INCONGRUOUSNESS (Stories Dec. 28, 2014 to )
1.Animus Revertendi
The porcelain cup with its cheery yellow and pink floral pattern winks at her. She feels reassured.
There is a knock at the door. “Miss Samuels! Miss Samuels! It’s the manager.”
She turns her head toward the door, slightly startled. Was it the door talking to her again? She steps closer to hear it better.
“Miss Samuels. It’s Frank. I found your cat outside again.”
She starts to comprehend. That janitor has her cat again. He is always meddling, in her opinion.
A note on her door reads that the apartment complex manager’s name is Franck. “Frank? Is that Frank?”
“Yes, it is, Miss Samuels. Your cat got out again.”
She is at the door undoing the chain and the deadbolt. She wants to get her dear creature out of that person’s clutches immediately.
“Ah, Jinx. You’re a clever minx, Jinx,” she says as soon as the door is opened wide enough for her to spot the little furry imp that is held against the chest of the man. She never forgets the names of her pets. “Come here.”
She reaches to take the cat away from the manager. “Did you leave the window open again, Miss? Did you forget about closing the door? I know, they’re cagey, both your cats. Try to be more careful or they’ll get into worse trouble one day.”
“Oh, Jinx knows how to push open the screen, now, and she’s big enough to pull open the door farther if it is only left open a crack. Cagey, you say, but they don’t like cages. No, they don’t.”
“Let’s hope they stay safe, and you as well,” says Frank as he steps back and turns down the hallway.
“Thank you, Frank. Don’t worry,” she replies. Muttering to herself as she turns closing the door with one hand behind her, “I’ll take care of them as good as they’ll take care of me. No worries. No worries at all.”
Jinx leaps out of her hold onto the floor and his companion, Miss Marple, named so because of her plumpness and grayish long fur, steps cautiously out from behind the quilted arm chair. She mews with trepidation. Jinx responds by walking past and rubbing his side against hers as if to reassure her.
“You’re good kids, you are. I don’t blame you,” says the old lady. “Just pay attention. People sometimes don’t care or don’t open their eyes to see.” She nods at conceding this fact of life.
“Now, how about a little treat,” she adds, whereupon a cupboard is opened with a subtle creak. It is enough for the pets to notice, so they eagerly make rapid steps towards the inviting cupboard door, as if it were beckoning them. The rustle of cellophane and swish of light cardboard follows, announcing the appearance of fish flavoured catnip. It is brought down by a wizened old hand to their head level, and licked up swiftly to disappear faster than it had manifested itself.
“Ho-ho. You always like those!”
Smacking their lips, the cats cry for more, but the package is closed, plastic rewrapped and cupboard door shut softly but firmly. “That’s enough for now. You don’t want to get fat.”
The two feline animals flop around the floor then head to the sunny spot on the carpet by the wall where they curl up beside each other for a nap. Soon, they are motionless except for the steady quick rise of the breathing torsos.
In the sunlight, Miss Samuels notices a gathering layer of dust. “My, my. Dusty again? It’s an endless chore.” She crosses the room to pick up the duster hanging at the end of the counter and take it back toward the shelves of books and knick-knacks.
“There-there. I’ll get rid of that stuff.” The shelves and the objects they support seem to smile back at her as she wipes them lightly with the duster. Actually, she enjoys the task, for it allows her to hold and admire each pretty treasure. She takes her time caring for them. They gleam back at her in appreciation.
Miss Samuels has lived in this apartment for twenty years, her and her deceased husband’s pension paying the rent. She does not remember much at this point, but she remembers his passing. She awoke to him lying calmly beside her. He would not wake up, she recalls, so she attempted to rouse him. He felt very cold to the touch. That is a strong memory. She knows that she moved into this apartment two years after his death, when her children suggested that life would be easier and more comfortable in a smaller place. She passively accepted her fate. As long as she could take along some of her treasures and the memories they safeguarded since she could not remember very well any more, she was content. One of her daughters lives not too far away, she recollects, though she cannot remember her visiting. There are nice shops nearby, and a pleasant green park to walk in. It is fine, she reminds herself.
The telephone beeps at her. She comes out of her reverie. Who could it be, she wonders? She is cautious for there are always strangers calling her. She wants to get rid of that telephone but has not—she cannot recall why not.
Nervously, she picks up the receiver. “Hello?” she says tentatively. “Hello, Mom,” is the reply. The speaker phone is always left on, but the handle feels good. It must be a habit to lift it. She does not recognize the voice, though it says “Mom.” She never recognizes them. “Yes. Who is it?”
