As I walk down the eroding sidewalk, my toe snags on a particularly dangerous crack and I stumble forward. I put my hands out, catching myself on the side of one of the many boarded up old buildings. Pulling back, I examine the soot on my palms and rub it off on my pants. All around me lingers the smell of oil and coal fuelled fires – it’s acrid and stings my nostrils even though by now I should be used to it. A woman on the corner pulls back her skirt as I walk past, she hollers something obscene but I try to ignore her as I lower my eyes and pick up my pace; nothing can slow me down, not today.
As I turn into my own decrepit neighbourhood I notice Mrs. Macaulay frantically peering from one alley to the next, “Hello,” I tip my head to her and try to zoom past but she reaches out and grabs hold of my elbow.
“Have you seen my boy? Have you seen Mitchell?” I feel a pang of regret as I brush her off, pushing her away a little too forcefully, “Please I need to find my son!” She cries out after me as I quickly apologize and continue on my way.
Approaching my building, I can hear Mrs. Macaulay screaming for Mitchell, begging him to come home, pleading with god to keep him safe. God…what a funny concept…not many believe in him anymore, but those who do, do so almost fanatically. I know her prayers won’t be answered though, if god does exist I don’t think he’s listening, why would he? Why would he want anything to do with us?
I walk into the lobby of my apartment building, the carpet is old and stained; it’s curling up in the corners and much of it is threadbare, its floral pattern all but disappearing from sight. The elevator doors are open just a crack, as per usual, and I’m so used to ignoring them that I brush right past – not even bothering to try the cracked and faded buttons. It’s never worked, not as long as I’ve been living here and I’ve lived here all my life.
The door to the stairwell is heavy and stained with years of finger prints, the thick black grease is repulsive to the touch and the eyes. I brush through it though, only touching the handle and trying to hold my breath in the rancid air that fills the stairs. The smell of urine and feces is all around me, in the dim light I can see black mold creeping along the walls and every once in a while I need to watch my step as the stairs are crumbling under my feet.
I hear a sound echoing down toward me, it’s coming from the floor above my apartment and I almost instinctively know who it is, “Agnes?” I say in a stage whisper that carries quite well in the narrow space, “Agnes is that you?”
“Who’s there?” She calls back and leans over the railing with a smile, “Oh it’s you, hello!”
“Agnes, what are you doing here?” I quickly make my up the stairs and grab hold of her arm, she smiles at me and it causes her wrinkled face to buckle in on itself. Her hunched shoulders lean against me and I can feel her struggling for breath, “Where’s you puffer?”
“My puffer?” She asks and I lead her back out of the stair well, she sounds more and more confused by the day.
“Yeah, your puffer, it helps you breathe.”
“Oh that darn thing,” Agnes waves a liver spotted hand, her knuckles are swollen and her fingers a little crooked, “I can never quite keep track of it I’m afraid.”
“Well, let me help you find it okay?” I lead her into her apartment and sit her down in her favourite old arm chair, “Where did you see it last?”
“See what, dear?” She asks with a pleasant smile and I feel my heart sink.
“Your puffer!” I say a little more loudly than I know I have to.
“Oh that darn thing,” Agnes repeats herself and I stop listening, instead I search the drawers in her kitchen and peek into her crooked medicine cabinet. The mirror on the outside is rusted and fading; I can barely make out the features of my face as I watch my worry grow.
I step back out into the living room and Agnes is gone, “Agnes?” I call out, searching the kitchen. I pop my head out into the hallway and call her name again but there’s no response, “Jesus, Agnes, where did you go now?”
“Have patience my dear,” I hear Agnes’ cheery voice from inside the apartment, I turn around and there she is, coming out of her bed room with a puffer in one hand and an ancient looking candy in the other, “I needed to find my puffer, these old lungs just aren’t as strong as they used to be I’m afraid.”
I feel my heart beat slowing and put a hand to my chest, “Agnes, you know what today is don’t you?”
She waves a bony hand at me and takes a seat in her chair once again, “Of course I know what day it is, how could I forget?” She holds out the candy for me and smiles, “Happy birthday sweetie.”
I smile and reach out for the candy, trying not to imagine how long it’s probably been sitting in her bedroom, “Thank you Agnes, but that’s not quite what I was talking about.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Agnes sighs and looks down, “Can’t we try not to focus on dreadful things like that? Let’s just smile and celebrate the nicer things in life.”
“Would that we could Agnes, but this is serious,” I squat in front of her and she waves me off again with a cranky look, “You need to stay inside okay? Lock your doors and only answer for the inspectors, if they come.”
