Another step closer to the window. My boot sinks down, leaving the snow with nice rows of miniature ice canals in the shape of Size 11. Black leather gloves go one on each hand, and a black balaclava topper. It snags, leaving me one eye blind, and I shove a gloved finger into the other hole to rotate. A trail of thawed snot trickles through the hairs on my lip, soaks into the strip of fabric that covers my chin.
It’s been a while since I’ve done it.
A sound in the living room, and I’m under the windowpane, behind the bushes. A head of brown down hair bobs above the sill just as I crush my knees into my chest. The little girl is making some kind of animal sound, something like barking, backlit by Christmas tree bulbs of blue and red and green, giving her a multi-colored halo. And she’s also there. Right there. There she is.
Last month was the last one. A credit card, small peanuts.
And then they both come in closer, the she and little she, and I hunker down farther, feeling the snow soak through my jeans, turning my balls to ice. I pretend the blue-red-green glow means I’m warm.
Smallest peanuts of all because I didn’t even take the thing myself. It was pre-taken. Just left there by RAY M. PALASIOS Exp. 02/25. Had to run out to catch the guy. And, god! The least the guy could have done was show me some goddam gratitude. Some relief. But no, he was all heads down. None of the eye contact. None of the relief.
The black square I pull out almost blends invisible in my leather palm. Flip it over, peel off the adhesive, peer up and over the sill. And they’re both still there, but over there there, not right here there, so I brave a quick push-up-and-swipe, one hand whipping over the glass, ice coming off in a thin sheet. Smack! Onto the pane goes the little black square. The whole business makes a thudding noise like a confused bird, and I duck-n-hide back behind the bushes before the woman and the little woman can see me. I hear the animal noises get louder for a minute but then they go away. There they are. There they were.
And I’m sitting here, breathing, reminding myself that I like this part too. The journey, that’s what they’re always talking about, right? The journey. The destination. The relief.
You could call it something like “Relief Voyeurism,” RV, to nobody. To myself. See, the business of “RV” is just like comedy. One liner = small laugh, small payoff. But then one of those narrative jokes, something with a lot of set up, character. Twists. Big laughs, big bananas.
The bluetooth bud is in my ear already, all I’ve got to do is press “on.”
“…and put that down, baby,” she says. “It’s too early,“ she says. “Put it down.” And I can stop pretending I’m warm.
The little woman makes a sound that is probably an elephant.
“We’re not going to make it,” a voice from the other room, that man, something of a Sinatra impersonator. “What time did we tell her to show anyway?” The voice makes me want to laugh. To scream. Makes me want to learn “Fly Me to the Moon.” Makes me want to know if that would have made any sort of difference. But before I can keep it up, she’s there. Right there. Over the sill, there she is.
“There she is!” she says. And that’s also true, the new “she.” The silver Honda Civic coming around the bend. Right on schedule. And I’m rolling through the snow, log-style, covering the tracks closest to the windowsill, making it around to the place where the trash and recycling is wedged, just as the car parks, engine killed.
She’ll be leaving soon, and I’m feeling as cold as death.
In the bluetooth, the little woman makes a sound that is probably a tiger.
“You’ve got to eat this time,” she says. “You’ve got to be nice to Ms. Hannah and eat.”
A doorbell rings, something custom, one of those big-man chime sounds that you should only hear at church. “Got it,” the Sinatra impersonator says.
After a good stand and shake, most of the snow is off, and I thank christ for wearing the goose-down jacket. It’s good to be upright again, and I say my hallelujah with a couple rolls of the ankle. The roll of leather strapped to my chest stretches over the lid of the recycling, revealing my companions — Mister Leatherman, 24-piece LocPiq Pro, Gaffer Tape, screwdriver multi-tool, and the like.
Couldn’t imagine where I’d be without these guys, the proper gear. But it wasn’t all that long ago — what was it, ’06? — When I was green as green as green. Mostly office stuff back then. Small peanuts always, originality lacking — keys in fridges, wallets on the backs of toilets, shit like that. But I learned that originality is key. One of the laws in my head. The really original ones would get responses like:
Oh my god! How’d I do that?
I’d have never found—
You’re a lifesaver!
A lifesaver.
So then you switch from keys in refrigerators to keys hidden in bags of coffee, wallets in the bottom of tissue boxes, wedding rings in floor grates, and, a personal favorite: gum’n’shoe combos. And it was good for a while. The office full of senior-moment-havers and I’m such a dope-ers. They banded together, bonding over some of the more bespoke moments: “your ID was stuck to the bottom of Mark the Shark’s shoe, too?!”
