November 6, 2008

  • Even More No Word

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    He paused
    and waited for the beep to happen again. Somewhere off in the
    distance, he could hear children screaming in their games. There was
    the gentle rushing of the blood in his ears, the creak of the
    floorboards as he shifted his weight... there! The beep sounded again
    and Norman turned until he felt like he was going the right direction
    for it. Down through the living room, past the bookcases, always
    fully stocked, mocking him quietly with the sheer mass of words that
    he'd probably never get around to reading. Just so many things to do
    in the day and never enough time... there was the beep again. He
    loped across the room and hopped over the threshold into the kitchen.
    It would be right over... ah. The microwave sat there, blinking
    urgently at him that the food was done and could be grabbed whenever
    he was ready. He smiled a rueful grin, knowing exactly what he would
    find. He punched the button for the door and it swung open, revealing
    a thick purple mug, mostly filled with water. He reached in and
    pulled it out with a wistful sigh. There were certainly worse bad
    habit for a spouse than constantly leaving your tea cup in the
    microwave when making tea. Still, after ten years... sometimes he
    thought she did it just to twit him. Every time, he'd find the cup
    there...

    “Darling, I think you left something
    in the microwave,” he called out, gamely. As his words echoed off
    the walls of the empty house, he switched to a screechy falsetto, “I
    know, honey... I was going to get to it. I just needed to finish this
    chapter... about three chapters ago,” and he heard the phantom
    laughter in her head as she giggled, “I'd forget my head if it
    weren't bolted on. You did remember to tighten the nuts when you left
    this morning, right?” And indeed, that morning, just like every
    morning, for ten years, 3 months, 14 days, he'd mimed the ratchet in
    his sound, making clucking sounds every time he twisted
    counter-clockwise as she giggled and made mock protest at how silly
    he was being... Norman heaved a sigh and looked sadly at the mug. All
    these years and she stayed with him. Her silky brown hair cascading
    around her shoulders, her eyes half puffy with sleep when she woke up
    – she'd never been a morning person in any way – as he begged him
    to please make her some coffee so she could wake up enough to get out
    of bed. And every day, he'd kiss her on the cheek and roll out of bed
    to make it for her. And he'd always get back to find her loudly
    snoring away, sprawled across the bed, trying valiantly to snatch
    just a few more minutes of sleep. And he'd sit there and watch her,
    her face so relaxed and innocent. Eventually, he'd feel like the
    coffee was cooling too much and he'd gently shake her awake. And when
    he'd hand the mug to her, she'd take it with both hands, almost like
    a little kid, and sip at it, her eyes still mostly closed and he
    would kiss her on the forehead before getting off the bed to dress
    for the day. Within minutes of him grabbing his clothes, the
    whistling and catcalls would start. “Take it off!” she'd cry and
    immediately riposte with “Put it back on!” the moment he started
    sliding the robe off. Every once in a while, he would start shaking
    his hips and doing his best to do a burlesque dance. And she'd be
    lying there in bed, shivering in paroxysms of giggle, kicking her
    legs as she tried to catch her breath. And every time, when he let up
    on it, she would jump up and kiss him, wrapping her legs around his
    waist as she kissed him before composing her face into a very serious
    mask and saying, “I love you, honey, but don't quit your day job”
    before hopping down and smacking him on the ass. He sighed again and
    stared at the coffee cup lost in thought. And then his brow furrowed
    as something struck him. He waved his hand over the top of the cup.
    No steam. Reflexively looking both ways to be sure no one was
    watching, he dipped his finger in the water. Lukewarm, only slightly
    above room temperature. She must have left hours ago for the water to
    have cooled that much... Norman bit the inside of his mouth, trying
    to keep himself from imagining what might have happened to her. No...
    it was probably nothing. She went out shopping and got caught up with
    talking to a friend, or decided that she was going to master Pump It
    Up again and was spending dollar after dollar of quarters feverishly
    mashing the buttons to The Turkey March on Insane mode, or... Norman
    found his head filled with thoughts of home invasions, terrorist
    attacks, traffic accidents... the car. He turned a bit too quickly
    and as his arm swung to catch his balance, it connected to the mug
    and he saw it start sailing across the room, the liquid exiting in
    beautiful crystal arcs, in slow motion as he felt his thigh muscles
    bunch up and heard his hips creak as he shifted his weight, leaping
    after the mug, also moving in slow motion, but slightly faster than
    the mug, and he was in the air, sailing improbably fast and slow,
    fingers outstretched. He landed with a thud that was drowned out by
    the sound of ceramic shattering on the linoleum floor.

