Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl (9 page)

I never meant to kill anybody. I truly believe that taking some old person’s money isn’t the most horrible thing in the world, especially if they’ve got a lot of it. I mean, they probably won’t live long enough to use it all anyway, so why let it go to waste? But killing somebody, even if they are old, that’s horrible. And I know I cut Mass all the time, sitting in the stairwell of my building eating apple Now and Laters and flipping through
Right On!
magazines I buy with my offering money, but I’m pretty up on all ten commandments. Between Sunday school and religion class at Bishop Marshall and that ninety-two-hour-long movie with Charlton Heston that comes on ABC every Easter, I’m all too familiar with “Thou shalt not kill.” I’m familiar with “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor,” “Honor thy father and thy mother,” and “Keep the Sabbath day holy,” but to be honest, most of the commandments aren’t really that serious. I mean, if you lie or if you party on Sunday or if you call your mother something under your breath ’cause she has horrible mood swings and she deserves it, I don’t see what’s so wrong with that. That’s not going to change the world that much. If you break the other commandments, there’s a good possibility that nobody but you and God will know about it and no harm will be done. But “Thou shalt not kill,” that’s the biggie. You can’t make that one better. You can’t undo it. You can’t say sorry and make it go away. That’s it. Somebody’s
life might be over, and I’m going to have to live with that forever. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at another old person again.

The closer I get to her, the more dead she looks. She has all these little wrinkles around her lips, like she was sucking on a lemon or something. And her skin is really white, but I can’t tell if she’s looking waxy. Who knows—maybe only black people look waxy when they die. Maybe white people look chalky. So I get closer to her and I just stand there for a second. There’s a broken glass near her face. I don’t remember that. Broken plates. A broken cookie jar. But Caroline never threw any glasses. And the door to the fridge is open a little bit. I don’t remember that from before either. And there are two puddles of liquid. One above her head—that one looks pretty clear. But there’s one around her legs, and it smells really strong. I’m thinking, Dead people don’t pee. But maybe this all happened while she was still alive. Maybe if I had come in to check on her before, I might have been able to anonymously call the ambulance and they would have been able to help her. I can’t tell if her heart’s still beating or anything, ’cause she’s not moving, and she’s kind of wrapped up in her green coat.

I don’t really want to touch her, but I tell myself the quicker I do this, the quicker I’ll be able to maybe wipe down all the stuff we’ve touched—you know, get rid of the fingerprints and all—and the quicker I’ll be able to leave this place and try to forget what happened. I kneel down without looking at her, and I put the side of my face close to
her nose. I don’t feel anything. No air. No breath. Nothing. I’m getting really freaked out. So I stand, turn around, and start moving away. That’s when I hear this weird strangled gasp. I turn back to find myself looking down into her pale green eyes.

I thought nothing
could freak me out worse than the movie
The Exorcist
, but looking into the face of the old lady’s ghost has got that beat, hands down. And now I’m petrified it might try to strangle me or get inside me and possess me all Linda Blair–like.

I try to back up, only I trip over my own two terrified feet and stumble to the ground. I can’t seem to handle walking, so I start on this backward crawl toward the door. But I’m still facing the old lady’s ghost and the old lady’s ghost eyes, which look as if they have a film over them, like somebody pulled a not-so-clear Saran Wrap window shade down across them.

I’m still on my hands and knees when I get to the old lady’s front door, but I manage to figure out how to get my legs to straighten up. I pull on the knob, but it doesn’t open. Then I remember I locked it behind me. So I try to unlock it, all while trying to stop my hands from shaking like leaves. I finally manage to pull the door open when I hear
this hoarse voice say, “P-please.” And now I’m shaking even more because maybe it’s not the old lady’s ghost. Maybe she’s really alive. And suddenly, I’m not so sure which is worse. If I leave, she won’t be able to tell on me and I’ll be able to get away. Maybe no one will find her and I won’t get in trouble. But if I leave and no one comes to find her, she might really die. But then again, I thought she was dead before, so would it be so wrong to just keep on acting as if she were? I really don’t know what to do. Maybe God is trying to test me. But I’m not quite sure how this divine forgiveness works. I probably shouldn’t have played hooky from Mass so much.