I grab a couple rectangles of Eclipse spearmint from my pocket and pop them in my mouth. Chew. Don’t even mess with the Trident or the Juicy Fruit. Stuff dries out.
But it was one thing when there were two mobile devices filed under “P.” Another when there were three. Four. No more office antics. It was on to bigger fish. On to the great outdoors.
Guess I’m due for a big one. Might as well be the biggest one of all.
I slide the the lock pick set out of the gear roll-up and put it in my pocket.
The voices of my she and the impersonator drift out of the living room, and I crane my head as if that would help.
The little woman makes a sound that is probably crying.
A new voice, this Ms. Helen: “Mommy won’t be gone long.”
The front door opens and shuts with a faint roll and click. My fingers dig into the wall, keeping me put, deep between the recycling and the garbage, cardboard and sour milk. The fingers grip harder, saving my cold ass, knowing that my will is wearing thin. Don’t look. So I look in my head, watch her walk down the drive. That careful way of walking, always looking down at her feet. The cloud-colored eyes. Shiny pink lips with the littlest scar at one side, looking like a forever grain of rice. And looking at her would be exactly the thing I was doing in my head, anyway. Worse. If I actually looked, I’d see the impersonator.
“I’ll never smile again, until I smile at you…”
I put the wire cutters in my pocket.
The little woman makes a sound that is probably screaming.
“Go ahead,” says this Ms. Helen. “I’ll tell mommy you wouldn’t listen at all. You wouldn’t listen, you were very, very bad.”
The little woman makes no sound at all.
“Okay. Good. Okay. It’s alright.”
The sound of a car pulling out of the driveway.
They were going to see the symphony. She was going to see the symphony. No idea she even gave a damn about the symphony until last week when I learned that she did. Had the little black square on the bedroom window that time. The symphony. She said she hadn’t been in ages and that they were playing Shosty-something and that she’d really like to go. Makes me wonder if that would have made any difference. If I’d known she’d given a damn about the symphony.
The little woman makes a sound that is probably a cow.
“Oh that’s nice!” this Ms. Helen goes. “I would have loved one of those when I was a little girl. What does this one sound like?”
The little woman makes a sound that is probably a lion.
Fusebox in sight, I wrap up the gear roll-up and scoot, pressed against the stucco. And then, a little tug at the shoulder.
“Fuck,” I say, seeing a pellet sized hole. Out sprout tendrils of white feathers through the black nylon shell. Out comes the leather roll again, and I get the Gaff. I flick the exposed puff into the air, and it floats over the bins, dipping up and down with the cold wind of the early afternoon. Fuzzy mini-disappearing acts as it dives above and below the fence. Against the dark fence, it’s there. Against the blank snow, it’s not. And then it disappears for good.
Patched up, the scooting continues, and I reach the box, unlatching it just as I’m hit with a blast of sound.
“Damn,” I say, as my ears go blind. The TV pressed up against their living room window vibrates and covers up the little woman and this Ms. Helen.
“HAPPY-DAY, HAPPY-DAY, WE WAN-NA HELP YOU-TA-HAVE-A HAPPY-DAY—”
Looking up, there’s a window right above the fusebox — the kitchen. The kitchen, nice and silent and without a TV. The window, open-mouthed laughing at me.
“HIYA HAPPY CAMPERS, DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?”
Time for relief. I need some goddamn relief.
So the box comes open and the wires get cut and there goes the TV anyway. I knew that. Of course I knew that. I’m an expert. Man with a plan. The kitchen doesn’t seem so smug now.
The little woman makes a sound that is probably whimpering.
“It’s okay, honey. The power’s just gone. Probably the storm…”
Probably the storm. And it was probably just the storm all those years ago, too. A mistake. That forgotten little man, that little me. Everyone probably got scared when the lights wouldn’t come back on and went on ahead home. But I didn’t know anything about any storm. I thought the lights were off because they had to be. It was the rules.
Lights out, count all the way down from a-hundred.
*
Ninety-Nine
Move around the back, torsion wrench in the keyhole.
That little man, that little me, tripped around in the black, ditching the idea of under the sofa, behind the dryer — small peanuts.
*
Ninety-Eight
Take off the shoes, take off the socks. Leave them by the door.
The little woman asks for Happy Day, and this Ms. Helen says, “Do you know where mommy and daddy keep the flashlight?”
The little man ran up to the bed. Bent down. Looked. Small peanuts. Keep running.
*
Ninety-Seven
Put on the blue booties over frozen feet. You’re inside the kitchen.
Happy Day is what the little woman wants. “I’ll go have a look in the garage,” says this Ms. Helen. “Stay here.”
