The Sleep Game
This
is wrong, stealing money from Aunt Maybelle. At month's end, no less, when
choices get made by the day, by what's needed most. Like last night, Mom
shuffled the pile of envelopes on the kitchen table. "Pay that," said
Mom and tossed it with ones that had big red-stamped words. "Not
that," as she put the envelope on the taller stack.
Here
at Aunt Maybelle’s, choices are different. "Child, bring me my pills,"
and I do. It's a long plastic holder—sort of like my pencil box—with snaps covering
divides, each decorated with letters like M, T, W. Auntie chooses not to take
all the pills under F. And this morning she saved the bowl of dry cereal Mom
and I brought her. She hasn't eaten yet.
Aunt
Maybelle keeps her money in a big, old purse. It’s in the cabinet under the
window. The purse is always there so I don’t have to peek, but I want to, just
to make sure.
Auntie
has a view of the park across the busy intersection; I can see the green grass
between the drug store and laundromat. I like looking out the window, watching
the sun come up, colors replacing gray. The place where Mom and I live is
always dark. Mom fetches me from Aunt Maybelle just when the sun gets dim and
by the time we're home the apartment is black. It’s the same color next morning
when I go to Aunt Maybelle's again.
There's
not a lot to do with Auntie except play cards. We only do it when she's not in
the bedroom. It's hard for us to play when she's in bed and she can only sit in
the dining room for a little while. "These hard chairs hurt my back,
Child." When she says that I know the card game is over. But Auntie's nice
about it, only quits when I'm ahead. And even though she likes Gin Rummy, we
always play my games, War and Go Fish. When Auntie's in bed I draw a lot, and I
can spread out over the whole table if I want.
When
I show her my drawings, there's something else we play: The Sleep Game. Aunt
Maybelle never gets mad when I touch her nose and win, as long as I have a
drawing to show her. Thing is, it's really hard to beat her. Auntie says she
never sleeps for long. "Child, you miss too much when you're asleep.
That's why the good Lord wakes me to any little noise around." Auntie is
so good at the game because she sleeps with her eyes half open; it’s creepy
with her wet, faded-brown eyes and glasses part way down her nose. If she
wakes, she never moves, never blinks until I sneak up close, then she says Raaaaaar, like a lion just before
I touch her nose. It's always kind of scary waiting for the roar. When I jump,
she laughs and I giggle, then I show her the drawing I made. Some of the
drawings I give to Mom, but mostly they're for Aunt Maybelle. Especially today.
It’s
up to me to start the game. Sometimes, to see if she’s asleep in the bedroom,
I'll cough out loud; not because I have to, but to hear her say "you okay,
Child?" It's no fun to play if Auntie is already awake. Today, though, I
don’t cough. I slide ever-so-quiet from the chair and lift the drawing so the
paper doesn't rattle. I know every squeaky board in the house and tiptoe like a
cat to her side. The sweet scent of Auntie’s powder fills the bedroom. She says
it covers up the old-people smells and makes her skin feel good.
I
stop to watch the bedding rise and fall and it makes me hot to see her beneath
so many blankets. I know I might win the Sleep Game by the way Auntie breathes.
Not always though, because she's so good at pretending, making sleep sounds
when she’s not. Her thin gray hair looks like feathers on the yellow pillow,
eyes half open, glasses crooked. Her mouth is a crack, breath smelling like old
milk as it rushes out, whistley, evenly, with a dry, sticky sound from her
lips. Puh. Puh. Puh. I stand
there for three breaths before moving my hands. This is where the roar will
come, when the drawing crinkles behind my back and I reach to touch her nose.
The
lion doesn’t come. And instead of winning the game, I lay the drawing on top of
the blankets and tiptoe back to the other room, to the window.
I
imagine the noises before I make them, thinking my slowest movements will stop
them somehow. The latch on the cabinet thunks open, then I drag the big,
flowery handbag to the floor and its contents shift and tinkle; even more when
I dig beneath its cloud of tissues and pull out the red coin purse.
When
the metal jaws snap open I hunch my shoulders to the click. From the few bills
I unfold a five, cringing at the papery sounds as I stuff the rest back. I
don't clap it shut, just nestle the coin purse atop tissues and return the
handbag to its place. I leave the cabinet door ajar.
Only
the front door remains and I'd planned for this. When Mom dropped me off this
morning, I closed the door behind her and scraped the chain so Auntie could
hear it. In truth I let it dangle free so I could keep it from rattling when I
snuck out. I know it's wrong to steal, even worse to plan, but I hope my sin is
reduced by the amount of change I return. I'll leave the door unlocked until I
get back from the drug store with Auntie's favorite powder. Won't that be a
nice surprise?
The
door clicks when I open it.
"You
okay, Child? Oh look, a kitty cat wishing me happy birthday. Ain't you the
sweetest thing."
DL Shirey lives in Portland, Oregon,
writing fiction, by and large, unless it's small. He has been caught flashing
at Café Aphra, 365 Tomorrows, ZeroFlash, Fewer Than 500 and others listed at
www.dlshirey.com.
Tags:
Short Fiction