“Please,” she says again. And I turn around a little, but I don’t walk back to the kitchen.

“Help me.”

She’s lying there so helpless, and then I realize something. Maybe she doesn’t even remember me. I mean, old people are always confusing stuff. My grandfather used to mix up all his grandkids, even the boys and girls. He’d call me Andre sometimes and call my cousin Andre Lisa. So who knows.

“Please, help me. Help me get up,” she says as I inch toward her. “My back …”

Once I reach her, I bend and put her right arm around my neck and try to pull her up, but I guess old people weigh more than they look like they do. She’s no bigger than a Smurf, but I can hardly even budge her. I have to put one leg on either side of her and lean against a chair, which pushes against the table. And my right foot is in that puddle of pee,
but there’s not really much of anything I can do about that. The table slides all the way over to the china cabinet in the corner of the room before it stops, and I’m finally able to get some leverage and pull her up a bit.

“The bedroom,” she says. And it takes like forever for me to help her to her room. I’m breathing so hard and sweating. I mean, the apartment is really warm. I don’t think the radiator has stopped sizzling since I’ve been here, and my coat is still zipped up over my uniform pants, vest, and blazer. Then there’s my knit cap and scarf.

The bedroom is a wreck, with the mattress halfway off the box spring, the fancy red velvety bedspread and sheets on one side of the room, and the drawers from the long, wide dresser piled on the floor with all their stuff scattered about. I guess I didn’t realize how much of a mess we’d made.

I have to rest the old lady in an armchair near the dresser and readjust the mattress on the box spring, then put the sheets back on the bed. Once that’s done, I’m really sweating buckets, but I don’t want this woman catching a glimpse of my uniform or the Bishop Marshall crest, which is stitched into the left breast pocket of my blazer. I’ve watched enough of those cop shows to know that you should never reveal any identifying symbols. I go back over to the old lady and pull her coat off. Then I put her arm back around my neck and hoist with all my might since she’s not really able to help any. I drag her over to the bed, which we both fall onto. I’m practically lying on top of her, but I’m breathing so hard and I’m so spent, I can’t really move. And so we lie there for
I don’t know how long. This is about as awkward a moment as I’ve ever had, but there’s nothing I can do about it. And I can hear her breath coming in harsh, interrupted spurts.

“Some water, please,” she says, her puckered lips all white and peeling. I run to the kitchen and take a glass from the china cabinet, but I have to be careful of all the broken glass and stuff on the floor. The water from the faucet gushes brown when I first turn it on, so I let it run a little while before filling up the glass. When I get back to the bedroom, I have to take the pillows off the floor to help prop her up a little. She makes these slurping noises as she drinks, and she holds the glass as if it’s the most precious jewel ever. I just stand there with my hands in my coat pockets, listening to the slurping. I’m trying to figure out how to make my exit.

“Maybe I can call a doctor for you,” I say. “Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

She just shakes her head. “I don’t much like hospitals,” she says.

“But maybe you’re really hurt.” I’m feeling a little better now because she doesn’t seem to remember me.

“No hospital,” she says again. “I’ve lived a lifetime. If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it in my own bed, in my own home.” She finishes the water, so I walk over to take the glass from her and rest it on her nightstand.

“Look at me,” she says. “Bathed in my own urine. What a life.” And I look away because I know she wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for me.

“In that dresser there,” she continues. Only, she doesn’t point or anything. Just looks toward it. I guess she notices
that the drawers are all on the floor. She adjusts her eyes downward.

“I have some sleepwear.…”

I walk over and skim the piles of stuff on the floor. I pick up this ruffly flannel nightie, then walk over to the bed, put it down, and back away. She picks it up and tries to raise herself off the pillows, but for all the breathing and grunting going on, she doesn’t get very far.

