The Marriage of Sticks Part 22

12. Stories Written in the Snow.

The doorbell rang. The old woman looked up quickly from the notebook and frowned. She did not want to be interrupted, especially not now when she was so very close to finishing. What an amazing notion-soon she would be done.

No one ever rang her doorbell anyway, that was a given. Once in a great while someone wearing a brown United Parcel Service uniform brought her a package from Lands' End or another of the mail-order companies that supplied her with st.u.r.dy practical clothes made out of warm materials like Polartec or goose down. She needed all the warmth she could get because her body felt cold almost constantly now, despite the fact that she was living in the desert heat of Los Angeles. Sometimes at night she even wore a pair of electric blue Polartec gloves while watching television. If someone had seen her they would have thought she was crazy, but she was only cold. More than wisdom, irony, grace, or peace, old age had brought cold, and she was never really able to escape it.

Pausing a moment, she remembered she had ordered nothing, so whoever was at her door now could only be mistaken or a nuisance. Would you like to subscribe to this magazine? Would you like to believe in my G.o.d? Would you happen to have a dollar for a guy down on his luck?

The bell rang again-so loud and annoying ding-dong ding-dong! There was no way to avoid it. Grimacing, she put down Hugh's fountain pen and reached for the cane leaning against her desk.

She was fat now. Recently she had even begun calling herself that, although she'd known it for a long time. She was an old woman who had grown much too fat. She liked to sit. After Zoe died she had stopped going to exercise cla.s.s. She liked cookies. Hugh once said, "Eating is s.e.x for old people." Now it was true for her.

Her knees were weak. And her hips and G.o.d knows what else. It was an effort getting up or sitting down. When you were as old as she was, everything was an effort, and when you weighed twenty-five pounds too much you did a lot more with a groan than ever before. The year she died, Zoe had given Miranda the cane for Christmas. It was a very nice one too-made of oak and slightly crooked, so that it had a kind of jaunty character. It reminded her of something an Irishman would use. Ireland. Hugh always said he was going to take her to Ireland- The doorbell rang again. d.a.m.n! She was sure she was almost finished writing her story, but now this interruption would disturb her train of thought. She didn't know if she'd be able to get back into it later. Writing demanded her full attention. More and more, her memory played hide-and-seek with her. She felt compelled to get everything down on paper as soon as she could before something inevitable and dreadful like a stroke or Alzheimer's disease roared into her brain and like a vacuum cleaner sucked it empty.

Leaning hard on the cane with one hand and pushing down on the desk with the other, she raised herself out of the chair. After a few small, unsteady, dangerous steps, she moved slowly across the shadowy room.

The room never got full sunlight. She liked it that way. She kept two lamps burning in there almost all the time. At night when she was exhausted and going to bed she would walk out and leave them on on purpose. She liked thinking her workroom was always lit. As if some kind of bright spirit was in there guarding the important things like the diary and her thoughts. Yes, she felt she left her most important thoughts in that room because it was where she did all of her diary writing. How silly. The silly thoughts of a silly old woman.

That's what she was thinking as she gradually made her way across the house to the front door. Who could it be? Why did they have to come calling now? What time was it anyway? She stopped walking and looked at her watch. It was an enormous thing, the watch with the largest face in the store-bought so that she could read the time without having to put on her gla.s.ses.

"Wow!" It was five in the afternoon. She had been writing for hours. That was good news because it meant she was inspired, anxious to know how she would end her account. That end was so near now. She felt she could reach out and touch it. When she was done, Alzheimer's or heart attack or whatever horror could take over and she wouldn't care. Really, she wouldn't care.

She peeked through the window in the front door but saw no one. If this was a prank by a neighborhood kid-ring the bell and run-she would be annoyed. But better that, because then she could go right back to work. Or maybe she would make one quick detour into the kitchen to see-the bell rang again. How could it? She had just looked and no one was there. A short circuit? Whoever heard of a doorbell short-circuiting?

Maybe someone was trying to trick her into opening the door. These were dangerous times. Terrible things happened to old women living alone. They were such easy prey. Watch the news any night and it was easy to be frightened. She had many locks on her door, but so what? Life had certainly taught her harm comes in any door it wants and doesn't need a key. Yes, she grew quickly worried, but again it was only because she hadn't finished her diary. Her prayer, if she had been a religious woman, would have been, "Please let me finish. Give me the strength and the time to finish. The rest is yours."

