hidden and she doesn’t think anybody will find it there. Not unless Borden is watching from the shadows.
He’s not real .
That’s right: Borden is not real and she does not have to worry about him.
She is just getting to her feet when the door at the top of the stairs squeaks open and the light comes on. Feeling sick and guilty, caught, she walks around to the front of the stairs and looks up toward the door.
Beatrice stands silent looking at the shattered plate on the floor. Her hair lies flat and dull on her head, framing a sad round face. Her wide-set eyes droop on the outside, her mouth at both corners. It’s like invisible hands are pressed against her cheeks and pulling down. Her shoulders are round, dresses always hanging from them lifelessly before catching on her heavy lower body and bulging outward with lumps and ripples, making her look to Maggie like a poorly stuffed toy animal.
She turns from the plate and looks at Maggie. Her mouth hangs open for a moment and she breathes heavily from it. Finally she shuts her mouth, swallows, and says, ‘What happened?’
‘I dropped it,’ Maggie says. ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry.’
‘By accident?’
Maggie nods.
‘It don’t look dropped.’
‘It was.’
‘Looks like you thrown it.’
‘I didn’t. I promise.’
‘How’d it get way over there?’
‘I’ll clean it up.’
‘You don’t have no shoes. It’s not safe. I’ll clean it up.’
She turns back to the stairs and walks up them, each plank sagging beneath her weight. Her thighs brush together beneath her dress, making a swishing sound with each step. It makes Maggie think of her daddy sanding in the garage. She would help him sometimes. She liked the feel of the fine dust from sandpapered wood on her hands. Beatrice pauses at each step, inhale exhale, and goes one more. She walks through the doorway to the kitchen.
Maggie walks to her mattress, away from what she is hiding, and sits.
When Beatrice returns she is carrying a broom and a dust pan with her, and a small plastic grocery bag crumpled in her fist. She walks down the stairs the same way she walked up, one step at a time, standing on each with both feet and taking a breath, inhale exhale, before moving on to the next. She stops at the bottom of the stairs. She breathes heavily and with great effort. Her face is pale and beads of sweat stand out on her oily skin.
Maggie stares at her with great concentration. Please die please die please die.
She hates that she has those thoughts, she feels like a bad person for having them, but she can’t help it. She doesn’t think she could kill a person—she knows she couldn’t; the very idea makes her sick—but if Beatrice were to just die, that would be different. She knows she would feel guilty for thinking it if it happened, but she feels guilty for thinking it when it doesn’t happen, so it might as well. It would make her life so much easier.
Part of her feels sorry for Beatrice. Part of her feels that in her own way Beatrice is as trapped as she is. But even so if she would just die all Maggie’s problems would be solved. If she died at the right time, anyway, with Henry gone for work and the door unlocked. If he was home and Beatrice died he might take it out on her. He certainly wouldn’t have any reason to keep her alive.
‘Oh, Lord,’ Beatrice says, large chest rising and falling, rising and falling.
‘Are you okay?’
After a while Beatrice nods. ‘Yeah.’
Too bad, Maggie thinks, hating the thought.
Then Beatrice walks to the shattered plate and bends down and sweeps the shards of glass into the dust pan. She dumps the contents of the pan into the plastic bag she brought with her, sweeps the floor once more, dumps the pan once more, ties off the bag, and stands.
She did not notice that a large piece of the plate was missing.
‘You need to be careful about walking barefooted over here.’
‘Maybe I could get some shoes.’
‘What
He’s not real .
That’s right: Borden is not real and she does not have to worry about him.
She is just getting to her feet when the door at the top of the stairs squeaks open and the light comes on. Feeling sick and guilty, caught, she walks around to the front of the stairs and looks up toward the door.
Beatrice stands silent looking at the shattered plate on the floor. Her hair lies flat and dull on her head, framing a sad round face. Her wide-set eyes droop on the outside, her mouth at both corners. It’s like invisible hands are pressed against her cheeks and pulling down. Her shoulders are round, dresses always hanging from them lifelessly before catching on her heavy lower body and bulging outward with lumps and ripples, making her look to Maggie like a poorly stuffed toy animal.
She turns from the plate and looks at Maggie. Her mouth hangs open for a moment and she breathes heavily from it. Finally she shuts her mouth, swallows, and says, ‘What happened?’
‘I dropped it,’ Maggie says. ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry.’
‘By accident?’
Maggie nods.
‘It don’t look dropped.’
‘It was.’
‘Looks like you thrown it.’
‘I didn’t. I promise.’
‘How’d it get way over there?’
‘I’ll clean it up.’
‘You don’t have no shoes. It’s not safe. I’ll clean it up.’
She turns back to the stairs and walks up them, each plank sagging beneath her weight. Her thighs brush together beneath her dress, making a swishing sound with each step. It makes Maggie think of her daddy sanding in the garage. She would help him sometimes. She liked the feel of the fine dust from sandpapered wood on her hands. Beatrice pauses at each step, inhale exhale, and goes one more. She walks through the doorway to the kitchen.
Maggie walks to her mattress, away from what she is hiding, and sits.
When Beatrice returns she is carrying a broom and a dust pan with her, and a small plastic grocery bag crumpled in her fist. She walks down the stairs the same way she walked up, one step at a time, standing on each with both feet and taking a breath, inhale exhale, before moving on to the next. She stops at the bottom of the stairs. She breathes heavily and with great effort. Her face is pale and beads of sweat stand out on her oily skin.
Maggie stares at her with great concentration. Please die please die please die.
She hates that she has those thoughts, she feels like a bad person for having them, but she can’t help it. She doesn’t think she could kill a person—she knows she couldn’t; the very idea makes her sick—but if Beatrice were to just die, that would be different. She knows she would feel guilty for thinking it if it happened, but she feels guilty for thinking it when it doesn’t happen, so it might as well. It would make her life so much easier.
Part of her feels sorry for Beatrice. Part of her feels that in her own way Beatrice is as trapped as she is. But even so if she would just die all Maggie’s problems would be solved. If she died at the right time, anyway, with Henry gone for work and the door unlocked. If he was home and Beatrice died he might take it out on her. He certainly wouldn’t have any reason to keep her alive.
‘Oh, Lord,’ Beatrice says, large chest rising and falling, rising and falling.
‘Are you okay?’
After a while Beatrice nods. ‘Yeah.’
Too bad, Maggie thinks, hating the thought.
Then Beatrice walks to the shattered plate and bends down and sweeps the shards of glass into the dust pan. She dumps the contents of the pan into the plastic bag she brought with her, sweeps the floor once more, dumps the pan once more, ties off the bag, and stands.
She did not notice that a large piece of the plate was missing.
‘You need to be careful about walking barefooted over here.’
‘Maybe I could get some shoes.’
‘What
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