“I don’t know if I can do this by myself,” she says. I don’t know what she expects me to do. “If you can just help me get this sweater off.”

Okay, I can do that. I unclasp her colorful flower brooch, careful not to poke her accidentally in the neck with the pin part as I pull it away from the sweater. Then I tell her to raise her arms, and I just yank the sweater up. Only, from all the groaning and moaning she’s doing, I’m not so sure I’m not breaking one of her arms.

“You okay?” I ask. She nods. I figure my job is done, so I start backing up.

“I’m going to need a little more help,” she says.

I glance at the white button-down shirt she has tucked into her gray slacks, wondering exactly what form of help she’s looking to get from me.

“The shirt,” she says.

So I walk back and start unbuttoning it. And as soon as I get it open, I see all this wrinkled chicken-looking skin dotted with spots. And there’s this mole just below her collarbone, and it’s got like three long white hairs growing out of it. Good Lord! I just shake my head, suck in a breath, and
lean her to the right side so I can pull her arm out of the left sleeve. Then I lean her to the left side and do the same with her right sleeve. Even though she’s skinny, the skin on her arms is all saggy and loose, like it’s not really attached to the bone. And she’s wearing this beige bra, but I’m not sure what purpose it serves, ’cause I’m standing there looking at these two really old, deflated balloons. Suddenly, I don’t feel so bad anymore about not having any breasts at all, because when I get older, there’ll be nothing to sag.

I fold the shirt in two and lay it at the foot of the bed.

“And now for the trousers,” she says. I guess I shift my eyes a little, ’cause she then says, “I’m not proud to have to ask for help taking off my own clothes. I’m not proud to have a young girl looking at this body, but what choice do I have?”

Honestly, I don’t want to have to help this little old woman get naked. I’d rather scoop my own eyeballs out with a rusty spoon. I try to think about things logically. If I help her, then I will have gone above and beyond anything that could be expected of me, and all my recent bad luck will be reversed. So I just count to ten really fast, take a big breath, and go back over to the bed. I’m trying to figure out the fastest way to do this. I take off her boots. Then I have to roll her over some so I can get to the zipper at the back of her pants. Then I slide it down and have to hold my breath for a second, on account of the smell of old pee. This is getting worse by the minute.

I get her pants all the way down her legs and pull from around her ankles. And I thought her arms were
rubbery-looking. She’s wearing these big nylon panties, but I can see her hipbones poking out from her sides. They look awfully sharp, like if I was to accidentally rub my hands across them, my palms would be sliced to pieces. She takes the ruffled nightie and slowly gets it over her head, then her arms. I help pull it down over her chest and her hips. But then she starts tugging at those oversized nylon panties.

“Can you help me with—”

“Nope, can’t help you with that.” I cut her off before she can finish getting the sentence out. She was about to utter words my ears don’t need to hear.

“Okay,” she says quietly, then starts panting and breathing hard as she struggles to get the pee-stained panties off. Good baby Jesus! I’m realizing that it’s probably more uncomfortable to watch her than to just go over and help, so I turn my back, lift her nightgown, and without really looking, I pull the panties down her legs and drop them on the floor. She just lies there, breathing a little easier.

“Thank you,” she says. I nod, and then there’s silence. She’s breathing more regular-sounding now, so I’m thinking I should probably make my move. Only thing is, I can’t seem to figure out what to say to excuse myself. And the silence goes on and on.

“I’ll get you some food,” I finally blurt out as I run out of the room. I turn down the hall toward the front door, where her groceries are scattered. After picking them up, I head back to the kitchen. I really don’t know what to give this woman to eat, so I gather a little of everything: some bread, a jar of jam, a couple of pears, a box of wheat germ, and a
jug of water. But as I reach for a tray, I catch my reflection in the china cabinet. I forgot for a moment that Mama sheared me like a sheep. Even my maroon knit hat can’t hide my complete lack of hair. I force my eyes away from that cruel image and head back toward the old lady’s room, where I lay the tray of food on the nightstand closest to her side of the bed.