Uneasily, she peeked again through the window in the door and saw something odd. The first time she had looked only straight ahead. Now she moved from side to side and saw that the steps leading to her front door were covered with cookies.

"Waa-" bewildered she pressed up closer for a better view. Cookies. That's right. From the sidewalk across the small but perfectly kept front yard to the door were sixteen octagonal paving stones. She had liked those stones the moment she first saw them. They reminded her of an English country cottage or a magical path in a fairy tale. Zoe had liked them too, and when it was necessary to dig up the entire yard years ago to repair the septic tank, both women insisted the workers replace the stones exactly where they'd been.

Now cookies covered each one. Well, not exactly covered. With her bad eyes, she could clearly see five of the stones leading to the house. On each stone were four? Yes, four cookies, big ones, like the kind Mrs. Fields and Dave's sold in their stores. Miranda loved them. Chocolate chips. With dark or light chocolate chunks, macadamia nuts... it didn't matter. She loved big chocolate chip cookies and here they were on her front walk!

An unfamiliar dalmatian loped onto her lawn in a hurry to get somewhere. But he must have caught their scent because, slamming on his brakes, he started gobbling. Dogs don't eat when they're excited, they inhale, and this guy was no exception. He ate so fast, jumping from stone to stone, that Miranda began to giggle. She didn't know who'd put them there but she doubted they meant the cookies for this fellow.

"Follow the yellow brick cookie. They're your favorites, right?"

She froze. The voice came from directly behind her. She didn't know this voice, but it was a man's and it was definitely right behind her, near her.

"Don't you recognize him? It's Bob the dalmatian. Hugh and Charlotte's dog. Say hi to Bob."

He spoke calmly, his voice quiet but amused. She had to turn around because there was nothing else she could do.

Shumda stood five feet away wearing a gray sweatshirt with "Skidmore" printed across the front, jeans, and elaborate blue running shoes. He had not aged at all from the last time she had seen him, decades ago.

"I had a whole little scene planned out with a follow-the-yellow-brick motif but it didn't include old Bob. Cause I know you loves dem cookies."

What could she say? It was all over. The time had come for her to die. Why else would Shumda have come? How many years had it been? How many thousands of days had pa.s.sed since she last saw this handsome bad man on the porch of the house in Crane's View, New York?

"What do you want?"

He touched both hands to his chest and put on a wounded expression. "Me? I don't want anything. I'm here on a.s.signment. I've been given orders."

"You've come for me?"

"Voil. Es muss sein."

"Where... What are you going to do?"

"I've come to take you for a ride in my new car. It's a Dodge! I asked for a Mercedes but they gave me a Dodge."

She hated his voice. It was a nice one, deep and low, but the tone was mocking and arrogant. He spoke to her as if she were a stupid child who knew nothing.

"You don't have to address me like that. I'll do what you say." It came out hard, steely.

He didn't like that. His eyes widened and lips tightened. Something between them had shifted and he hadn't been prepared for that. He'd probably expected her to whine or beg, but that wasn't her way. His unsure expression changed to a leer and suddenly he was back in charge. "I told you I was coming, Miranda. A long time ago. Don't you remember that dog you liked that was set on fire?"

"That was you?"

"Yes. I thought for sure you'd know that it was I with that one. What bigger hint did you need? Don't you remember that Frances saved me by burning a dog?"

"You killed a dog just to tell me you were coming?"

"It was dramatic but obviously not very effective. Anyway, we have to go now. You won't need to take anything. We're not going far."

The fear came. It rushed up through her like water and she immediately began to tremble. She hated herself for it. Despite the staggering fear, she hated herself for letting this appalling man see her shake. She started a deep breath that stopped halfway down her throat because she was so afraid. Still she managed to say "May I take something with me?"

"You want to pack?"

"No, I want to take one thing with me. It's in the other room."

He looked at her a long tormenting moment, then smirked. "Do I get three guesses? Is it bigger than a breadbox? Go on, but hurry up."

