Dead Flowers Page 4

  When it was time to bring them in, Elly found that the dogs were well-trained. Sadly, all she had to do was snap her fingers and point, then they bowed their heads and followed. Elly pointed to the door, and they followed down the stairs. She pointed to the bedroom, and they went in. The white dog, Franny, made a bow toward her cage. She folded herself in and laid down, so that Elly only had to shut the gate. Zooey, on the other hand, approached the kennel, but then sat down firmly in front of it. It was as if she understood what had to happen, but she fought against it, even knowing she would lose. Elly tried petting her, tried to gently coax the dog into the box, but Zooey was unbending. She trembled. She wouldn’t look at Elly, but kept her eyes fixed on the floor.

  Okay, Elly said to the dog. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to do this.

  She took a deep breath and cursed Jodi, then in one swift movement, picked up the mutt by its rump and stuffed its face into the box. But Zooey continued to fight. She dug her forepaws into the floor and pushed back. With her other arm, Elly had to fold the dog’s legs. She forced Zooey into the kennel, and then quickly closed the gate before the dog could turn around. After that, she left the room, closed the door and settled back into bed. She picked up a textbook but couldn’t read. What was worse, she wondered, the fact that Franny so pathetically accepted being kennelled, or the fact the Zooey fought against it as she did? Elly tried to focus on her reading, but she had hardly finished half a page before the dogs started howling all over again.

  In November, Jodi tried to kill herself. Elly was the only other person in the house. It was reading week, so Sam had gone to visit with his family. Elly had expected an invitation. She had hoped for one, but it hadn’t come. Julia and Sara had gone off together on a driving trip with some mutual friends. Even Jim was away, gone who knows where.

  It was a Saturday night and Elly had been working on an essay. She’d been holed up in her bedroom reading articles with titles such as, “Irrational Exuberance: Neoliberal subjectivity and the perversion of truth.” It was late and she was close to giving up.

  Earlier, she’d been out for a walk. Coming home she had found a note on the bathroom door. Sleeping in the bath tonight, it had read. No phone calls please. Now, lying in bed with the lights out, Elly started thinking about that note. Lately she had noticed that Jodi wasn’t well. Elly hardly ever saw her, but she heard her through the walls. She had often heard her arguing with someone on the phone. She had heard her coming and going, all day, all night. Jodi hardly ever seemed to sleep. Elly heard that she had lost her job, but she didn’t know which one. Also, bottles of prescription pills had appeared above the bathroom sink. Elly read the labels but didn’t recognize the names. Was Jodi still in the bath? Elly thought. What if she had fallen asleep? She might drown.

  Something about the situation, something about that note on the door, something about the general silence of the house drove Elly out of bed. She reluctantly exited her room and stood out in the hallway. She approached the bathroom door and took a breath. She prepared to knock.

  Suddenly the doorknob turned. To avoid an awkward run-in, Elly quickly bounded into the kitchenette. She stood there on the edge of darkness and watched as the door to the bathroom came open and then humid light seeped into the hall. Jodi stepped forward. She was naked. She stood within the doorway, her arm against the wall.

  Elly wanted to apologize. She wanted to make her presence known, but something wasn’t right. Jodi tried to walk, but she was leaning heavily against the wall. Her buttocks shook in a clumsy way, as if the muscle of her thighs wouldn’t engage.

  Jodi made it to her bedroom door. She opened the door, and then collapsed onto the carpet. Elly pulled out her phone and dialled 911. While talking to the operator, she returned to watch as Jodi dragged herself across the floor towards her bed. Having noticed now that Elly was standing in the doorway, Jodi tried to pull a blanket over her body.

  Jodi lit a cigarette, lying in bed. I think I’m going to need to see a doctor, she said, waving her arm in the air.

  She had an awkward gash that ran several inches down the length of her forearm. It looked fake, Crayola-coloured, Elly thought.