“It’s your daughter, Valerie. How are you doing today, Mom?”
“Valerie? Oh, yes. Valerie-you’re my daughter. How are you, dear?”
“I’m great, Mom. I’m at work today. I just thought I’d give you a quick call.”
“Thank you. It’s quiet here today. I think the cats got out again. I’m not sure. Not to worry. They always return. The people here spot them, it seems.
“Yes, I know. Keep an eye on them.”
“On who?”
“Your pets. Jinx and Miss Marple. Keep an eye on them.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake. What are they going to do? Where are they going to go? Anyway, they’re sleeping now.”
“Good. Okay, Mom. I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
“Tomorrow. I don’t know…”
“Tomorrow is Saturday, Mom.”
“Saturday? Saturday is good. It’s good for you, right? Can you come and visit on Saturday?”
“No, Mom. Your helper visits you on Saturdays. I’ll call you again on Sunday.”
Miss Samuels wakes up early as usual at around 5:30 and the cats are already hungry as usual. She could just leave the feed out for them, but she thinks they might eat too much. Anyway, she likes dishing out the food for them.
A big calendar hangs on the wall above the calendar. Saturday is circled in red. The numbers of the days before it are crossed out. “Is it Saturday?” wonders the woman. “I wonder what is so special about today?”
For herself, she makes tea. Next, she fumbles for the cereal box. It is kept out on the counter. The cats are never interested in it. Nothing much is inside the upper cupboards because it is too hard to access nowadays. There is a small carton of milk on the inside of the fridge door. She knows because she can easily see the fridge and it is always there when she opens the fridge. It somehow makes its way back to its place in the fridge after she uses it, for it is always there.
The phone beeps. “What’s that?” she wonders. “Oh, it must be that telephone.” This time, she just presses a button. The thing keeps beeping, so she tries another button.
The telephone speaks at her. “Hello, Miss Samuels. This is Jeanie, your house cleaner. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Jeanie. Oh, I don’t think I need a cleaner. The house looks good. Thanks anyway.”
“But your daughter wants me to visit, anyway. I’m a friend of your daughter, Valerie.”
“Oh, yes. Valerie, my daughter. Okay. I’d like a visit. Would you like tea?”
“Sure, Ma’am. I’d like some tea. See you very soon.” The phone stops talking. It hums, so she fumbles around and hits a button that makes it quiet.
The old woman looks around. She wonders if she was supposed to remember something special today. She makes her way slowly across the floor to the refrigerator. Something there catches her eye. It is a bright orange paper stuck on the upper door of the fridge. It seems to wave at her. She squints to read it in the grey light of a rainy day that hovers outside her kitchenette window. It says, “Jeanie comes on Saturday to help you.” Perhaps it is already Saturday, thinks the woman.
She has forgotten about it but sits sipping her morning tea on the sofa across from the cooking area when the doorbell chimes a warning. She jumps a little in her seat and puts the teacup down on the coffee table. (“Why is it a coffee table when lots of people drink tea,” she always wonders.)
“Who’s there?” she calls out warily.
“It is Jeanie, your daughter’s friend. Can I come in? I thought you might need a hand.”
Curious, and enchanted by the young sweet voice, the woman steps toward the door. “Who?”
“Jeanie. I help you on Saturdays.”
“Is it Saturday, already?”
“Yes, Ma’am. It is Saturday. It is my day to visit you. Can you open the door?”
“Well, all right.”
Door unlatched, it opens up and reveals a short brownish girl with long shiny hair standing there. “I’m Jeanie. Here.” The girl holds up an i.d. card and presents a note that is signed, “Valerie.”
Valerie is her daughter. This must be something that Valerie wanted. She gives into the visit.
Jeanie has a bag full of food and household things. “This is for you. Valerie asked me to get them for you.” There are bananas and grapes, packages of this and that, slices of meat, sliced bread, juice and more.
“That’s a lot of stuff. I don’t know if I have enough money with me today…”
“That’s all right, Ma’am. It has been prepaid.”
“Prepaid? That’s marvelous.”
“Yes. How about if I make a hot meal for lunch, Ma’am? I can cook pretty good.”
“A hot meal sounds lovely, but don’t they bring something to the door sometimes?”
“Not today, Ma’m. That’s only Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I’ll cook some stuff and leave most of it and some salad in containers for you.”
“Oh, if you don’t mind. That’d be great.”
Miss Samuels plunks herself down on the sofa to observe the proceedings with avid interest. The girl chirps at her about this and that, most of which she does not fathom. There are words like “baby” and “sister” and “job” and movies. Whatever she is saying, it is pleasant to hear and the girl’s movements are fascinating. She is so quick!
