بخش 03 - فصل 27

27 Like the day before, Sunday is brilliant and summery. Like the day before, Brady sells out by four, at least two hours before dinnertime approaches

and the parks begin emptying. He thinks about calling home and finding out what his mom wants for supper, then decides to grab takeout from Long John Silver’s and surprise her. She loves the Langostino Lobster Bites. As it turns out, Brady is the one surprised. He comes into the house from the garage, and his

greeting–Hey, Mom, I’m home! –dies on his lips. This time she’s remembered to turn off the stove, but the smell of the meat she charred for her lunch hangs in the air. From the living room there comes a muffled drumming sound and a strange gurgling cry. There’s a skillet on one of the front burners. He peers into it and sees crumbles of

burnt hamburger rising like small volcanic islands from a film of congealed grease. On the counter is a half-empty bottle of Stoli and a jar of mayonnaise, which is all she ever uses to dress her hamburgers. The grease-spotted takeout bags drop from his hands. Brady doesn’t even notice. No, he thinks. It can’t be.

It is, though. He throws open the kitchen refrigerator and there, on the top shelf, is the Baggie of poisoned meat. Only now half of it is gone. He stares at it stupidly, thinking, She never checks the mini-fridge in the garage. Never. That’s mine. This is followed by another thought: How do you know what she checks when you’re

not here? For all you know she’s been through all your drawers and looked under your mattress. That gurgling cry comes again. Brady runs for the living room, kicking one of the Long John Silver’s bags under the kitchen table and leaving the refrigerator door open. His mother is sitting bolt upright on the couch. She’s in her blue

silk lounging pajamas. The shirt is covered with a bib of blood-streaked vomit. Her belly protrudes, straining the buttons; it’s the belly of a woman who is seven months pregnant. Her hair stands out from her parchment-pale face in a mad spray. Her nostrils are clotted with blood. Her eyes bulge. She’s not seeing him, or

so he thinks at first, but then she holds out her hands. “Mom! Mom!” His initial idea is to thump her on the back, but he looks at the mostly eaten hamburger on the coffee table next to the remains of what must have been a perfectly enormous screwdriver, and knows backthumps will do no good. The

stuff’s not lodged in her throat. If only it were. The drumming sound he heard when he came in recommences as her feet begin to piston up and down. It’s as if she’s marching in place. Her back arches. Her arms fly straight up. Now she’s simultaneously marching and signaling that the field goal is good. One foot shoots out and

kicks the coffee table. Her screwdriver glass falls over. “Mom!” She throws herself back against the sofa cushions, then forward. Her agonized eyes stare at him. She gurgles a muffled something that might or might not be his name. What do you do for poisoning victims? Was it raw eggs? Or Coca-Cola? No,

Coke’s for upset stomachs, and she’s gone far beyond that. Have to stick my fingers down her throat, he thinks. Make her gag it up. But then her teeth begin doing their own march and he pulls his tentatively extended hand back, pressing the palm over his mouth instead. He sees that she has already bitten her lower lip almost to tatters;

that’s where the blood on her shirt has come from. Some of it, anyway. “Brayvie!” She draws in a hitching breath. What follows is guttural but understandable. “Caw . . . nie . . . wha . . . whan!” Call 911. He goes to the phone and picks it up before realizing he really can’t do that. Think of

the unanswerable questions that would ensue. He puts it back down and whirls to her. “Why did you go snooping out there, Mom? Why?” “Brayvie! Nie-wha-whan!” “When did you eat it? How long has it been?” Instead of answering, she begins to march again. Her head snaps up and her bulging eyes regard the ceiling for a

second or two before her head snaps forward again. Her back doesn’t move at all; it’s as if her head is mounted on bearings. The gurgling sounds return– the sound of water trying to go down a partially clogged drain. Her mouth yawns and she belches vomit. It lands in her lap with a wet splat, and oh God, it’s half blood.

He thinks of all the times he’s wished her dead. But I never wanted it to be like this, he thinks. Never like this. An idea lights up his mind like a single bright flare over a stormy ocean. He can find out how to treat her online. Everything’s online. “I’m going to take care of it,” he says, “but I have to go downstairs for a few minutes.

You just . . . you hang in there, Mom. Try . . .” He almost says Try to relax. He runs into the kitchen, toward the door that leads to his control room. Down there he’ll find out how to save her. And even if he can’t, he won’t have to watch her die.