  Back in the bathroom, a wineglass had been shattered by the tub. There was an open bottle of cherry-flavoured vodka in the sink and bottles of Jodi’s pills were scattered. The water in the bathtub was a rosy pink. Elly, still on the phone with a dispatch worker, was supposed to be describing the scene, but found herself distracted by the smell. The room smelled of both a body and the earth. Like excrement and sex, vomit, sweat and morning breath rolled into one.

  Jodi was stuffing the butt of a cigarette into an overflowing ashtray by her bed. She was lighting another one when Elly returned.

  What do you think of it? Jodi asked.

  Elly shook her head. It doesn’t matter what I think. The ambulance is coming.

  Oh, come on, Jodi persisted. Her words were slurred. Her tongue was thick.

  Listen, you’re going to the hospital. You’re probably going to be there for a number of days. Do you want me to pack you anything?

  Looking almost disappointed, Jodi pointed at a knapsack on the floor. First, she said, my blue robe.

  Your blue rope?

  My robe. Jodi pointed again.

  Elly packed a pair of slippers and some books. Jodi wanted her to pack a carton of cigarettes, indicating with a wave that Elly should look around the table in the middle of the room. There were at least a dozen packs, some fallen to the floor, but each was empty.

  All gone? Jodi asked. What a shame.

  Elly moved around the room, packing anything she thought might be useful. Whenever Jodi was quiet too long, Elly said something to try to keep her talking. Just a moment ago, the dispatch worker had insisted that Jodi not be allowed to sleep, but Jodi was talking less and less. She seemed to be growing tired, slipping off. Jodi hummed to get her attention, and Elly saw that she’d extended her arm. The ash on her cigarette was ready to fall, but she didn’t have the strength to reach the ashtray.

  Paramedics arrived, and then the police. Franny and Zooey started barking as so many bodies made their way into the room. Elly dragged the dogs, still in their kennels, out of the room and into her own bedroom. She set their cages face to face so that each dog would have something to look at. Next, Elly talked to an officer who questioned her at length about what had happened, what she had seen, about Jodi, and then more generally about the house. This basement, was it a detached suite? But it had a separate entrance though, correct? And how many others were living upstairs? And where was everybody tonight?

  How long have you known Miss Dunn? the officer asked. And do you know why she would do this to herself?

  Elly didn’t know. There had been indications of a vague distress and Elly’d been a witness to its development, but this was just the nature of living with strangers. Your life becomes theirs, and theirs yours in a way, but there is no real understanding.

  As the paramedics led Jodi out of her room, one on either side of her holding her up, her feet hardly touched the floor. Elly sat on the stairs. She thought Jodi looked like an old woman, one who had just tried something daring and impossible. She looked frail, but wild with her orange hair. Then Jodi looked up, and the impression faded.

  Seeing Elly, Jodi smiled widely. You’ll come visit me in the hospital, right?

  The next day, Elly woke up alone. It was grey, and maybe ten in the morning. For a while after getting out of bed, she stood looking out of her bedroom window. Outside there was a mist so heavy, so thick, it collected on the trees and fell like rain.

  She thought of Jodi. She also thought of Tom. She thought of Sam while standing there, looking on the world outside. Now, with only her fingertips, she reached one more time to touch the glass. Before pushing, she tried to believe that this time the window would swing open wide.

  You’re Getting Older

  Marcelo had spent the evening drinking with friends. Now it was after midnigh
t and he was biking home to be with his girlfriend. He was biking without wearing his mittens, even though the cold bit into his hands. He had been smoking and he wanted to air the smell of cigarettes from his fingers, and for the same reason, he was breathing deeply with his mouth open wide in order to freshen his breath. Like many, his girlfriend Larissa didn’t much like the smell of cigarettes and beer in her bed.

  Marcelo wasn’t in any hurry, so was biking slowly, weaving down the middle of the street. He stopped when he heard a lady call out to him. Oh, young man! Can you help me, please?

  The lady was standing on the sidewalk and emerged from the shadow of a tree. She came into the street taking the small, hurried steps of someone aged and full of worry.