Somehow she mustered her meager energy and shuffled toward the back of the house. Thank G.o.d she had the cane, because her body now felt like stone. It did not want to move; it did not know how to walk anymore. But she moved. She walked slowly and unsteadily down the hall to her workroom.

She went in and for several seconds stared at the desk and on it the open diary. She would never finish. She would never be able to complete it and put it away in a safe place where one day they would find it and know the whole story. Never. All over. Finished.

"All right. It's okay. Just walk away." She said it out loud as she walked over to a dresser pushed up against a wall. She slid the top drawer out and reached in for the piece of wood. The silver piece of wood Hugh had given her the last time she saw him. She had since collected other pieces over her long life, but they would have to stay here. She didn't know what she would do with it wherever she was going but she needed to have it with her. Closing her fingers over it, she left the room.

Shumda was waiting by the front door. When he saw her he opened it. Bending forward at the waist, he gestured with an exaggerated sweep of his arm for her to go first. She shuffled forward, leaning hard on her cane. She was so scared. Her knees ached. Where were they going? She heard him close the door. Gently taking her arm, he helped her down the one step to the front yard. The dog was gone and so were the cookies. A few minutes ago it was all strange and funny-chocolate chip cookies on her footpath-but now funny was gone. Soon everything would be gone.

They walked to the street, where he told her to wait. He strode away and around the corner. She looked at the sky. An airplane had left a thin white contrail across the blue. A car peeled out somewhere, its long screech filling her ears. Then it was silent, and soon some birds began singing.

A shiny green van drove up and stopped in front of her. Shumda was at the wheel wearing a San Diego Padres baseball cap. He got out, opened the pa.s.senger's door, and helped her in. She had trouble getting into cars but rode in them so rarely now that it made no difference.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

"I don't want a surprise. Just tell me. At least give me that."

"Be quiet, Miranda. Sit back and enjoy the ride. You haven't been outside in a long time."

Folding her hands in her lap she looked out the window. When Shumda spoke again she ignored him, wouldn't even turn to look. As soon as he realized she wouldn't respond, he chattered on nonstop. Told her what he had been doing all these years, told her what she had been doing all these years ("They said to keep tabs on you"), told her everything she didn't want to hear. She looked out the window and tried with all her might to ignore him. If this was to be her last ride, she didn't want his voice nattering in her ear. A hamburger stand, a gas station. Why had it come so abruptly? Couldn't they have given her some warning? A day. If they had given her one more day she could have finished everything and been waiting at the door when he arrived. A yellow convertible driven by a beautiful brunette pa.s.sed them. Then a Volkswagen that looked as though it had been driven around the world six times. The driver was a man with a shaved head. His hands danced back and forth across the top of the steering wheel. A used book store. One day would have been enough. Today while she was working, her stomach had knotted up several times because she knew in her secret self that she would be finished soon, and then what would she do with her days? Why had Shumda been watching her for years? She was no threat. She had never been a threat. Besides, all that had been so long ago. Soon after it was over she'd started forgetting things and despite having written this diary, so many memories of that time were like Greek ruins to her by now.

She had never planned to reread her account, but riding along now she grew furious that she would never even have the choice. All that work, but now she could not go back to relive for a while certain experiences that she might already have forgotten. How much can an old brain hold before it begins to spring leaks from the weight of so many years?

Honey-cooked hams, discount sungla.s.ses, Mansfield Avenue, street signs all flew by the car window. He was driving faster now. Where were they going? She remembered Frances Hatch in her hospital room surrounded by flowers.

Maybe Shumda would drive her someplace but then drive her home again. A flutter, a hummingbird's heartbeat of hope raced through her but was gone just as quickly. It was over. Whatever he had waiting for her would be appropriate and terrible, she was sure. She remembered walking back into Frances's room and seeing her crying.

He turned left on La Brea and accelerated. Evening was beginning. The sky was still bright but when they walked to the car from her house the air had been cool and still, already starting to settle for the night. Down La Brea past the cheap furniture stores, cheap drugstores, cheap fast-food places. More people stood out on the sidewalks here waiting for buses, waiting for friends, waiting for some kind of luck or change that would never come.