Past the bedroom closet, but then back. The little man opened it, looked in. Maybe…
*
Ninety-Six
You’re sliding over tile in blue cotton skates. You’re not touching anything. You’re not looking at anything. You don’t have time to look at anything. Don’t look at anything.
The little man started putting on coats like he was in Quebec for Christmas. On went mom’s rain jacket, dad’s suit coat, the ski jacket, a trench —
*
Ninety-Five
You’re in the living room. You’re behind the tree, cold dead bulbs without their blue and red and green. And she’s right there, in miniature. She makes a sound that is probably a —
Little man tied a pair of pants around his waist, looking like an undersized black belt in karate. Grammy’s scarf wrapped over the head. It was dark, anyway. He was blind, anyway. And now he didn’t just look like a pile of clothes. He was a pile of clothes. He smiled under the crochet and knotted it tight.
*
Ninety-Four
You smile. You lean back. A stab in your shoulder, a barb of twisted wire and artificial pine needles. Step forward, but you’re stuck.
Little man stumbled farther back in the closet, pushing aside boxes of spare somethings, and tripped. Fell. Fell and became a heap of clothes. Something real authentic.
*
Ninety-Three
Pull and you’re free. Free, and floating, another bit of cotton loose. It falls to the ground, in between boxes of wrapped somethings in gold and red. You’re not looking at anything, but you look. You’re not touching anything, but you reach. The movement from your arm sends a few more of the puffs into fuzzy upward spirals where they lodges deep into the tree. No time to patch.
Little man heard the runaround. One set of feet, just. Then two. First victim.
*
Ninety-Two
Your cue is the door to the garage: open-shut. Don’t think. Just grab. You tell yourself the puffs add to the ambience. Fake snow, fake pine. They go together. At home. Just grab.
And the little woman makes a sound that is probably a snake in a chokehold. Keep your hand on her face. And you’re in the kitchen. And you’re on the porch.
More feet, more laughs, heard the little man, the heap of clothes. And then the laughs were in the bedroom.
*
Eighty-Eight
You’re on the porch, and the door’s still open, open enough to see the sweep of yellow light across the Christmas tree with the fake snow you left, and the spot where the little woman isn’t. Lock the door from the inside, pull it closed. You have to hold her with one arm now. And the shoes! God, you man-with-a-plan, you almost forgot your shoes!
The closet door flew open and the little man clenched, but reminded himself that piles of clothes don’t clench. All of the other boys are there, all calling his name, and he knows he’s won it. This was it, the big banana. He can’t wait to see the look on their faces.
*
Eighty-Two
You’re both in the van and she’s making sounds that are definitely screaming, muffled by the cloth sack over her head. You plug in the phone and press play.
He couldn’t wait to see the look on their faces, the little man, the smiling face of clothes. And he smiled. And he waited. And he pictured how they’d look even after the closet door closed again. They’d just have to check the whole house again, and it’d make them even more impressed when they saw how he pulled a fast one. The big banana.
*
Seventy-Six
You press play and the pseudo-sirens start. You crank up the volume. She’s young, so she probably doesn’t even need this part, but just in case. You aren’t going to fuck it all up now. So you crank up the wee-woo, wee-woo and she screams but can’t scream loud enough. In comes the pre-recorded voice, the crackling badman voice that you practiced, in over the car speakers. “You’ll get her back when I’m dead,” the voice says. “When I’m dead.”
In the bluetooth, you hear: “Crissy?”
The little man was lying there as clothes, clothes that needed to pee. He lay real still, reminding himself that piles of clothes don’t need to pee, but felt a little wet spot on his Hanes anyway. A little man hand comes out of the clothes and smacks around, slapping against something hard. He feels around, finds a long neck, a hole…
*
Sixty-Five
You make a sharp turn in the parking lot right at the 3:32 minute mark where you know the screech is coming, and the little woman’s head smacks against the passenger window. You say “fuck” before you remember you’re not speaking.
In the bluetooth, you hear: “Crissy?!”
The little man heard a thunderclap and he reckons clothes probably jump sometimes.
*
Forty-Two
You hear a snot-cough from underneath the black cloth bag and wonder if you should have just taken the cat.
In the bluetooth, you hear something that is probably a door opening. You hear: “Shit! Crissy!”
It won’t be long before they start getting worried about him, the little man knew. And maybe that’d be good. Maybe that’d make it even bigger. The biggest banana. He imagined the relief on their faces, and he tried to smile but half his face was numb from the balled up grammy-scarf-knot, smooshing all the blood away from his cheek.