  I can help you, said Marcelo. What do you need?

  You have to come with me, said the lady.

  Marcelo turned his bike around and followed her past several houses up the street. The lady had a dishevelled look, and the exaggerated pleading in her voice had made him wary. Marcelo congratulated himself on his ability to maintain a degree of skepticism, despite his otherwise natural desire to be of help. Also, it felt good to have affected a certain level-headedness when in truth he was really somewhat drunk.

  There’s an old woman on the floor, the lady said.

  Marcelo followed the lady to her building and carried his bike up the few stairs to her landing. Her apartment was just off the street. The lady opened the door, but bent over in the doorway in order to arrange things on the floor. Marcelo could hear groaning coming from within and he wanted to get inside, but the lady was squarely in the way. He heard a clinking of empty bottles as she moved some plastic grocery bags. The lady tried to arrange these decently, along with an unsorted pile of shoes. Marcelo didn’t care about the decency of the lady’s entryway, though. He felt like telling her that she was wasting time, to stop cleaning the place on his account.

  Finally, the lady turned and let him in. She led him through the living room, down the hall, and then stopped at a bedroom door. The door was open and Marcelo could see the two bare legs of a woman on the floor. He extended himself into the room and saw that this old woman must have fallen from her bed. She was lying on her back, wearing a nightgown that had fallen open to expose her yellowed underwear. The woman was groaning, making a continuous, guttural noise. Marcelo stood above her, but the woman’s eyes remained fixed. She was looking up at the ceiling, but her eyes were focused impossibly far away.

  There were twin beds in the room, each with a matching floral comforter. The woman had fallen off the far side of one bed, so she lay in the narrow space between the bed frame and the wall.

  She does this all the time, said the lady, as if to lay the blame for this whole incident on the woman, who must have been some kind of roommate to her. Even as she said it though, the lady exhibited a kind of nervous helplessness.

  Marcelo thought the woman must have had a kind of stroke. Did you call an ambulance? he asked. Have you got a phone somewhere?

  Together, they moved into the living room. There was a chair beneath the window, and a table. On the table was an old rotary phone. On every other surface and in every corner of the room were piles of clutter—books, garments, paper cups, knick-knacks and old magazines.

  To the 911 operator, Marcelo heard the lady saying, She’ll be eighty-two next spring. Oh goodness, I don’t know, I really don’t know…

  Back in the bedroom the old woman was grabbing at the side of the bed, feebly trying to lift herself. Marcelo kneeled beside her. She was able to get her shoulders off the floor, to lift them just a couple inches, but her head hung back and her eyes stayed fixed as if looking up into the sky. Marcelo touched her forearm. The woman recoiled and the groaning stopped.

  She looked at him and hissed, Your hands are like ice. Then just as suddenly, the groaning started up again.

  Marcelo apologized. He made a big show of rubbing his hands together. He urged her to remain on the floor until the paramedics came. He put a pillow under her head.

  Is there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable? he asked. He spoke a half-octave higher than normal, in the servile manner of a person waiting tables.

  You could put me in that chair, the woman instructed.

  She’s stubborn, said the lady who, having returned from her phone call, was now standing again at the bedroom door. She has no patience and she can’t accept directives.

  Marcelo offered to cover the woman with a blanket. It would be good for her, he figured, but also he wanted to put some barrier between himself and the intimacy of her body.

  Put me in that chair, the woman insisted.

  Again, she was trying to pull herself up from the floor. It seemed the only way for Marcelo and the lady to try to calm her, so against all better judgement, they prepared to lift her into the chair. First they stood in front of her and pulling on her arms, tried to position her onto her feet, but the woman had no strength in her legs. Her body was flabby and loose like an under-inflated water balloon, and was impossible to grip. They tried again, but this time Marcelo went around and kneeled behind her. He sat her up and she leaned into him and in this way, he was able to lift her in stages.

