Scraps & Chum (10 page)

Still, Matti didn
’
t respond to his commanding nudge, which shook the hair from her face.

With his mind inherently doing math problems—three hours until I get up, I
’
ll never get back to sleep at this rate—Dane gave it a second while his eyes adjusted. Finally, her face swam into view.

He gasped.

Her eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. Her skin, pasty white, shined with sweat.

The muscles in his body snapped to attention and he sat upright, a reserve of energy suddenly powering him. What the…?

Her mouth moved quickly as she spoke, like a mouse chewing on a bread crumb:
“
He
’
s bleeding on the rug, on the rug on the rug…
”

“
Matti, what
’
s going on? Talk to me. Matti? Matti?
”

Letting her go for a moment, he leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp. The room jumped to life, the shadows retreating in the wake of navy blue curtains, a pale green comforter, lilac walls, and boxes of clothes and accessories that sat in piles near the closet, ready for the
morning
’
s move. She did not respond to the light, remaining consistent in her rapid decree that someone was bleeding on the rug.

Urgency welled up in his chest; he grabbed her head and shook it, said,
“
You
’
re freaking me out. Wake up! Baby, c
’
mon!
”

“
He
’
s bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug…
”
Eyes still open. Staring through Dane as if he were made of glass.

A cold, crippling sense of helplessness rendered him immobile. What the hell was going on? Was it a seizure? Did she need medical attention? Oh God, please don
’
t let something be wrong
, he thought
. Not his wife. He
’
d have to be committed if something happened to her. The depth of his co-dependence came from left field and hit him hard. It was more than the feeling one gets when they lose something they never knew they had. He
knew
what he had in Matti; he just never figured he
could
lose it. Now he was flooded with doubt, and the frailty of life and love and marriage became something tangible, something breakable. Despite the fights and bickering, he loved her on a level too complicated to explain. She was simply a part that completed him, and here she was in a state of duress, scaring the living shit out of him.

Your
wife is having a breakdown, Dane. She
’
s non-responsive.  Just pick up the phone and dial 911.
Yes, he thought, that
’
s something he could do, that was a plan, a way to break the iron grip of fear that now held him.

There was a phone on the small desk near the wardrobe. Throwing the covers off of his feet, he rushed to it and dialed 911. When he realized the only sound he could hear was the persistent voice of his wife, he figured he
’
d misdialed. He hung up and tried again. This time, he could tell the phone wasn
’
t working. The phone company was set to turn off service in two days; had they jumped the gun?  But 911 was supposed to be accessible regardless of account status. He slammed the headset back in the carriage and swore.

“
He
’
s bleeding on the rug on the rug….
”
Matti was still on her back, still looking up at something only she could see.

Try the phone in the kitchen, he told himself. Hurry.

The hallway was dark and crowded with packing materials but he didn
’
t waste time with the lights; he knew this house by heart. Knew that just yesterday he and Matti had made love on the top stair to break the stress of boxing up their belongings. A pang of sentimentality hit him as he descended the steps and maneuvered between the boxes at the bottom, realizing he
’
d be leaving this place come morning. He and Matti had lived here since before they were married, had even held their intimate reception in the backyard. How inappropriate that he should be thinking of this as she lay upstairs in some type of mental breakdown. Was it a survival instinct, he wondered, a way for his brain to keep him focused on something?

He rounded the corner into the kitchen, saw the phone as a black shadow on the wall near the cabinets, and grabbed it. Apparently the dead line upstairs wasn
’
t an isolated incident; either the phone lines were down or someone had cut the wires outside the house. But then, that couldn
’
t be right, because there was a noise coming from the phone after all. A hissing static, faint but definitely there. And beyond it, at the edge of audibility, a woman
’
s voice saying,
“
help me, he
’
s bleeding on the rug, he
’
s bleeding on the rug…
”

“
Hello?
”

The faint voice came again
through the phone
, came fr
om somewhere far away
, urgent and fast:
“
help me, he
’
s bleeding on the rug…
”

