Say Goodbye

TWENTY

RITA WAS AWAKE. DID THAT SAVE HER LIFE IN THE end? She would never know.

It was dark out. New moon, so perfect there wasn’t even enough light to form shadows across the far wall. Damn nights were long enough without even a light show for entertainment.

And then she heard it. Scuffling in her yard, followed by the creak of her back door opening.

“Joseph,” she whispered, flat on her back in her old double bed, gnarled hands clutching the edge of the covers. “That you, Joseph?”

But of course it wasn’t Joseph. Since when did ghosts make a sound?

She worked on her breathing, slow and steady, as she heard more noise downstairs. The sucking pop of the refrigerator door opening. The whine of an old drawer grudgingly giving way. And footsteps. Lots of footsteps, light and quick, crossing the kitchen, heading up the stairs.

Breathing again, slow and steady. By gawd, she would not be scared in her own home. By gawd, she would not be spooked from her own bed.

And then the boy appeared at the foot of her bed. He looked her straight in the eye, both hands tucked behind his back.

She returned his look just as steadily, her right hand creeping beneath the sheet.

“Scott,” she said evenly. “Thought we talked about this.”

The boy said nothing.

“Rules are rules, son. A proper guest knocks on the door. A proper guest waits to be invited. A proper guest does not sneak into an old lady’s home in the middle of the night, scaring her nearly half to death!”

The boy still didn’t say a word.

Rita sat up. She knew she must look a sight. Thin gray hair sticking out like twigs, wool cap askew on the top of her head. She wore her customary green plaid flannel and yellow-stained long johns. She dressed for warmth and comfort, not to entertain impertinent young men.

The boy still didn’t move or speak. So she kept her gaze upon him. She let him know she wasn’t as frail as she looked.

“Show me your hands, Scott.”

Nothing.

“Boy, I’m only going to ask you one more time. Show me your hands!”

For the first time, he trembled. Once, twice, three times. Then abruptly, he jerked his hands out from behind his back. He showed her his palms, and declared in a voice nearly shrill with panic, “I just need a place to stay. One night. I won’t be a problem. I swear!”

Rita took advantage of his uncertainty, throwing back the covers and swinging her legs out of bed. Her bones ached when she stood, but she felt better. Stronger. In control.

“Where do you live, Scott?”

He thinned his lips mutinously.

“Do you have parents I should call? Someone who worries about you?”

“I could sleep right here,” he whispered. “On the floor. I don’t need much. Honest.”

“Nonsense, child. No guest of mine is sleeping on the floor. You fixin’ to spend the night, we might as well do it right. Come on, I’ll take you to Joseph’s room.”

She set off in her shuffling gait, passing by the foot of the bed, brushing the boy’s shoulder. He fell back, assuming the submissive. Encouraged, she led him down the hall, to her brother’s room, where dusty football trophies still lined one dresser, and the quilt had been hand-sewn by her grandmother from pieces of their baby blankets. As the oldest son, Joseph had been given the quilt to pass along to his children one day. Instead, he had perished in the same war that had cost Rita her husband. Stepped on a land mine in France. There hadn’t been enough body parts left for a proper funeral. Her parents had buried his dog tags, her father retreating to Joseph’s room, where he had stayed for months on end.

Her sister Beatrice should’ve taken the quilt, but it had remained in Joseph’s room, where from time to time, each of them would visit, trying to say goodbye to Joseph in his or her own way.

Rita drew back the old quilt now. She smoothed back the flannel sheets, cold and musty from disuse. She drew the young boy forward and helped him onto the bed.

He was passive now, nearly limp to the touch, his slight frame collapsing into the bed. She brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead, and he flinched.

“Rita,” he whispered. “I’m tired.”

And the way he said the word, she understood. He wasn’t tired, he was tired, a condition of the mind as well as the body. A state of the soul.

She pulled the covers up, tucking them beneath his chin.

“Stay as long as you need, child,” she said and meant it.

Then she shuffled back into her bedroom, where she felt along the far wall until she found the kitchen knife the boy had let drop to the floor. She picked it up, and placed it in the nightstand beside her.

Then she reached beneath the covers, finding her father’s old Colt.45. She’d cleaned it yesterday; armed it last night. A beautiful piece of machinery, old, but still capable of getting the job done.

Now she clutched it in her hand as she made her way painfully down the stairs, left hand gripping the railing tight.

In the kitchen, the unlocked back door banged lightly in the wind. She opened it wide, peering into her backyard, cursing once more the lack of moon. She saw shadows above and below. Not a wink of light from a neighbor’s house, nor the glowing eyes of a tomcat.

So she shut her eyes and focused on the feel of the night instead. She and her brothers used to do this when they were young. Camp out in the backyard, pretending they were in the wilds of the Amazon. Don’t look with your eyes, their father would tell them in his hushed baritone. Look with your mind, seek with your hearts.

It always made her wonder if Joseph should’ve shut his eyes that night he’d gone on patrol. Maybe, if he hadn’t been looking, maybe, if he’d been feelin’, that land mine never would’ve gotten him.

And then she did sense it. Strong. Cold. Powerful enough to make her recoil.

Something was out there in the night. Hungry. Hunting. Hating.

Rita scrambled back inside her kitchen. Got the door shut, found the bolt lock. But for the first time in ages, she was aware of just how rickety her old house had become. Back door with a big glass window perfect for shattering and a brittle wood frame easy enough to pry apart with a crowbar.

I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down…

She was trembling now, tasting the fear like bile in the back of her throat. The gun felt too heavy in her hand, her arm too weak. She could barely walk half the time, how was she supposed to lift this sucker, let alone take aim…

Then, in the next instant, her own cowardliness shamed her. She was not a fool. She was a survivor, last of her family line. This was her home. By God, she would take a stand.

She went from room to room. Checking all nooks and crannies, inspecting all locks. Perhaps in the morning, when she was fresher, she could rearrange some of the furniture. And she had some wood outside. She could hack it into sticks, use them to reinforce the windows.

And bells. From the Christmas decorations. Hang ’em here and there as her very own security system.

Yes, sirree, she had some tricks up her sleeve yet.

That made her feel better, so she shuffled to the stairs, starting the laborious process of pulling herself back up.

When she finally made it to her bed, she collapsed on top of the covers and slept like the dead. First few hours of sleep she’d had in weeks.

When she woke up, her bedroom door was open, and her own gun was placed neatly on the pillow beside her.

The boy was gone.

She wondered if she would see him again.