  But when the crucial moment came to slip the woman into the chair, Marcelo felt her falling from his arms. He knew in an instant that the only way to hold her would be to reach below and take her by the back of her thighs. He saw that her legs were doughy and pale. He hesitated, but she continued to slip. He knew he had to act. Reaching as close to her knees as was possible, he managed to secure her and thus get her into the chair. As soon as that was done, the old lady started edging him out.

  Oh, thank you, she said. Thank you, thank you so much. She waved her arms up dramatically and pressed him to leave the room. In the hallway, she handed him a five-dollar bill. I know it isn’t much, the lady said.

  Marcelo tried to decline the money, but the lady insisted he take it. She went to tuck it into his pocket, but Marcelo dodged her. Finally, she stuffed it into the collar of his jacket. He could feel the paper rub against his neck.

  Are you sure you don’t want me to stay a little longer? Marcelo offered.

  Oh, no. You’ve been so kind, but no.

  The lady ushered him out through the living room. Marcelo took the fiver from his collar and pressed it into some clutter on a mantle as he passed.

  What was that? the lady snapped. What did you do? She looked at the mantle, and when she saw the bill, she grabbed it and lurched at him. You have to take this, she said, almost pleading, and stuffed it one more time into the collar of his jacket.

  Before she closed the door, Marcelo offered again to stay, at least until the ambulance arrived.

  She does this all the time, the lady said. In fact, I’m going to cancel that call. There’s no need anymore for them to come, don’t you think? Oh, if you could only imagine all the trouble, all the bother, everything I have to— The lady had worked herself into a kind of excited fit.

  You should try to calm down. You shouldn’t cancel the call.

  She’ll be fine.

  But what if she isn’t? he said, then regretted it immediately.

  The lady’s face hardened. She closed the door and secured the bolt.

  Marcelo stood on the landing with his bike. For a moment he considered putting the five-dollar bill into the mailbox, or sticking it between the weather stripping and the door, but he didn’t see any mailbox or any obvious place to leave it, so he stuck the thing into his pocket.

  While biking the rest of the way home, Marcelo wondered about several things. It bothered him that the woman had been so set on getting up and into the chair when it was so clearly in her best interest to remain on the floor. It bothered him, yet he thought he could understand her willfulness. What he could not understand was why the old lady had wasted time to tidy up her entryway before she’d let him into the apartment. And why hadn’t she wanted him to stay a little longer, in case things with the woman got worse?
Why had he been in that apartment at all? Only to lift a woman into a chair? What kind of a deed was that? Had the situation really been much improved? Those damned women, Marcelo thought. They didn’t want to see any improvement. They just wanted to maintain their status quo. And if the one was going to die, the other would let it happen, simply trying maintain things as they’d always been. Marcelo decided that in the end, it’s up to people how they want to live and die. And after he decided that, he quit thinking about it.

  At home, he said to Larissa, Something really strange just happened.

  Was there a man downstairs? Did he try to get in? Apparently, Larissa had her own strange story to tell. Some guy, she explained, called my phone and wanted me to let him into the building. I told him I wasn’t comfortable with that, that maybe he should call the landlady.

  ‘Call the landlady?’ the guy said. ‘It’s after midnight!’

  He told me that my number was like a contact number for the building, but obviously that isn’t right. I think maybe he was at the wrong building? Because he kept saying, ‘Unit 45.’ I told him there were only three apartments here, and that we were new tenants. He said, ‘Tenants?’ Anyway, I couldn’t understand him. He couldn’t understand me. But for a long time he just wouldn’t let me off the phone.

  Marcelo took off all his clothes and put them into the laundry basket. He took a shower to forget the woman’s smell. Afterward, he and Larissa sat on the bed and talked for several hours. Larissa had spent the night looking into a master’s program on the other side of the country. She wasn’t sure what to do about it, whether or not she wanted to apply. She and Marcelo had only recently moved here, and had barely settled in. Neither of them had lined up any work yet and already their savings were dwindling.

  Before turning out the light, Larissa sighed, What are we going to do with our lives?