Her visitor prepares a most agreeable lunch and tidies up well. While more food is cooking on the stove, the she rounds up some laundry and takes it downstairs to launder it.
“Wasn’t there someone here?” wonders Miss Samuel presently. She smells food and notices the pot on the stove. “Oh, no! I’ve left something on the stove. Oh! I don’t know what to do.”
She is standing over the pot, hand on the controls of the stove, when Jeanie re-enters the room. “That’s okay, Miss Samuels. I’m cooking some dinner for you to have later. I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh.” She is confused about the presence of this pleasant but unfamiliar person in her suite. She is aware that something has slipped her mind yet again and nods to feign awareness. She sits down and resumes her gaze at the surprise spectacle taking place before her.
On Sundays, nobody comes by. Her daughter pays her visits on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the late afternoons, though she calls nearly every day. Jeanie is there for a few hours every Saturday. The manager knocks on the door and steps in for a quick greeting now and then. That is her life, though Miss Samuels does not know it. She lives comfortably and happily in the present, permanently (well, for the “long term,” as it is said). It goes like that for years.
Valerie thinks that things continue to go well without major mishaps, and her mother always protests when she suggests relocation. Everyone is used to this routine. Her mother is comfortable. Valerie supposes that she is better off in surroundings that have become familiar, and worries that location would be too stressful for her mom and everyone in her life.
Miss Samuel likes her place. She is at home surrounded by all her little friends. She does not need the TV much. The appliances blink at her. The crockery grins and chatters back at her. The telephone and kettle bleat and hum, respectively. The sun peeps through at times, and sweeps to take over the room at others. Her pets frolic or sleep, laugh or murmur as per their mood. She does not feel alone at all.
One week, however, the rhythm is interrupted. Things get out of step.
It starts when there is bad weather. Miss Samuels and her pets are protected and well supplied inside. One Friday, though, the hot meal does not arrive. She was supposed to remember something about that? What was it? Didn’t that janitor guy say something?
She finds something to eat ready and waiting in the fridge and the cupboards, so she does not worry. The orange note tells her that things are in order. A bright pink one refers to a “Jeanie” and informs her that this “Jeanie” is on a holiday. “Betty” is to be there on Saturday. The note is dated, but the date means nothing to her.
She is supposed to cross out the days on the calendar but that system no longer works as soon as she skips a day on the calendar. She is lost and outside time. She never recalls whether the phone or doorbell has rung or whether someone has spoken to her recently. She feels happy; that’s all she knows. She enjoys reaching back into the back of her mind to see images of her childhood, school, early married life, and motherhood. She always likes reminiscing. That is enough to fill the days for her.
Betty never shows up. Miss Samuels does not know the difference.
Miss Samuels gets up from the couch that evening when she feels it might be time for bed. She trips over Jinx and falls onto the coffee table, then rolls onto the floor. Something must have broken, for it hurts a lot. She lies there, confused. She flails about, reaching forward to grasp at something. The coffee table falls on her. It seems heavy. She tries to crawl, sideways on her good hip trying to push herself along the floor. It occurs to her that she does not have anywhere to go.
She does not know what to do. Above her beyond her line of vision on the end table and glued to the phone, as well as a lamp, the door, the fridge and a kitchen cupboard door are the numbers “9-1-1”. She knows there is a phone around here somewhere, but it is not within sight.
Her immobility slows down her metabolism and therefore the blood flow. The blood gathers here and there in her legs and at her groin. Her determined heart keeps pumping. After a few hours, then a day, and a half, it gets feeble. While the woman is unconscious, a clot reaches her lung and she can no longer breathe. The heart stops.
On Tuesday, an alarmed woman of around 40 years bursts through the front door of the apartment building where the manager meets her. She knows that the meal did not arrive on Friday as planned because of a storm. She is aware that there was a problem with the substitute domestic worker. Valerie was able to reach Jeanie, who assured her that there would be plenty of extra food available. Valerie’s second husband had kept the homecare worker preoccupied all weekend, so that she did not even make a call during that time. She feels extremely guilty and perturbed. Her mother did not answer the phone yesterday. The new volunteer delivery person said there was no answer when he tried to drop off the hot meal yesterday, a Monday, but Valerie believes the guy must have been an incompetent. Everything has been going smoothly. There have been hitches before, she recalls, so there must not be anything serious to worry about.
Valerie and the building manager open the door and are horrified. The cats, coated in blood, are frolicking about the body of her mother who lies flat on the back beside the coffee table with flesh torn from her middle and chewed guts exposed.
END