The phone dropped from his hand, swung on the tangled cord and banged into the wall, swishing back and forth like his own senility. Out of the earpiece continued the now familiar susurration, growing louder:
“
He
’
s bleeding on the rug…
”

Matti
’
s voice drifted down the stairs and oozed into the shadows, providing a complementary backing vocal to the refrain:
“
…bleeding on the rug…
”

It was confusion that he felt first, not terror. An innate need to rationalize what he was experiencing. And so he stood in the darkness of the kitchen, more boxes around him, listening to both voices chant about the blood on the rug, asking himself just what in the hell was going on? There
’
s always a logical explanation for strange events, he knew. Looking around, though, all he co
uld see was a nearly-
empty kitchen. There weren
’
t any answers jumping out at him.
Figure it out later. Right now you need to call for help.

Cell phone, he thought, where was his cell phone? He
’
d been packing up books in the living room before going to bed
and was pretty sure it was
in his jacket on the table. Was it still charged, he wondered, or should he just cut across the lawn to his neighbor
’
s house and wake them up, tell them to call an ambulance and maybe even some men in white coats?

No, he couldn
’
t leave Matti, not yet anyway. He could feel that in his gut, that need to protect her, that need to make sure she was okay. For her sake, of course, but also for his. Because if anything were to happen to her…

As he passed the front door, moving through the foyer that separated the kitchen from the living room, he saw t
he Dust Buster sitting on a
taped-up box and picked it up. He didn
’
t know why exactly, it just felt right. Having some kind of weapon in his hand gave him a sense of advantage, even if it was a false one, and led him to believe he could still keep control of the situation.

That is, until he stepped into the living room and saw the f
igure standing near the sofa,
bleeding on the rug.

Dane froze, his heart kicking into overdrive as his body went slick with sweat and his tongue dried up into cardboard.

The lanky figure was shrouded by shadows, its shoulders hunched forward with poor posture, its hair wispy and short. Judging by the lack of effeminate curves, it was a man. Whoever he was he was holding a hand to his head, his body swaying ever so slig
htly, as if a light breeze might
blow him over. There was something decrepit about him, but at the same time…strangely formidable.

He
’
s here to hurt Matti, Dane thought. Have to protect Matti.

The table in question was off to his right, equal distance from both him and the other man. His jacket lay in a heap on top of it, his cell phone in the front pocket. If he tried to run for it, and the man lunged after him, they
’
d meet at the same time. Dane hadn
’
t been in a fight since high school, wasn
’
t even sure he remembered how to defend himself? Still, he knew he
’
d fight for Matti, come what may.

Using the Dust Buster to mimic a gun, his heart now trying to rip through his chest, he said,
“
Whatever you want, you won
’
t get it. I
’
ve called the cops. They
’
re on their way right now. And I
’
m holding a gun here. So I
’
m giving you five seconds to get out of my house and never come back. Got me?
”

Calling Dane
’
s bluff, the man staggered forward on stick legs, still holding his head, forcing Dane to backpedal toward the kitchen, the vacuum thrust out in front of him like a pistol.

“
I said get out!
”

The man ignored the warning and kept advancing, walking with the forced gait of someone severely arthritic, moving into a small patch of moonlight that spilled through a gap in the curtains. The pale blue light swam up his frame until he was solidly illuminated.

Tall. Elderly. Decrepit. Bloody.

Hurt.

Gunshot, Dane realized. Dear God, the old man had been shot in the head, was gushing blood like a ruptured water main through the gnarled fingers he held there. As the blood pooled on the carpet, it hit the shadows and spread out like oil rising from the earth.

Similarly, the
Dust Buster
hit the floor, shattered, and bounced away.

Dane
’
s back found the wall behind him and stopped him short, his mouth open in a scream that could not find its voice.
He didn’t know what scared him more, that the man was in his home, or that he was still alive somehow. He’d heard stories of people taking a bullet to the head and living, but this wound looked too severe for such a miracle.

From upstairs, Matti continued to whisper,
“
He
’
s bleeding on the rug on the rug…
”