Circuit Of Heaven by Dennis Danvers Page B

budge.
    She shuffled back into the kitchen and returned with a steak knife. She positioned the box against the dryer controls to hold it in place and, placing the knife blade on the perforation, leaned her weight against it. The blade broke through and plunged into the bags. She almost lost her balance, but managed to steady herself on the dryer. The cats flopped over, repositioning themselves. She pulled the box to her by tugging on the knife handle. When she had it in her grasp, she pulled the knife loose from the bags and sawed at the cardboard until she had a hole big enough for her fingers. She groped around, and finally snared one. Her fingers ached with the effort. She started tugging at it, and at first she thought it wasn’t going to come loose, then it popped out, the box spinning across the top of the dryer, as she stumbled backwards, the plastic bag in her hand, flailing the air to keep her balance. Her back hit the wall, and she managed to right herself, just as one of the cats, a Siamese named Sasha, stretched out his hind legs and kicked the box of plastic bags over the edge of the dryer, so that it fell between the wall and the dryer.
    It might as well have fallen to Siberia. Clutching the bag in one hand, she made her way to the sink. The cat box sat underneath it. She shook open the plastic bag as best she could by waving her arm about. Steadying herself on the sink with the other hand, she lowered herself to one knee in front of the cat box. She laid the bag on the floor and picked up the scoop she kept on the trap.
    They’d all three shit in the very back of the box, of course. She’d have to lean way over to get the three discreet piles, unless she repositioned herself and dragged the box out, but the thought wore her out. No, she could reach it just fine. She’d done it before. She stretched out her arm and had just snared the first lump of shit, when the doorbell rang, and she tried to get up too fast, grazing her shoulder on the sink. She got upright, but felt herself spinning like the last revolution of a top and flung out her arm, striking the wall with the scoop, which snapped in half like a twig.
    She teetered there for a moment, balanced on the broken plastic handle, and then she started forward. She reached out desperately with her free hand and managed to grab one of the triangle braces that secured a shelf overhead. A can of paint, empty from the sound of it, fell off the shelf and bounced on the floor, rolling to a stop on the threshold to the kitchen.
    The doorbell rang again. Slowly, carefully, she centered her weight and pushed herself away from the wall, dropping the broken scoop to the floor. She let go of the brace, and stood for a moment, then started shuffling toward the front door at the other end of the house, her hands throbbing with pain, wishing she could remember the young man’s name. She smelled something burning and sniffed the air. Cookies. She clucked her tongue. What a shame.
    At the large mirror in the foyer, she turned and looked at herself, patting her hair into place. She was nearly as old as Mr. Menso. Her hands were twisted with arthritis. The face in the mirror smiled. “Hello, Justine,” she said.
    JUSTINE SAT UP IN BED , HER HEART RACING .
    It was morning. The curtains were open, and the room was filled with sunshine. There’d been thunder in the night, and the rain had beaten against the windows, but now the city looked bright and new, washed clean. Justine swung her legs over the side of the bed and was surprised they moved so easily, were so young and firm. She’d had arthritis. In her dream, she corrected herself, she’d had arthritis. With a shaking hand, she pressed the
Coffee
icon on the room service pad. A panel slid open, and there was the coffee. As she picked it up, she thought, it’s the old woman, the one in my dream. She’s the one who watched reruns of Captain Kirk.
    She started, splashing herself with hot coffee, wincing as the cup