She's Not There by Jennifer Finney Boylan Page B

off.
    â€œYeah, that would be good,” I said. “Sometime.”
    I didn’t follow her downstairs but stayed in that bathroom, looking out the window at the snow, now turning to rain. I heard the door open downstairs, then I saw her rush out into the night. She got her car off the azaleas, went down the driveway, and turned onto Sugartown Road.
    I made the bed in the guest room, hung up the orange robe. Last, I let the water out of the tub. It made a sucking sound.
    Then the house was quiet. I walked out into the hallway, wanting to do something, to yell or punch out a wall or weep or smash up the car.
    I went up to the door of the locked room where my mother’s and sister’s dresses hung in their garment bags. I slid back the dead bolt and walked in. There was only one light, and it was way across the room. I had to walk through the dark to get at it, a single lightbulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling.
    The swinging light shone on the shunned room, shadows moving across the piles of boxes, a safe, an American flag. I looked at the garment bags full of dresses, but I didn’t open them. There was the smell of mothballs.
    On one wall, written on the bare plaster, were the words
Al Hunt.
I’m sick. Wednesday, October 3, 1956.
    I stood in there for a while. It was funny to be in the place where I usually feared the ghosts would be. Shit, man, I thought. Maybe I’m the ghost.
    My parents got home an hour later. I was already in bed. They stomped up the creaking stairs.
    I should have just let them go to sleep, but my conscience was too guilty about the evening. I had to know if they suspected anything.
    â€œHi, honey,” my mother said as I came down the stairs. I went into my parents’ bedroom. My father was already brushing his teeth. “Did you have an all right time?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Watched television.”
    â€œGood.” She sat on her bed and took off her jewelry. “We had a lovely time with the McGatts. You remember John McGatt, honey? He used to bring you Silly Putty when you were little?”
    â€œI remember.”
    My mother shook her head. “It seems just like yesterday, when you were my baby boy.”
    â€œMom,” I said, annoyed.
    She took off her watch, put it on her table. There next to the alarm clock was Onion’s diaphragm, sitting in its soft brown case. She hadn’t seen it yet, but Mom would see a lot of things in the time that was coming.

The Failures of Milk
    The phone rang in the Coffin House. “Eleanor, you’ll never believe what happened,” Aunt Nora said. “I just died.”
    My mother checked the clock. It was late. “Nora,” she said,“what are you talking about?”
    â€œI know what you’re thinking,” Aunt Nora continued. “But listen. I’m dead now.” She paused. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
    â€œNora,” my mother said,“you’re not making any sense. Of course you’re not dead. You’re on the phone.”
    My aunt made an irritated sound. “You never take me seriously!”
    â€œNora, are you listening to me? I want you to put the phone down. I want you to go get yourself a glass of milk. Will you do that for me, please?”
    â€œYou want I should get some milk?”
    â€œPut the phone down and get yourself a glass of milk. When you have the milk, come back to the phone.”
    My aunt put the phone down begrudgingly. My mother, alone in her big house, sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the sounds of Nora moving around her apartment. Whatever it was she was doing, it was clear she hadn’t traveled in a straight line to the refrigerator. My mother heard furniture moving, a toilet flushing. Aunt Nora was singing something to herself.
    About ten minutes later, she came back to the phone.
    â€œI have the milk, Eleanor. I’m still