by E. William Poole

 

            It was around 4:30 in the morning when Alex finally got up from his red leather chair and crawled slowly onto the couch to sleep. Despite the time, he did not feel tired and had no need.

            Still, he thought to himself, she would worry if he never slept. He had given up on sleeping fourteen years ago and his body was content to lie in an almost-trance like stupor on the couch every night. He did it mainly so she wouldn’t worry. He couldn’t stand it when she worried.

              Alex mechanically raised himself up and sat for a while staring out the the window across from him. The patio, covered in plastic tables and chairs, was cloaked in a thick, opaque fog. He strained his ears, listening for the signs that they were not alone. Nothing came. He jerked his head suddenly to the left and focused on  the wooden gramophone in the far corner of the room. It was an old, disheveled device he had acquired when Mr. Feldmore down the hall had died ten years ago. He gazed into the lone, cyclopean eye protruding over the machine for almost an hour becoming increasingly focused on the small minute scratches around the edges.

            Quietly, so as not to wake her, he got up from the couch and walked over to the decrepit device. He pulled the long baggy sleeve of his sweatshirt over his hand and began rubbing furiously at the nicks and scuffs on the brass horn. He rubbed furiously at the scuff marks but they would not go away. Still, to avoid frustration, Alex convinced himself that they had and walked peacefully over the the stack of records nearby on the floor. The records had come from Mr. Feldmore’s widow who, as Alex has expected, had only lasted a few months after the unexpected death of her husband. He stroked the seams of the cardboard cases until his thumb stopped on one. He gently pulled it out of the stack and looked at it. Handel. He pulled the disc out of the sleeve and moved his hands over it, feeling the ridges and bumps as they travelled around the disc. He fixed the disc on the turntable, lifted the pin and placed it on the thirteenth groove: Rinaldo.

            As the music began softly melting through the air he grew panicked. She would surely hear it and wake up. Frantically, he rushed over to her side. Her hearing aid was out; she was safe. Calmed, he walked over to the couch and lay down. He pulled a blanket over his legs and fixed on his eyes on the ceiling, listening to the graceful sounds emanating from the brass horn in the corner.

            The voices were hauntingly beautiful. So resonant and peaceful, Alex thought to himself. People nowadays didn’t know how to sing. Not like they did in the recordings. The voices in the recordings were perfection to Alex. Secretly, as he listened to them, he wished he were one. He wished he possessed a voice like they did. Castrati, eunuchs. They had real voices, not like charlatans and divas heard in the modern opera houses. He sat, ears at attention, catching every notes sung. They filled him with a warmth he could not find anywhere else. Gradually, his limbs became relaxed and his mind slowed from it usual frantic whirl.

            Calmed, he strode back to the couch and again lay down, completely still. The warm, emasculated voices fell gently through the room and lulled him back into his familiar trance for the rest of the night.

            Alex awoke the next morning to find the room empty. He rose from the couch and walked over the to large glass door across from the bed. He squinted his eyes against the sun shining through the white plastic blinds. A breeze slowly made it’s way through a crack in the glass and rustled the blinds back and forth. Outside on the patio, Ms. Polack was playing bridge with Ms. Eleanor, he usual companion at this time of day. Mr. Richardson fondling his bloated tabby cat over by the garden and Mr and Mrs. Norwich were sitting outside their room, huddled by their oxygen tanks.

            But Alex took no notice of any of this. He had instead turned around to inspect the now empty bed. The grey sheets had been properly made and the lone pillow stood, propped against the wall. Alex ran his hand over the bed, smoothing the blankets and he went. When he reached the top, his hand paused, feeling the warmth still radiating from where her head had lay. His eyes snapped over to the night-stand. The two hearing aids were gone; That meant she was downstairs.

            Taking his time, Alex put on his brown leather loafers and walked to the door. He paused for a second at the mirror. As he gazed fervently at his own reflection, he toyed with the idea of cutting his hair. A wave of apathy struck him however and without a second thought he turned the doorknob and walked into the hallway. The hallway was brightly lit to allow the elderly tenants to easily make their ways to their rooms. Alex made his way towards the stairwell;He refused to take the elevator unless she was with him.

           

 

            It was not far from the room to the stairs and in five minutes, Alex had reached the main floor. He opened the door from the cold, cement stairwell and stepped into the sunny entrance lobby. The strong stench of mothballs quickly flooded his sinuses, causing his face to contort to an ugly, repulsed shape. He scanned the room moving only his pale, green eyes. He spotted her in the main dining hall just off the main entrance way. Straightening his T-shirt to improve his appearance, he walked over to the table where she was sitting.

            “Good Morning, Grandmother Marigold” He said sullenly. His eyes fell over the table filled with today’s menu: Eggs Benedict with fresh Hollandaise sauce Someone must have died last night. It was either that or a prospective tenant had come to visit. The cooks never made complicated meals unless they were trying to raise the tenants sprits or impress a visitor.

