The Only Novel Ever Written

EIGHT

I searched the flowerbox, hands raking through the dirt in the dark. My fingernails grazed over something solid and I picked it up, dusting off the soil. It was a fake sprinkler head. I twisted off the top, pulled out the key and unlocked the door.

My mother had fallen asleep on the couch, as if she'd been waiting for me to come by, but I hadn't told her I was coming. I hadn't planned to come. I'd just needed to get away from that house. The cellar. The room with all the words on the walls.

I found a blanket in the hallway cabinet, set myself up on the loveseat next to her and fell asleep with my feet hanging over the edge.

###

I woke before she did the next morning and tramped across the lawn to the workshop. My head was throbbing like with what felt like a crushing hangover. The paramedics had taken a look at the cut on my head, cleaned it out and covered it. I

I collected my father's tools and fixed the door before lunchtime. I tested it twice, ensuring that it latched shut.

My mother cried when she saw the gash on my head. I told her everything after that - everything about Strayer, the cellar, the draft he'd burned, and the man who attacked me, which I still couldn't explain. She listened with a careful understanding, never bothering to mask the look of shock that clouded her face. The only thing I didn't tell her was about Ralph. That was a bridge I'd have to cross alone.

###

Ralph's home would have been nice place to grow up. His mother was the type of woman who insisted on providing a drink and a bite to eat when she had someone over. She wore her sandals in the house and talked to her dog, a lazy blue great dane named Zeke. She was alone then, but only because her husband was away at work.

She had a way of holding herself together that made her seem as if at any minute she might fall apart. Her smile was overcompensation - a sad attempt to cover up the overwhelming pain she must have felt. She set down a tray of thick sliced salami and grilled tomato bruschetta.

"I used to be a cook," she said. "Still am, I suppose."

I nodded, and bit into the grilled bread. I wasn't hungry, but I wanted an excuse not to talk. "I'm sure you're not here to learn about my career history," she said. "On the phone you mentioned that you knew Ralph?"

She was delicate. Her question came with breathless anticipation. It was as if she believed that whatever I told her could bring some part of him back. I tried to calm myself. I was afraid. "I didn't want to dig this up," I told her.

"Well you must start somewhere," she said, growing impatient. There were boxes stacked in the hall. Dishes in the sink. Laundry overflowing from hampers. Things were getting away from her. Just like reality had gotten away from me. But she hadn't chosen it. This had happened to her.

"Take this," I said. I held out Ralph's messenger bag. She took it. She didn't know what to do with it. I watched her run her hands over the leather. "It was his," I said. "All of this."

Her bottom lip quivered. It was almost imperceptible. "Why?" she said. She squeezed the strap. "Why do you have it?"

The room spun.

"It was a gift," I managed. "L.V. - Ralph. He gave it to me. The day that it happened."

"You were there?"

"I - I tried to talk to him. To ask for help."

"Why didn't you bring this to us before? Why do you have it?" she demanded.

"He gave it to me. Before he..."

She stared at the bag, then at me. "He wouldn't do that," she said.