Read by Carrie Cohen
Through the white bars I have a view of the hallway. If I angle my head just so, with my head pressed on the glass, I can see into the end bedroom, a junk room that Sonny uses for storage or for hiding his illegal locobis.
I don’t call out any more, nor ask when I’ll be let out. I don’t argue when he forgets to feed me, or let me out to do my business. I’ve learned to make do, like I have my whole life, all seventy-eight years of it. I just tell myself it’s like living in the Depression again. I ration my meals, and hoard saltines and sardines under the bed where no one will look.
I have a routine. I start with the newspaper; not today’s or yesterday’s or even last week’s. Long ago I lined the drawers with old papers. Now I take them out, lay them nicely on the bedspread, ironing out the wrinkles, and read. Funny how the times have changed so. I read the other day about a woman who claimed she spoke to Lee Harvey Oswald right before he shot the president. Buried it was on the last page.
‘Course I don’t have hot coffee with my paper. Instead I add a packet of the instant kind into the glass of water, the one I’m allowed to get for myself before I turn in for the night. Sometimes on a hot day the sun will heat it right up.
Now, after my paper, I tidy up the room. I make my bed. I sweep the floor, though there’s not much of it. I dust the bookshelves and the windowsill. After that I put on a new dress. Dab myself with a little powder under the arms. I don’t doll myself up, since no one’s going to see me. Sometimes I don’t even wear my teeth.
Around ten o’clock, Sonny, or one of his friends, or a girlfriend – all strangers to me – will come and unlock the door. I have to pretend I’m happy to see him, that I don’t harbour any ill feelings toward him, or even notice the door is locked all day. He thinks I don’t know, that I’m a stupid old lady that don’t know no better.
Sometimes I can hear him when he’s in the junk room. “Yeah, that’s my granny’s room. No, man, she’s sleeping in there. What else do old people do all day?” He’ll laugh and get no complaints from whomever he’s speaking to. “No, man, the door’s for her protection. I can’t have her walking around. You know, she’s loco.” Sonny’s not Hispanic, but he tries hard to act like it.
Sometimes if Sonny doesn’t come for me until 10:30 or 11:00 or even one o’clock in the afternoon, I pee in a paper cup and toss it out the window. For me, half my day’s gone by. I’m up with the birds. From the second floor, I have a bird’s eye view of the mark it leaves on the driveway. In the hot sun it becomes a source of interest to the stray dogs or cats sniffing around. Glad I can give them something to do.
Course, if I’m let out then I’ll wash my face and rinse my mouth, do my business right. I don’t get too many showers, as Sonny doesn’t like me to take too long. It seems like I only get as long as a dog might outside. No time to scratch the dirt and grass, or to roll around in it.
On good days I can boil an egg and make some toast. But I’m hardly quick. My bones are stiff and my hands have started to tremble. I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting old, or because my body’s used to being nervous all day.
Sonny likes to hover near me, when I’m in the kitchen. He’ll kiss my cheek and talk loud like I’m an invalid or deaf. When he’s not looking, I tuck reserves in my pocket for later – tea bags, sugar cubes, a handful of cereal.
Occasionally, if I’m feeling bold, I’ll snatch a piece of mail off the table. Everything has my name on it. Mostly bills. I’ve seen my name used to get loans, jewellery, a big flat screen TV and game system, a new refrigerator, a $2000 pit-bull, and a motorcycle. Doesn’t anyone question what a seventy-eight-year-old is doing riding on a Harley? Or what I’m doing with seven cellphones, or multiple cable accounts with the works – all outstanding, I might add.
It doesn’t stop there. On paper I’ve gone to Vegas, seen M&M in concert, twice, seen De Lahoya in the ring, and run up a bar tab at The Señorita. I know the place. It’s been around long before Sonny’s time. Can’t miss it with the pink, neon, triple X-X-X.
In the old days, bill collectors came to your door. They were the guys you saw in church every week, and invited to dinner on Sundays. But not any more. No one’s noticing. The bills keep coming.
In the afternoon, Sonny is usually at work. I think he works part time installing car radios. But with my ear to the door I found out it’s only a cover. He steals and thieves by making a copy of the key. Then he and a friend go back and take what they want. I’ve heard him bragging he stole back the radio he installed, and maybe even a car.
I usually say the rosary when I hear this kind of talk. Sonny’s mother didn’t raise him like that. He didn’t get it from our side of the family. But his father was a no-good cheat. Couldn’t hold a job, a real worthless man.
