with my head bent back…it’s making my neck hurt.” She glared at him. He only kept grinning.
“Go away, then, I’ve got better things to do today than deal with a stubborn man.” No sooner had she spoken, than he was gone. She crossed the room, put her hands up and touched the wall as high as she could reach. Taking a step back, she checked all four corners—no grinning man— only a spider web or two…. She grabbed a long wood measuring stick from behind a chair and started batting at the webs, then circling the stick until only tiny gray bits of string-like fuzz clung to the pebbly ceiling. She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the dresser. She dropped the stick and stepped closer, peering at her image as though a stranger. A hand went to her face, lowered to touch her gown. Too late in the day to still be in night clothes, your mind will be asleep the rest of the day, girl! Her mother’s voice hissed in her ear.
As she stepped from the mirror, she spotted a pair of brown linen pants and a faded green cotton sweater hanging on a chair arm; she gathered them up and dressed as quickly as she could, taking the black purse that had been under the clothes. With the purse settled in the crook of an elbow, she left the room.
She grabbed the backdoor knob; the favored bedroom shoes still on her feet. She paused—there was something about a phone call. Was she supposed to make a call, or, was it the other way around? A frown settled. Oh…if only she could remember. She looked back into the house, eyeing the darkened path across the carpet toward the front door. Had she been outside sweeping the leaves from the small porch, or…? She felt something heavy on her arm—her purse. What was it doing on her arm? Was she going somewhere? Or already been…?
A grating noise nearby caught her attention. Her face gentled in recognition. Oh, yes, little mouse...your dinner. And then, it’ll be no more rambling for you.
A cheery look glowed from her face as she stepped out to the open breezeway and closed the glass-louvered door behind her.
The narrow walkway led down to her 1966 Ford, its chassis filling the length and width of the carport. She grasped the door handle; her fingers smarted when the sharp edges of eroded chrome dug into her skin. “You and me,” she whispered, breathing in, letting it go, “we’re not as we used to be.”
The driver’s door creaked as she swung it aside. She turned to back onto the seat. The leather upholstery, soft and luxurious years ago, was now dry and brittle; her every move brought a ragging sound. She turned the ignition key—only to hear a tinny plink. After several attempts, and with finally no sound at all, she leaned against the backrest. Her hands fell to her lap. She sat as though she’d found the perfect resting-place. Her eyes swept across the wide windshield and halted at a map of fine lines, like thin water trails, high in the right hand corner. Her gaze held—but there was nothing in her mind to draw from when or how the damage happened.
A pensive look stole across her face. On the passenger’s side, she could see him still, her little dachshund, Skippy, braced on his short hind legs, yapping excitedly, and tail flapping from side to side. Oh, how he did love to ride. He’d been gone for more than three years…or so. Tears stung her eyes.
In an impulsive stir, she pushed the car door open, placed a hand under her weakened right leg and got into position to climb out.
Back in the kitchen, the direful noises came rushing at her: childish giggling, high-pitched shrieks. She stopped mid-way across the room. Her head fell forward; the folds of her chin sank into the sweater hugging her neck. The Family was back! What did they want? And what was she to do? They wouldn’t leave the last time, and she’d called the police. However, the officers bombarded only her with questions. Did she live alone? For how long? Did she have grown children? And where were they? She’d argued heatedly that the Family hadn’t been questioned or even asked to leave. She’d pointed to the four Coca-Colas sitting on the kitchen counter, opened and getting warm—Coca-Colas, the Family had asked for, then refused to drink. Yet…the policemen kept saying repeatedly, “Nobody’s in this house but you. It’s only your imagination.” No, she wouldn’t call.
She crept down the hallway, stepped to the closed bathroom door and huddled against the
cool wood panel. They were all in there, Mother, Father, the little girl and boy. She could hear them talking, every word clear as a bell. “No! No!” she shrieked. She wrenched away from the door and fell back into a shallow corner. Catching her breath, she rounded a doorway into the bedroom, reached for the bedpost and pulled herself to it. “No,” she shouted. “No!” The Family wanted too much! Her beds—no, they wouldn’t be sleeping in her beds this time. No, not this time!
In a frenzy of motion, she tore off the bedcovers, stripping both beds down to the mattresses. The telephone rang several times—and stopped. Or the kids romping on her reserved-for-company sofa. "It would never happen, no. No." The words spilled from between her clenched teeth as she rushed to the living room. Bending low, she tugged at one end of the long coffee table, then the other side, shoving it against the sofa. A tall vase toppled and fell to the floor. Shards of sharp-edged glass scattered about, but, as with the phone, she took no notice.
Her body finally gave out. She felt drained; her breathing grew heavy, taken in long deep gasps. She slammed into a wall and grappled for a supporting hold. Her hands landed on a door. She held on until her heartbeats no longer galloped in her throat.
Still…the voices kept coming. What more could she do? Her eyes slowly rounded. Yes! She’d lock the Family in the bathroom and then call the police. And this time....

Much later, she sat alone on the back seat of a patrol car. She overheard the two officers, sitting up front, talking quietly to each other. One officer spoke of a Mrs. Harris, although eyeing her, and then of carrying this Mrs. Harris to the women’s center to await the arrival of someone named Betty.
What was going on here? And all this talk about some lady she didn’t know. Why was she sitting in a police car? Right now, though…she was just too tired to ask.
The patrol car started up.
Her look strayed, stopping at the house with the glass-louvered door. A man, woman and two children stood smiling in the open breezeway, waving to her with hands high in the air. As the car pulled from the curb, she turned to watch through the rear window. They were waving yet—such a nice family. People she’d might even come to like...if she could remember where they lived.

As she rode, she watched the street names change right before her eyes: Linville Street, South Street, and Newell. Then, she recognized Callaway Street. She hurriedly opened her handbag, took a five dollar bill from a change purse, and snapped the handbag closed. Leaning forward, she tapped one of the officers on a shoulder. “Sir, there’s a Dairy Queen in the next block.” She smiled sweetly and handed him the money, “And I do so love their vanilla and chocolate ice cream cones.”

Revised: December, 2009
Author: Elizabeth Towles
Copyright December, 2009

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 06.12.2009

Alle Rechte vorbehalten