Page 11 of Last Breath

“Is there something we can help with?” Malachi asks with a twisted smile.

“Um...” Taken aback by his handsomeness, I stumble for words. “I have to put a record on for my gran. If you want to dry the leaves for the salad, that would be appreciated.” Stepping away and entering the parlor, I move to the record player.

“Gran, let me get something on for you.” Hoping I don’t seem agitated, I select a new record. The very last thing I need is her flying off the handle.

Picking a more current selection than what’s played most of the day and placing it on the player, the needle strikes the tone for the mood I’m in. When I say current, I mean it’s from ten years ago. One of my absent mother’s records.

“Corrine, your taste in music is awful.”

That, we agree on.

“Yes, Gran, but we should put on something a little more lively for our guests.”

Adjusting the blanket on her legs and tucking it under her, I pat her shoulder as I start to leave. “Sweetie,” she says without her usual bite and spite.

“Yes, Gran?” I reply softly. I’m at the end of my rope, but I try to stay calm.

“Come here, please,” she whispers.

Hanging my head and walking back over, I step in front of her. Dipping low, bending at the knees, I’m face-to-face with my aging patriarch. Her glassy blue eyes, that regardless of what I think still sees everything, shows her eighty plus years. A strong woman that gives in to no one.

Maggie, for all her faults, has perfect hearing, it’s her mind that’s busted. It’s a jumbled bag of fireflies. Sometimes they light, giving you an insight to the beauty and brilliance they once held.

“Who are the guests?”

“A couple of nice boys that stopped in for dinner.” I tell her a slight lie, but I figure it’s easier than fighting the dementia.

Bending slightly forward in her chair, talking low, she whispers, “That Jones boy killed my cat last year. If he’s one of them, I’m showing him the muzzle end of my .44.”

Rising up, I shake my head. “Jesus, Gran, you can’t kill anyone. Listen to your music for a bit. I’ll come get you for dinner soon.”

Leaving her and walking back into the kitchen, I’m surprised by what I find. Malachi’s chopping carrots and Salem’s plating the greens. Such a domestic thing from two unwanted interlopers. It freaks me out a bit.

Watching them from the doorway, their movements are fluid and timed. It’s as if they’re so accustomed to one another that the act is ingrained. Salem steps to the left, Malachi ventures to the right, each simply bypassing the other and continuing on with their tasks. The menial domestication of it all entices me to watch and not involve myself in their machinations.

“I’m not sure where the spices are, Joy. You could at least direct me, unless you like watching.” The last bit is said in a joking manner, hinting at humor that was devoid.

Stepping into the room, reaching into the cupboard above him on the right, I pull down a few of Gran’s favorites. “We’re not friends, Malachi. Don’t act like fun banter will make this intrusion better.”

Taking up the thyme and rosemary that I set down, I watch him. Selecting a small amount, grinding them together in his palm, Malachi smells it before adding it to the vegetables roasting in the pan. Bending low, smelling the addition to his work, a slow smile creeps across his face. “Thank you, Joy. That’s better.”

Before I can answer with a snappy reply, a ring chimes out. Closing my gaping mouth and thanking the laundry Gods, the washer chime has saved me from an awkward conversation with Malachi. “I need to get that. You okay here?” I ask, taking notice that Salem has disappeared.

“Perfect,” he says with another enigmatic smile. I find it endearing, yet creepy.

Snapping myself out of my ogling stupor, I move off to complete another task, leaving Malachi. Entering through the creaking door to the storage/ pantry/ laundry room, I gather the clothes out of the rickety ancient washer. Worrying where Salem went won’t do me any good, so I get down to finishing my tasks. Piling the clothes into a basket and gathering the clips, I step outside to the line.

Humming a tune I love that calms me in times of extreme internal darkness, once again I’m startled.

“Can I help you?”

Scaring the living shit out of me, Salem stands on the back stoop with an e-cig in hand, casually leaning against the house, blood coating his hands once more.

“I skinned the rabbit for you,” he says, like he’s expecting a thank you for his good deed. Like I’m too soft a soul to damage something as sweet as a cute rabbit.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

Nodding, he pulls another lungful of his liquid. “I didn’t think you were weak.”

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