    Some part of Norman's mind was trying
    to tell him that his ribs were none too happy with how he'd landed,
    but all he could see were the pieces of that ugly purple mug lying
    there, the water slowly seeping across the floor in little questing
    fingers. She'd bought that mug maybe five years ago, got it from a
    yard sale for a quarter. It listed slightly to one side, didn't lie
    flat on the table, and the glaze had been applied unevenly, leaving
    lumpy little blisters up both sides, but she loved that little tacky
    thing, swore that something in its feng shui
    made the water taste sweet whenever she used it. Norman sometimes
    itched to chip off a bit of the paint just to make sure it wasn't
    lead-based or anything, but he knew that she would notice immediately
    and realize his motives. She's was scarily perceptive that way
    sometimes, knowing what he wanted before he did. Norman closed his
    eyes and laid his cheek on the cool floor. How was he ever going to
    explain this to her? The truth, of course, that he'd been clumsy and
    knocked it off, that he'd buy her another right away. And she would
    see the truth in his eyes and hug him and tell him it was alright,
    that it was just a stupid mug, but he knew that it would hurt her. He
    gasped as the water shot down a crack in the linoleum and hit his
    face. He immediately pushed himself up, letting out a gasp as his
    ribs told him they were     really
    not happy with how he landed and they were going to yell at him until
    he did something about it. He ignored that pain and gathered up the
    bits of shattered mug before him. He could glue it together. They had
    Krazee Glue somewhere in the house. He could glue it together and no
    one would be the wiser. He reached a little too quickly for the next
    shard and he felt the prick as it drew blood. The porous inside of
    the clay rapidly hungrily drank up the drop of blood, staining an
    entire side red. Norman bit back a curse and continued methodically
    picking up pieces, even the tiny little shards. He brought the double
    handful of pieces and gingerly spread them out over the counter. All
    in all, there were five big chunks, maybe a dozen smaller bits, and a
    number of little splinters. This was doable. It wasn't going to be
    easy and he knew she would know the difference immediately, but he
    knew he would feel better for having tried. Some part of him voiced a
    wish that she wouldn't be back tonight so that he would have time to
    put it all together again, and a shiver ran through him as again he
    had that feeling that something was terribly, horribly wrong. He
    slowly forced his hands to the surface of the counter and held his
    weight on them, focusing on the pain of the wound on his finger,
    trying to forget what he'd said, to get it out of his head. The car.
    He snapped his head back up, remembering where he'd been heading when
    he'd knocked the mug off. He hadn't thought to check if her car was
    parked on the street. If it wasn't, she was probably just down at the
    supermarket or the arcade, having lost track of time and they would
    laugh about it and... he was stalling. Norman pushed himself away
    from the counter, reeling slightly as the relief hit him. He had a
    plan. He would go out there and her car would be gone, and he would
    wait for her to get back so they could laugh about it. Already, he
    was thinking of some     bon mots
    to toss out at her when she got back. He walked back through the
    living room and went to one of the windows that overlooked the street
    and peered out. See, no car... except. He craned his neck, trying to
    get a better look down the street where one car looked vaguely
    familiar. He cursed the waning daylight and his weakening eyes and
    lunged for the door and wrenched it open. As he stepped outside, he
    forced himself to slow his movements, to coolly shut the door behind
    him. It wouldn't do for the neighbors to start thinking something
    weird was going on, after all. Slightly stiff-legged, ribs still
    twinging, he walked on down the deserted street toward the suspect
    car. It was the right shape, but surely that was the wrong color. He
    kept forcing himself forward, even as the night seemed to close in on
    the edges of his vision, narrowing it until all he could see was that
    traitorous car just standing there defiantly, taunting him with its
    solidity and reality. For a moment, he entertained the idea that
    maybe one of the neighbors had bought the exact same make, model,
    color, but there was the license plate. Norman staggered back into a
    tree planted by the walk. A sugar maple, he remembered absently as he
    slid down its trunk to sit hard on the ground, his ribs now sending
    silver flashes of agony, probably figuring that if he wasn't
    listening, their only option was to up the volume. He brought his
    knees up and set his elbows on them, pillowing his head on his hands,
    just wishing that God would give him a sign, tell him everything was
    going to be OK, but all he heard was silence.