*
Thirty-Nine
You make another sharp turn, but you sneak your coat against the passenger window so the little woman doesn’t thud. “Screeeeetch,” says the car radio. “Haha!” says the gravely voice. “WEE-WOO, Wee-Woo, wee-” say the not-cop-cars, fading into the distance as this fake badman makes this fake escape.
In the bluetooth you hear something that is probably a door closing. You hear something that is probably a door opening again. And you hear this Ms. Helen say, “Hi, Ms. Carter, um. Everything’s okay. Well, it’s just the power went out and, well, Crissy, she—”
The little man estimated that it couldn’t be too long before they got really very extra worried. Probably not even as long as an episode of Rescue Rangers.
*
Thirty
You estimate that it will take about as long as that one Sinatra song before they’ll be on their way back to the house.
“I’ll never love again, I’m so in love with you…”
In the bluetooth, this Ms. Helen says: “Christ, of course I called them!” and “You don’t think I should have called?” and “I don’t know. Like, fifteen—” and “I know but it’s fucking cold outside and she’s only wearing pajamas for chrissake! Oh god. Oh christ.”
The little man got to the credits in his head and he was still in the closet as a pile of undiscovered clothes with a ‘Happy 1st Anniversary!’ champagne bottle full of pee pee. So he opened the door.
*
Twenty-Two
And you stop the car, open the door just when the recorded baddie yells, “Hey!” And it’s your turn to speak. You’re playing you, and you say, “get your hands off her,” and you know that the script isn’t very original but—
In the bluetooth, you hear the front door slam and it’s her. Right there, in your ear. There she is.
The little man peaked out the door, letting the oversized black belt slip down to his ankles.
*
Eighteen
“It’s over,” you say, and you pull the little woman out of the car, not removing the bag. And the radio bad guy says something Scooby-doo in his gravely voice, brining an end to the mostly PG car chase.
“We don’t need to involve the police just yet,” the impersonator says in your ear. The symphony-goer. “It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes—”
The little man stuck out a leg and tripped over the pants around his feet, kicked over the non-alcoholic bottle of wee wee and became a pile of clothes again. And he figured piles of clothes must cry sometimes.
*
Twelve
You yank her away from the car, into tree cover, and rip the bag off her face. All snot and hair and purple star pajamas. And you try to give her a hug to stop her from shaking, but she gets into a silent shaking ball on the frozen ground. “Let’s get you back to your mommy,” you say.
“I don’t care. I’m going to call right now,” she says in your ear. “It’s cold as death out there.”
Little man, finally free. He pushed the clothes into the puddle. “Hello?” he called, crawling out of the closet. “Hello?” into an answering crack of thunder.
*
Ten
If she gets the cops involved, she’ll blow it. You grab the little woman and start to run.
“Will you just let me go out there and look first?” the impersonator, the pseudo-savior says. “Okay? Give me ten.”
The little man calls, “Hello?”
*
Six
You’re running with an armful of little woman through the winter-bare trees, and you see the front door just beyond the outer layer of forest. The window, the tree without the blue-red-green. And you’re running until you’re not. Yanked backward.
“I’m calling,” she says. “Right now.”
Little man kept trying but the house wouldn’t say “hello” back. Switched on the light, but it all stayed dark.
*
One-and-a-half…
You pull and yank back and you hear a rip. Look over the shoulder and see a ribbon of black waving on a tree branch.
“Give me the damn phone!”
Little man army-crawled down the hallway, hiding from who knows what. Knock at door one. Nothing. Knock at door two. Nothing.
*
One! Ready—
You’re running down the street, goose feathers flying, making a puff-bridge from snow patch to snow patch. Stark against the street. Gone in the snow. And a car drives past and it looks like it’s snowing in reverse.
The little man sat at the top of the stairs, hiding behind the bannister. And he said, “I’m right here,” to nobody. To himself.
—Or-not!
*
You pound on the door so hard that the bluetooth picks up the vibrations in the window pane. You yank out the earbud and put it in your pocket, unzip the martyred goose down, throw the carcass behind the bushes, revealing a rumpled tie and button-up. You wonder if it will make a difference.
And she opens up the door. And she’s there. Right there, the cornflower eyes and tiny grain of rice. Here she is.
She’s looking at you, not remembering. But then she looks down and sees the little woman. And she looks at you.
And the relief.
Oh.
The relief.
***
V1, 14 July 2023
Many thanks to Monica Drake for her story edits on this one (I hope that I did at least some of them justice!)
I’ve been tinkering with this particular piece for far too long (along with the accompanying emotional baggage). Today, I need to just let it go. Flaws and all.
And oh, the relief.
-C