Moose and Goose

Chapter Forty-nine

That man – why wouldn't he tell me his name? Why'd he –

Her throat begins to itch, and with her face displaying confusion, she coughs into the bend of her left arm. With each blow of sickness – three to be exact – she feels her chest tighten.

Judith pushes herself upright with her right elbow, hacking into the crook of her arm and splattering it with droplets of saliva.

After another gut-wrenching cough, her arm creeps back to display the warm crimson fluid mixed with another milky substance.

Her heart is as slow as a snail though her wide eyes are etched with alarm. Slowly, she lifts her chin and keeps her mouth closed. Her body begins to shudder as if a draft overcame her, and she wraps her frail arms around her body for warmth that isn't provided.

Judith scoots closer to her pillows, then kicks the hem of her comforter closer to the middle of the mattress. She forces a shaky sigh as she rolls her eyes when they land on the imperfect burgundy circle beneath her knees.

I forgot about that.

Judy glances into the dark and empty hall, not a voice heard through the house. She slides to her feet beside the bed and gazes down at the mess she made hours before.

She bends forward and yanks the sheet without shifting the thick blanket or her pillows.

Great, now I gotta take this to the laundromat. I think I'm already missing the washing machine and dryer we had.

She shakes her head in annoyance. She tugs and grunts until it lifts from each corner and collapses into a heap in the middle of the bed.

She drags it into her arms, and her weary expression plunges when she faces another challenge: a smaller stain dried on the creme-white mattress.

Jesus Christ! Okay – baking soda, bleach, lemon juice. This'll be fine.

Judith drops the fitted sheet in front of her nightstand and rushes to her bathroom to clean her arm. Once she's done, she continues out of her bedroom, down the hall and stairs. She continues to the front door, knowing that they're all soaking in the heat, and when she opens it, she notices Sheryl reclining on the porch in a dark blue folding chair.

"Go, Judy, go! Go, Judy, go," she remembers Walter chanting at her pee wee soccer game from that very chair.

She'd just turned twelve, and with the heat of the Calabasas sun on her neck, she felt invincible against the opposing team. They tried and failed to kick the ball from under her shoes, but she inevitably reached the goalpost. She drew her leg back to fire at the goal when a feeling of something trickling out of her unmentionables stopped her in her tracks.

The crowd still screamed. Some for her and others against her, but it all fell on deaf ears. When Judith slowly lowered her head, her eyes grew wide at the red stain coating the crotch of her white and green shorts.

"Judith," Sheryl calls for her, taking her out of her daydream. She blinks and looks at her mother on the porch, struggling to remember why she stepped outside.

"Oh, I need to go to the laundromat." Sheryl blinks back from surprise with a smile across her mouth.

"Oh," she drones in disbelief. "Well, it must be fixin' to snow soon because I've never heard you offer to clean your own personals."

"I'm sorry." Sheryl darts her head to the mud-brown Plymouth just as Otis climbs into the driver's seat. Rembrandt wanders toward his door as he pulls it shut, and they talk through the open window.

"I'll stop them and ask if you can ride with them." Judith's face almost glows when she smiles. "Just hurry and get your laundry bag."

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