Liar, Liar

The flashing lights sprayed blue and red bruises around our living room. I huddled behind the couch in my nightgown. A man and woman in crisp blue uniforms hefted a black bag onto a stretcher, pushed levers, and lifted the bed like Mom did with her ironing board. Blood smeared the lady’s name tag, but I’d seen it when she came in. It said Glenda. The name of the good witch. The good witch come to clean up after the bad.

Two men in regular clothes stood in the kitchen doorway writing in little notebooks. One pointed to a dark stain on the recliner. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear what he said. The hoarse cackle still filled my head and drowned out everything.

A lady rushed in and scanned the room. She spotted me. Her jaw dropped before she caught herself and closed it. She started toward me, crouching down and holding out a hand while whispering hushing sounds—like when you’re trying to catch a scared animal. That’s how they always treated me. Like a scared, stupid animal.

She knelt and said some stuff I still couldn’t hear. Her hand took mine, and she tried to pull me up. My legs wouldn’t work. I tipped over. She wasn’t a big lady, but she scooped me up and carried me out to a car, still shushing.

I don’t remember much of the ride or being brought into the police station. They sat me in a gray little room with a table and a paper cup of apple juice. I felt a little better. Nothing could hide there.

One of the regular-clothes men came in and pulled a chair closer. He sat and bent down to catch my eye. The cackle had faded.

His voice was deep and soft. “Your name is Lizzie, right?”

I nodded.

“Can you tell me what happened, Lizzie?”

I swallowed. “The bad witch came again.”

His face turned mad, and he shook his head. “Lizzie, we don’t have time for games. You need to tell us what happened.”

“It’s not a game. She…she came again a-a-and killed my mom.”

The muscle in his jaw tensed. “Fine. I’ll play along. Who is the witch? How’d she kill her?”

“I-I don’t know who she is. She just comes…when I get mad. She has long talons on her hands. She,” I sniffled back a sob, “she stuck them in my mom’s neck.”

He sat back and sighed. “Lizzie, we know you did it. You’ll be in less trouble if you just tell the truth and explain what happened.”

Like it had before, my chest tightened as if someone gave me a big bear hug. I closed my eyes and tried to will it away, but my skin flushed hot. I told myself she wouldn’t come now—there was no way she could get in without everyone seeing. She only came when she couldn’t get caught.

Even the witch blames it all on me. After she killed Mom, I asked her why.

The witch cackled. “You wished she would die, didn’t you?”

I had…but I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t help being angry when Mom accused me of lying about what happened when Mrs. Jackson, my teacher, died. Mom said I had to quit making stuff up so they could catch the real killer. I told her I wasn’t making it up. Being mad just happens. I can’t help it.

The regular-clothes man slammed a hand on the table and made me jump.

“Listen, I have a lot of work to do. If you aren’t going to tell the truth, you’ll just go straight to jail.”

I wanted to yell but kept my voice quiet. “I’m not lying. Don’t call me a liar.”

“Don’t lie, and I won’t have to.”

My throat closed up. The anger went from calm to boiling. I shook my head and told it to go away…but it never listened anymore. Just like the witch.

The last thing I remember is her head rising behind the man, her hair covered in moss and green slime, wrinkled hands coming up, talons curling in toward his neck, slicing through the skin. The cackle had returned.

 

Now I sit in a cold room made of cushioned walls.

I shudder and scrunch my shoulders up over my ears as best I can with the jacket on, but the noise comes from inside me, and I can’t shut it out. How she makes me hear it when she’s not even around puzzles me—but then again, all of it does.

Dried blood covers my face and hair, and little pieces flake off when I move. I don’t know how so much blood got on me. I wasn’t close enough. Another puzzle.

More regular-clothes men had come into the little gray room. I huddled in the corner. The original regular-clothes man sprawled on the floor, a pool of red-black spreading under him. They had pointed guns at me and yelled and ran around acting crazy. A lady put a white jacket on me that wraps my arms around my back, and they led me down a bunch of hallways until we got to this room.

It’s not fair. They all keep calling me a liar.

The door opens, and a man in a white uniform starts in.

“Damn, I forgot the sedative.” He turns back, tells two men in white doctor coats he’ll return in a minute, and rushes off.

