July 15, 2010

  • No Word

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    No Word

    This is a story I started writing for NaNoWriMo. Just like prior years, I fizzled out early due to simply not sitting down and writing.

    The moment Norman tried to turn the door knob and it didn't turn, he knew something was dreadfully wrong with his universe. And, in that moment, he knew that the idea was utterly ridiculous. Sure, it was odd that the door was locked at this time of day – his wife was usually in the middle of making dinner right around now – but maybe she'd locked it either accidentally or in a fit of absent-mindedness. Or maybe she stepped out. Or maybe... his train of thoughts started going down deeper and darker paths, but he soundly squelched it before it got far from the station. No, nothing terrible had happened. The door was just locked, that's all. People get premonitory warnings of great and terrible things in books and movies. It didn't happen in real life. Having won the brief mental argument with himself, Norman switched his briefcase from his left to his right hand and started absently fumbling for his house key.

    A drop of sweat trickled down his receding hairline and blinked its way across one eyelid. He shrugged it off with one suit-clad shoulder as he finally found the errant key and inserted it. It wouldn't turn. Again, a moment of panic overcame him, quickly calmed by his cooler thoughts. Why wouldn't it turn? Maybe there was something wrong with the key? He pulled it back out and brought it close to his eyes, its shiny length apparently clear of any burrs and obstructions. Now, his armpits dropped a freezing strand of sweat down the inside of his suit. He quickly punched the doorbell and resumed looking the key over in case she really wasn't home right now. The key still seemed in perfectly good working order. He put it back in and again tried turning it, this time applying more pressure. The key actually started twisting slightly before he gave up on it as a bad job, stepping back to leave the mildly mangled key in the lock. He swiped the growing perspiration on his forehead away with the back of his hand, his irritation growing. How long had his key not fit this lock, anyhow? He darted forward again, quickly twisting as if to trick the lock into letting him in, but to no avail. Finally, in exasperation, he reversed the motion, hoping to free the seemingly stuck lock. And it clicked open.

    He stood there in amazement, sun beating down on his brow, realizing his error. The lock turned the other way. He quickly swung the door open, ducked inside, and slammed it shut, enjoying the dark and the cool of the air conditioned house. Surely, none of the neighbors saw that... he took a few quick steps to one of the windows and peeked out the curtain for hidden observers. Suburbia seemed alive and well, and as quite and devoid of life as it usually was this time of day. Norman straightened from the window and automatically adjusted his tie. He mused that the situation with the door being locked had put him more on edge than he might have expected. True, it was out of the ordinary, but it had happened before, why just... Norman stopped and stood a while in thought. It had been at least a year, he realized. Always, his wife was there when he came home from work. And when they went out, she'd always taken great pride in getting the door for him, something to do with her childhood making her want to feel useful, she'd said. That silly moment of dread had made him panic, and made him forget that he'd installed that lock years ago, when they'd just bought the house, and he hadn't realized that he'd put things in backwards until too late. They'd had a lot of laughs about that, he remembered, along with all of his other mishaps as he'd tried to “become the proper husband” as he'd said back then, insisting on doing all of the house repairs himself. It was her who'd brought him back to Earth, pointing out that he was spending more money between building supplies, medical supplies, and hiring repairmen to fix his projects than he was saving by doing them himself. She'd had charts, he remembered, bar graphs and pie charts. She always did know the way to get through to him. That night he put those tools away in the shed for good, she showed him that she still appreciated him and thought he was quite the proper husband. Norman was lost in his thoughts when something beeped and brought him out of it.

    His automatic reaction was to bring his right hand down to the holster on his hip, slide out his cell phone and flip it open. Nothing. The display was the usual one, his wife holding up her hand, mostly blocking the camera phone. The minute ticked over on the digital display. The battery power was at least half full, so it wasn't this that beeped. In retrospect, Norman realized that the sound of the beep had been different from that of the cell phone, more brassy and insistent.

    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.