            “Good Morning Alex dear.” replied his Grandmother. Her old wrinkled face faded into a smile when she saw him. “I am ever so sorry I didn’t wake you. You just seemed so peaceful and I thought today I could manage to get downstairs by myself, dearest.”

            “Grandmother Marigold,” Alex muttered. “You know you shouldn’t be unsupervised. It’s better if I’m with you.”

            “Mary! Have you heard?” Alex was interrupted by the long, sallow face of Lucille McKean. “Alfred has passed, poor thing. In his sleep. The nurses say it wasn’t expected. Nothing that could have been done...”

“Oh!” exclaimed his grandmother. “The poor dear. Such an awful thing, to die. And so unexpectedly...”

            Alex, however, had been expecting the death of Alfred Meyers for almost two weeks. He made a mental note to check out Alfred’s room for any items which could be of use.That made eleven this year and it was only April. He imagined the owner, Mr. Priskans, panicking in his office over the loss of his tenants. He laughed softly to himself and allowed his mouth to twist into a small, visible smile.

            “...never noticed him in the gardens. Not once. If you ask me, it was lack of sunlight that killed him, poor dear.” Alex jolted back to attention. His grandmother and Mrs. McKean were still discussing Alfred Meyer’s death.

            “Grandmother Marigold,” said Alex. “May I please be excused?”

            “But you haven’t eaten anything!” his grandmother cried worriedly.

            “I’m not that hungry, Grandmother Marigold.” replied Alex.

            “Well, alright; You can go.” said his grandmother. “Though I still don’t understand how a growing boy like yourself can go all morning without eating breakfast. Do you, Lucille?”

            “Not at all, Marigold. How old are you again, Alex?” asked Mrs. McKean.

            “I’ll be thirty-one in four months, Mrs. McKean” replied Alex.

            “And still growing, I’m sure!” said Mrs. McKean “Anyways, as I was saying, Marigold, poor Alfred’s death was almost surely caused by those two terriers of his...”

            The rest of the day was spent discussing Mr. Meyer’s death. The conversations did not die down until sunset, when the natural light had faded from the courtyards and the tenants decided the time for talk was over.

            Alex’s grandmother usually went to bed around nine o’clock. Only after he heard her soft snoring from across the room did Alex get up from the couch where he had been sitting, looking out of the window. It was late, much later than normal. Same as the night before Alex walked over to the old. battered gramophone in the corner of the room. For some time he stood directly in front, his eyes fixed on the stationary turntable. Without lowering his gaze he reached over and pulled the top record off the stack. He gently pulled the vinyl out of the cover and placed it on the turntable. Changing his glance from the turntable, he looked at the cover. Rodelinda. He grasped his hand tightly around the metal handle and turned it smoothly. The voices began to emanate once again from the large, brass horn on-top the gramophone. Alex stared into the black hole, mesmerized by the beautiful, emasculated sounds produced from within.

            A sudden desire filled him with each artfully sung note. Their voices were so wonderful, so pure and clean. He yearned to be just like them. He yearned for that single freeing stroke of a knife, cold and gentle against his skin. He would have performed the procedure long ago but she wouldn’t approve. She wouldn’t like it. She wouldn’t appreciate it.

            He jerked his head away from the trance and was pulled over to the small, mahogany table to the right of the gramophone. He reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled out a long, old-fashioned key. He thrust the key into the hole with such a force that the whole table gave a jolt and slid a foot backwards. With one deft motion he turned the key and pulled open the drawer, revealing the black felted bottom inside. He pulled the key out of the drawer and placed it back in the pocket. He then carefully removed a knife from inside and slid the drawer shut. He had stolen the knife twelve years ago, at the time he had no real purpose for it. It was simply an ordinary kitchen knife, the only remarkable feature was the large white oval sticker on the wooden handle, signifying it belonged to the kitchen staff

            Alex walked over to the couch and lay down. he held the knife close to his body, imagining what the iron would feel like  against such untouched flesh. He lay on the couch staring at the knife, totally inanimate. As his eyes locked onto the warm metal, Alex felt the all to familiar trance descend over his body, lulling him away for the rest of the night.

 

            He rose the next morning very suddenly and  sat bolt upright on the couch. The sun fell painfully across his eyes, blinding him. He raised his hand up to block the unwanted sunshine from his face and saw a lump still on the bed. She was asleep. He got up from the bed and walked over to her bedside. Her face was white and cold, frozen in a peaceful sleep. Confused, he raised her arm with his hand and released. It dropped down, limply with a thump.

            An overwhelming rush of joy filled Alex as he realized what had happened. His lips parted, revealing a crooked grin on his face. He straighten his body to its full height and looked down at his grandmother’s body. He reached over and wrapped his hand around the wooden handle, covering the large white sticker with his enclosed fingers. Slowly and forcefully, he pried the bloody blade from her chest.

            His smile grew wider and the joy intensified within his mind. Without moving his eyes from the blade, he walked over to the bathroom, his hands trembling with excitement at his newfound chance for freedom.