The white coats stand just outside the cushion room in a bare, gray hallway.

One of the white-coat men says to the other, “It’s a severe psychosis. She seems to really believe someone else is doing it. But all the evidence points to her.”

“Well,” the other says, “some kids are just great liars.”

The anger swells up faster every time. Now, it comes in an instant.

The thing with moss and green slime appears behind the white-coat men in the hallway. She slinks toward them.

I try to yell, to warn them, but only a hoarse cackle comes out.

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Image courtesy of Victor Habbick at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Last Christmas

Early Christmas morning, Edward kissed Helen’s hand, just as he had on their honeymoon fifty-four years earlier, and laid it back on her chest. His thumb brushed the heart-shaped birthmark on the side of her throat. For a painful second, he believed his eyes when they told him her faint lashes had fluttered on her cheek. He knew it wasn’t so.

 

His Helen was gone and had been for an hour. He sat talking to her after her final soft exhalation of breath, holding her hand and ignoring the way her skin lost its warmth as the minutes passed.

With tears spilling from his rheumy eyes, he explained all those days he’d risen in the morning with dark circles betraying a sleepless night.

“You always believed my excuse of insomnia—didn’t you? I was too embarrassed to tell you why I didn’t sleep…. I would lie next to you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest on nights when the moon was full, watching your lashes flutter against your cheek while you dreamed. In the quiet, I watched you sleep, still unable to believe, after five years or ten or forty, that you had chosen me and loved me despite my bad habits and big nose and quiet ways. I never got over that disbelief, and I studied you at night to memorize the line of your jaw, the slight upturn of your nose, the precise color of your lips—afraid one day you might come to your senses and find a man without so many faults. You were too loyal for that, I know, but I watched you sleep just the same.”

Now he would have to face the nights with only the memory engraved by thousands of moonlit hours.

Edward grabbed his cane and pushed himself up from the bedside chair. The dull ache in his knees flared brighter, his hands seemed to tremble more, the color of the sunrise appeared muted and flat as he shuffled from the hospital room. Nurses offered condolences, but he hardly heard them. He made his way down to the lobby, aware that the sharp antiseptic smell had vanished from the hallways. Reaching the bus stop, he lit his pipe, but the tobacco had no flavor. Helen had taken the essence of everything with her.

 

He went through the motions of life: rising in the morning, eating at the proper times, and keeping the house neat. But the days held no meaning, and the moon illuminated nothing. More and more, Edward sat in his easy chair, staring at nothing, with no one to notice.

On a Sunday, as Edward walked home from the bus stop with his small bag of groceries in one hand and his cane in the other—going through the motions—he was woolgathering, wondering how long he would have to endure his faded imitation of life before death would finally embrace him. A weak whimper interrupted his thoughts. He paused on the sidewalk and tilted his head, thinking the noise might have come from his own lips. The cry came again, from a solitary lilac bush growing wild at the park’s edge.

He bent to see deeper into the thick shadows. Curled in the dirt, a patch of darkness whimpered again. Edward lowered himself, pushing away the pain and stiffness, until he kneeled beside the bush and parted the profusion of heart-shaped leaves. An Irish Setter puppy peered back at him. The animal trembled and whined, shrinking back.

“Here, pup,” Edward whispered. He tried to suppress the palsied tremor in his hand and held it out to the puppy.

The dog watched him with wary eyes for several minutes, gaze darting for an escape. It started to lean forward, pulled back, started toward him again. Edward kept his hand out and waited. Inching toward him, the setter stretched its neck out, and ventured a nervous lick at his hand. He let it sniff until it came out further. The puppy wagged its tail as it slinked into the gap between Edward’s legs and huddled there. The perfume of lilac came to him then, overwhelming in its dizzying sweetness.

The pup wore no collar. Edward carried it home, and made it a small bed, and cooked some food for it, grumbling that he didn’t want the burden. He told himself he had no business keeping a dog and would find her another home. He scanned the paper for days and checked the neighborhood for flyers. In case someone called, he left his name and number with the dog pound, but the phone stayed silent.