    “Hey
    mister, are ya OK?” a shrill voice piped, shattering his depressed
    solitude. Norman lifted his head, feeling like he had a lead weight
    attached to the back of it. One of the neighbors kids was standing
    there in overalls, hands clasped behind his back, sandy hair
    fluttering slightly in the the evening wind. On his face was a
    mingled look of concern and fascination, as if he'd happened on a
    fluttering bird in the gutter and was wondering if it was going to
    die. “It's not your ticker, is it Mister? My pa says that's the
    first thing to go, that and your pecker” and the kid gave off a
    nervous titter, “though Mom doesn't like it when he says that. I
    guess she don't like birds or something, huh?” And the kid peered
    at Norman earnestly, evidently aware that he'd slipped in front of an
    adult and hoping that he'd managed to pass it off. Norman found
    himself chuckling even as he winced as his ribs shifted.

    “Yeah,
    those birds will get you every time, kid. And I'm OK. I'm just
    getting old faster than I thought I would.” The kid took this as
    invitation to sit next to Norman, collapsing with easy grace into
    sitting Indian-style and immediately commencing to shredding the
    innocent grass around him.

    “So,
    whydja just kind of fall down like that?” There was a not a trace
    of guile in the boys voice.

    “Oh,
    so you saw that?”

    “Yeah.
    Kinda hard to miss, y'know? One moment, you're staggerin' down the
    street and then you like ya seen a ghost and you just fell down. You
    sure you're OK?”

    “I
    think so. It's... it's complicated. It's my wife...” and Norman
    found he couldn't go on talking, couldn't explain just why this was
    hitting him so hard, couldn't give voice to his fears that something
    might have happened... no, he couldn't do that to this kid. Then,
    there was the feather-soft touch of a hand on his and he looked up
    into the startlingly blue eyes of the kid who'd risen into a half
    crouch in front of Norman.

    “It's
    OK. I know.” Norman had a moment to wonder how the kid knew when he
    continued on with his thought, “My gramma died last year. I miss
    her too. 'S OK to cry. Mom said so.”

    “No...
    you've got it wrong. My wife isn't dead. I'm pretty sure of that.
    She's just not here. I came home today and she wasn't there and the
    water was cold and the mug broke and that's her car and... I'm
    scared...” Norman realized he was babbling and forcefully bit back
    on his words. The silence stretched out, broken only by the screech
    of a car peeling out some blocks away.

    “Sounds
    like you're having a pretty shitty day,” the kid finally added,
    looking up defiantly at Norman as if he might protest the profanity,
    “and I think the best thing for ya to do is sleep it off. You're
    letting your nightmares run away from you. 'S never as bad as it
    looks” And, having dispensed his pithy bits of wisdom, the kid
    effortlessly rose to his feet and started walking off without a
    backwards look, whistling a vaguely familiar pop tune if a bit
    off-key with a fluctuating tempo that kept time with nothing in
    particular.

    I really did have plans for this part, but in fine NaNoWriMo tradition, I found myself getting sidetracked and I never got past the mug part of my plans. *shrug* Eh, it's more words, I guess. Still a little over 5,443 words from where I ought to be by this date though. I got most of the writing done between songs at karaoke at Laurel Lanes. I didn't get as much done as I'd planned to because for the first few hours, it was just me and this one girl trading off on songs, and the situation didn't change significantly all night. But it looks like the bowling alley does good business, so I guess they can afford a loss leader every once in a while.