When my daughter died, what now, maybe eight years? Sonny was on his own. I was kind to him and told him if he needed anything to ask. He’d come for a hot meal once in a while. Before he’d leave he’d look at me with those sad eyes and ask if I had a couple bucks to put in his gas tank. I usually gave a ten.
It all seemed like such a normal thing. Sonny would come for dinner and fall asleep by the TV. Then he’d leave for a few days or a few weeks. Eventually his stays got longer. I enjoyed his company. It was nice to have a person to talk to, even if he spoke too fast or about things that really didn’t mean much to me. They mattered to him, so I listened with both ears.
I can’t say I know when the shift happened. Maybe when he met that friend, Hurly, or Curly, I can’t remember. I just recall questioning him about a cellphone bill in my name. I asked him how he got my social security number, or how they processed it without me there.
Online, Gran. You can do everything online.
Sonny made light of it. Said he needed the phone for work and that he’d pay it, but was a little short that week.
A few weeks later another bill came in, this one for a diamond engagement ring. When I asked, Sonny said the girl left him and he was taking the ring back. A week passed and when I questioned him again he slapped me across the face.
Oh, he apologised. He always does.
After that incident Sonny’s friends started coming around more. If I asked them to leave, Sonny would start yelling. He pushed me into the wall once. Another time into the washing machine. When I saw no one was leaving, I retreated to my bedroom upstairs. Then one day, about a year ago, about the same time I started seeing marijuana plants next to my spider plant and cactus, I went to open the door and it was locked.
We had a big fight when he finally did open it. I try not to think about the way his eyes looked, all bloodshot and dilated. He came at me with a knife, said he’d kill me. The next morning the metal door with the bars went in. And it’s been this way ever since.
*
At night the party starts, the music, the girls, the bebop. Someone thinks my room is the bathroom and bangs on the door, swearing at me to hurry up. I worry one day one of the men will come in and try something with me. I couldn’t defend myself. If he killed me in the process, who would know? Sonny would get the house, after all, and life would go on.
Close to midnight, the moon a tiny sliver in the sky, I can’t sleep. A fight broke out downstairs, maybe over drugs, maybe a girl. The red and blue lights from the cop car spin in circles on the walls. I wait at the window, hoping to hear something. Deep down there’s a little hope that they’ll come inside and find me. Maybe they’d send me to a home. I don’t care now. I’ve lived in this house my whole life. I planned to die in it. But if they came and took me away, I don’t think I’d mind.
In the morning I wake with a crooked neck, leaning against the window. No one came. No one’s around. The house is silent. I go through my routine, and around midday, Sonny comes in for me. He’s tired and sluggish. He sits at the table with a bag of frozen peas on his eye where someone hit him. It’s not long before he tosses me back into the room, my joints popping and creaking.
In the afternoon, the mailman comes and I think about tossing a letter out the window. I get a shiver inside. It feels like it might be my last. What would I say? The words come quickly. I scribble on the title page of a crossword puzzle book. Help me. I need help. Send the police. I sign my name in cursive, like I was taught in elementary school, each hump perfect and straight.
I open the window, leaning out, marvelling at the chickadees hopping from branch to branch, the green grass, the rose bush my father planted by the front gate. It all looks so beautiful.
As the mailman passes, I call to him. My voice trembles and runs hoarse. I think he understands when I wave the small book. I give it a good flick, the way a baseball player would. It lands near the gate. He picks it up and scans the front and back.
“It needs to be in an envelope, with a stamp.” He sticks it into the mailbox.
I shout after him, my voice like a whisper against the car traffic. Please, come back. Please.
It’s dark before Sonny comes home.
I’ve left the room in order. No one will have to clean up after me. My teeth are in. I put on a little lipstick. Sprayed some perfume. I try to steady my hands, while following Sonny’s footsteps from the mailbox, to the porch, into the kitchen.
Maybe five minutes of quiet pass and then I hear his fist hit the table, or maybe the wall, I’m shaking so, I can’t really tell.
I hope someone finds this letter. I’m not sure anyone would believe me otherwise. Maybe they won’t even see what I wrote. I hear the rattle of knives in a drawer.
“You crazy fucking bitch.”
Sonny used the word crazy; that means he’s really mad. Here he comes. He’s running. I have to go now. His footsteps hammer up the stairs.
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Elder Leah by Hunter Liguore was read by Carrie Cohen at the Liars’ League Shock & Awe event on Tuesday 13th September 2011, at the Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London.
Hunter Liguore is a rebel writer and witness to our times. Her stories push conventional boundaries of genre, and usually end unpredictably. She holds advanced degrees in writing and history, and has appeared in various well-known publications. To become a Liguorite visit: http://about.me/skytalewriter.
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