 

On the fourth day, as he sat in his easy chair and the dog lay at his feet, he felt her eyes on him. He resisted the urge to meet her gaze. Her head lay on her paws and she crept closer and closer. He wouldn’t give in. Soon she lifted her head, slow and sneaky, until it touched the hand resting on the chair’s arm. She nuzzled it and insinuated her head under it. Edward sighed and let his hand smooth the silky hair, then scratched her ear. As his hand drifted lower, she lifted her chin, asking for more. Her head tipped back, exposing her throat. For the first time, he noticed a tiny white patch there. Shaped like a heart. His resistance melted away, tears dampened her hair, and he named her Ellie.

He chastised her for getting on the bed and nosing through the trash. Ellie followed him around the house and sat patiently by the door when she needed to go out. They went on walks, neighborhood children begged to play with Ellie, and she obliged. Edward and Ellie watched old movies on Saturday nights, with her in the spot beside his chair and his hand resting on her head. She lay next to his bed every night. When he woke, he would find her soulful gaze on him, watching.

The color seeped back into the sunset. Food tasted better, and his pipe, left in its stand on the mantel for ages, found its way back into his shirt pocket. Smells returned, sounds became richer once more. Ellie brought the essence of everything back to him.

 
Early Christmas morning, Ellie snuck onto the bed with Edward. Her big dark eyes watched him sleep. And when the last soft breath left his lips, she licked his hand as it lay on his chest.

A Door to the Past

I put the bullhorn to my mouth and closed my eyes as I recited a prayer in my head. Sweat dampened my collar, and the ulcer eating away at my stomach burned a hot lump in my belly. I had to make him listen—without telling him what I really wanted him to know.

 

“Mr. Richardson! We can stay out here all night, and you can stay in there. But whether it’s five minutes, or five hours, or five days, won’t make a difference. It won’t change anything. Come on out so we can talk.”

 

The door mocked me with its silence. No response came back, just as I knew none would. I studied the pattern of grime on the white paint around the door handle, where the hand of a mechanic had left greasy evidence of his daily life.

 

Bob Richardson had spent the last forty years living the same day, over and over. He got up in the morning and ate the same breakfast of grits, sausage, and coffee. He went to work at Reddy Automotive and fixed cars. He came home, read the paper while he ate his Hungry Man TV dinner, watched a few shows, and went to bed. Grocery trips happened on Wednesdays, to catch the market’s double-coupon day. The barber down on Franklin Street cut his hair every third Saturday without fail. His routine didn’t change one iota from the age of twenty-six to sixty-six.

 

Until yesterday.

 

Yesterday, Mr. Richardson bypassed Reddy and drove to the other side of town. He parked in front of the home of a Mrs. Thornton. He walked to the door and knocked. When the woman of the house—Estelle Thornton, a plump but buxom widow of sixty-two—answered the door, he lifted a shotgun and blew a hole through her abdomen the size of a dinner plate. Then he drove home and locked his door. When we arrived, he yelled out to us to stay away because he had guns and wasn’t taking calls.

 

As a detective, and the only trained negotiator in our department, my efforts to communicate with Mr. Richardson with a bullhorn were nothing out of the ordinary. We responded to a dozen of these kinds of incidents every year.

 

This time was different, but I was the only one who knew that.

 

Last week, I’d received a letter from a stranger. Mrs. Estelle Thornton had written to tell me she was my biological mother. She explained she had married too young and wasn’t happy. When she found out she was pregnant, she left her husband without a word about the pregnancy, got a divorce, and put the baby up for adoption. I had known I was adopted since I was nine, but I hadn’t looked for my birth parents until last summer. I submitted paperwork to the adoption agency, and they said they’d forward it to my mother, and she’d respond if she wanted.

 

I waited. For six months I waited without hearing a thing, wondering who she was, if I looked like her, why she’d given me up. I’d figured she decided she didn’t want to connect with me. That hurt, but I had come to accept it.

 

Until last week.

 

Mrs. Thornton’s letter also stated the name of my birth father, which she hadn’t given the adoption agency. One Robert Richardson, last known address at 845 Denmark Street, apartment C.

 

My eyes touched on the tarnished brass letter tacked to the door, and I blinked back the sting of tears. I had a pretty good idea why he snapped. She’d said she sent him a letter, too.

 

“Mr. Richardson…please,” I swallowed to suppress the catch in my voice, “put down your weapons and come out.”