Miranda had been lucky and she knew it. She had traveled, she'd had an interesting job and been her own boss. She'd made money. For a short time she knew and was loved by a remarkable man. Hugh. If this was the end, she wanted to spend it thinking about Hugh Oakley. As if he knew what she was trying to do, Shumda interrupted her.

"Why did you do it?"

"Why did I do what?" Her voice came out cranky-she wasn't interested in answering his questions, especially not now when there was so little time left.

He lifted a hand off the wheel and let it fall back again.

"You're not alone, you know. There were others who did what you did. But I'm just interested, you know? What would possess anyone to voluntarily give up the life you had for this one?" His hand rose again off the wheel and batted the air as if flicking away a fly. "And you didn't even know who you were giving it to! That's incredible. You handed over your immortality to a stranger. Someone you never even met!"

Coming to a red traffic light they slowed to a stop. He glanced at her and made a face. She ignored him and looked straight ahead. The light changed but instead of accelerating, Shumda continued watching her.

Eventually she said, more to herself than to him, "I never really thought about it. The moment came and it had to be. That's all. Isn't that interesting? I was always fighting with myself-my head, my heart. Sometimes one won, sometimes the other. But with that there was no fight. There wasn't even a question." The old woman beamed. Her whole demeanor changed, as if whatever inner storms had been raging had now pa.s.sed and she was at peace. Shumda had never seen anyone in her position at peace, and he had seen his share. Oh yes, he had seen quite a few.

"Life is about to spit in your face, Miranda. I wouldn't be too smiley about that."

They were silent the rest of the ride. To her great satisfaction, out of the corner of her eye she observed that he kept looking at her to see if her expression would change-if the enormity of whatever terrible thing was about to happen to her had finally sunk in. Why hadn't the great final fear wrapped her in its arms as it always did with the people he had escorted to their destruction?

It took another ten minutes. He kept looking over but her pleased expression never changed. All right, so it didn't change. Wait till she got there. Wait till she saw what waited!

The road suddenly became hilly and there were oil wells all up and down those hills doing their slow work. The land was khaki-colored, sun-parched. It was a strange part of Los Angeles, neither here nor there, a kind of oddly empty no-man's land between downtown and the airport.

Signaling with his blinker, Shumda slowly merged into the right lane and then pulled off the road onto the shoulder. He cut the engine and sat there, savoring what came next. He grinned at her. "Remember this spot?"

Miranda looked around. "No."

"You will." He opened his door and got out of the van. It was all she could do not to watch him. He walked around to the back and opened the two rear doors. She heard him push and slide something metallic.

"Be with you in just a sec. Sit tight."

Slowly reaching up, she twisted the rearview mirror so she could look out the back. He was fooling around with something and it took her a moment to realize what it was. He did something and the thing went pop and suddenly unfolded into a wheelchair.

Cars zoomed by, some close, others far away, all of them loud and smooth, rushing and dangerous. And then of course it dawned on her.

So many years ago she was in one of these speeding cars on her way to Los Angeles airport. She had been in bed with Doug Auerbach that day and afterwards they went to a big drugstore together. Afterwards she rode to the airport in a taxicab and the driver, like Shumda now, wore a San Diego Padres baseball cap. She was so young then, so young and busy, and she hadn't met Hugh Oakley yet. She hadn't met Hugh Oakley and she hadn't seen dead James Stillman alive again. She was flying back to New York that night and only days later her entire life changed forever. So long ago. All of it so long ago, but now all of that day and what followed was crushing her and she couldn't stop the memories and the results, all of them crystal clear.

Shumda pushed the wheelchair around to her side of the car and stood there waiting.

When they drove to the airport that night so long ago, it was just about this time. She remembered the woman sitting in a wheelchair by the side of the road.

"Let's go, Miranda. Time to watch the traffic."

But there was no traffic. Unbelievably, all of the cars had disappeared from the road, every last one of them. A strange silence surrounded them, as if the sounds of the world had simply vanished.

"I can open the door and pull you out, or you can get out and make things easier for both of us."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. I'm going to put you in this chair and I'm going to leave. And you'll be alone. To tell you the truth, I have absolutely no idea what'll happen next. But I'm sure it won't be pleasant. It never is."

"Shumda, was it me? Was it me that night, here, in the wheelchair?"

"I don't know. I just do what I'm told. Let's go, get out."

To her great surprise, the only thought she had was, Do whatever is in front of you and do it fully. Commit yourself to the moment and if you are lucky- Her door was flung open. He took her roughly by the arm. "Don't touch me!" She pulled away from him and slowly heaved herself out of the van.

The road was empty. Up on a hill an oil well pumped, and now she could hear the roll and heave of the machine. A flock of sparrows fled across the sky cheeping loudly. Those were the only sounds-the machine and the sparrows. She made it over to the wheelchair and, taking hold of the two arms, lowered herself into it. The seat was much too narrow for her wide bottom. She tried to move into a more comfortable position but there wasn't one. She gave up trying and looked up into the evening sky again. What if that night years ago they had stopped to help the woman? Would it have changed anything? Had it been she that night? If they had stopped and she had seen the other woman, would she have recognized her?

Shumda pushed the chair closer to the road. "I'd love to stay and see what happens next to you, but I've got things to do." He looked at his wrist.w.a.tch. "Enjoy the silence. The cars will be back in a couple of minutes."

He looked at her and his face showed nothing. He turned to leave.

"Shumda!"

"What?"

"Did you love her? Did you ever love Frances?"

For a moment it appeared he was about to respond. Instead he turned around and went back the van. The door was open and he reached in for something. He pulled out a red book, her red book, the diary. When had he gotten it? When had he taken it? He pretended to skim through the pages. His face grew serious and he rubbed his chin. In a perfect imitation of the silly lisp of Daffy Duck he said, "Fath-sin-atin'!" and then in a pitying voice he asked, "Did you really think this would change anything?" He flung the book back into the car. He got in, the engine came to life, and he was gone. She watched the van climb a hill and disappear.

Everything seemed to be holding its breath. She looked up, but the birds were gone. When she looked toward the oil pump it had stopped moving. Silence. Gripping the arms of the chair, she shut her eyes. She remembered that Hugh's piece of wood was in her pocket, so she took it out. Everything that had ever mattered to her lived in that wood. She gripped it tightly in both hands. How smooth it was. Smooth and warm and the last thing she would ever hold. How would they do it? Would they come from behind, or from over the hill, or the other side of the road? What would it be?

She could have tried to get up and move away from there-but what was the use? If they wanted it to be tonight then it would happen tonight no matter where she was. And how far could she get on her old legs?

She thought of her diary and what she might have said to finish it. An intriguing question that might have comforted her, or taken her mind away from what was imminent. But then she heard it: the deep rumble of many cars coming her way that grew louder every second. It would be the cars. Something to do with these cars would be her end.

She wanted to close her eyes but knew she mustn't. A moment more and it would all be over. The rushing sound grew and then she saw them. She saw them coming and had never heard anything like it. An eruption of noise so impossibly loud that it filled the world. Wham thump wham wham thump! They slashed by her at astonishing speeds: trucks, cars, motorcycles. All of them beating her down into her chair with their power and threat until she felt there was no more air to breathe.

Close. They came closer by the second. Was this it? Was this the second? Or the next? The next? Whump! Wham! Whump! Whump! The draft off their speed slammed her face, pushed her body back into the chair. She started to hyperventilate. She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears and make the sounds go away. But how could she? How could anyone block out the end of the world? She tried to swallow but there was no liquid in her mouth.

Because there were so many, she didn't notice the blue car until it veered from its path and came right at her. Headlights straight on her face, it still didn't really register until it flew up to within feet of her-and stopped. There was a wild shush and scrabble of sand, gravel, and dirt flying into the air all around it. Cars on the road hammered by. But now there was this one, so close. Was this it? Time pa.s.sed-seconds? And then the door opened and first she heard a shrill ting-ting-ting of a bell inside telling the pa.s.senger something was wrong.

The overhead light came on and she saw the driver inside. A man. He was staring straight at her and did not move. But then he was getting out of the car, careful to look behind so he would not be hit by the slam of oncoming traffic. He pushed the door closed but not enough to stop the 'ting' inside.