The woman pouts and puts her hands over her face, trying not to acknowledge my presence but I press on, I need to hear her say it before I can go home, “Please Agnes, tell me you’ll stay inside tonight, tell me you’ll lock your doors.”
Agnes sighs and rolls her head back, she reminds me of a child being lectured and I feel bad but this is the only way I know to keep her safe, “Yes, yes, I’ll stay in tonight,” She finally huffs and pushes me away with her feeble arms, “Get out with you then! The sun is almost down.”
I wait for a second, staring at Agnes as she stares back at me, “I love you Agnes,” I say, putting a hand on her face, “I need you.”
“Of course you do sweet heart,” She smiles and leans forward to give me a hug, “Get back downstairs now won’t you? We’ll see each other in the morning.”
“Stay safe old lady,” I say and she smiles as she shows me to the door.
“You stay safe too, you little brat.”
As I leave I wait in the hallway, back pressed up against the wall until I hear Agnes’ deadbolt click and the chain slide into place. I feel a weight lift from my heart as I make my way back to the stairs and down to my own apartment. Once inside I lock my own door and sigh, the sick sense of relief I feel mingles with fear and disgust as I neatly hang my ratty old jacket in the closet.
I can still hear Mrs. Macaulay screaming for her son, desperately trying to find him in the last few moments of sun light. I peek through my old musty curtains and see her husband come to grab hold of her; she’s kicking and screaming, refusing to go inside without Mitchell but Mr. Macaulay is a strong man. I watch her wild hair as her head shakes back and forth; her torn skirts flap in the air as she kicks her legs and punches the man’s thick forearms but they hold tight around her waist.
I can’t help but wonder where Mitchell’s gone to, he knows as well as every other citizen that tonight is not the night for games. He’s too young to be outside past sundown, but like many other children he’s probably itching to take part in the celebration. I know him well enough to know he feels older than he is and that’s a dangerous state of mind to have in such treacherous times.
Turning from the window, I try not to listen to Mrs. Macaulay’s screams. I carefully open the rotting door to my pantry and sigh at the emptiness of it; picking a can of beans I struggle with my rusty can opener, just narrowly missing my fingers as the sharp lid finally springs open. I heat the can on the hot plate that replaced my broken stove long ago. The sunlight outside my window fades behind thick clouds of black smoke; I recall Agnes’ account of a sunset from her childhood, oranges and reds used to stain the sky this time of day – according to the words of a delirious old woman.
Part of me wants to believe that she’s telling the truth, I want to think there was once beauty in the world, but a more realistic part of me can’t quite see it. How could there possibly have been such wondrous things happening every day?
As the sun disappears in the distance, a long blast from a lone trumpet signals the beginning. I close my eyes and focus on the smell of my dinner; I feel the warm can in my hands and try not to hear the second brassy blast. The celebration is about to start.
The first scream terrifies me, as it does every year. It belongs to a woman, young by the sounds of it. I wish I could be there with her, I wish I could hold her hand as she dies but I resist the urge to run to her; I know it’s pointless. Besides, she knew what she was getting herself into. I finish my beans and hear the voices of two men, one is screaming, the other is laughing and celebrating in a devilish way I wish I didn’t have to hear.
To take my mind off of the streets, I find my paint and set up the makeshift easel I made myself years ago. It’s falling apart, but it’s all I can afford. Paint is expensive enough, I have a hard time rationalizing my decision to buy it but it’s the one bit of joy I allow myself, the one hobby I’ll agree to spend credit on.
I stand in front of my rotting kitchen cupboards and paint them, I have to reuse an old canvas and it hurts to paint over Agnes’ face. It took me forever to convince her to sit for me, and I know it’ll be twice as hard to do it again, but it’s an old painting and my skills have improved tenfold since then. I struggle to mix an accurate shade of green to match the decaying wood and brown to use for the stains that have been building up for years.
The screams on the street intensify; I hear Mrs. Macaulay and know she’s found her son.
“Quick Mitchell, get in the house!” She screams and then wails and cries, I peer out the window and see the boy’s body in a puddle of blood in the street, Mr. Macaulay pulls his wife back inside and slams the door despite her renewed struggle. I feel sorry for her loss, but Mitchell understood the implications of staying out after dark today, he’s been warned every year but it’s hard for someone so young to restrain himself.
I feel tears welling in my eyes but I brush them away, I close my curtains again and move to the living room. I don’t have the focus to paint anymore and set out a moth-eaten blanket to do some yoga. I inhale and raise my arms, exhale and lower my body. Inhale, up; exhale, down. I find a rhythm despite the crazed celebration happening outside my window.
I try to clear my mind, I imagine myself as a lotus flower; slowly unfurling a million petals. I arch my back into a downward dog and sweep my face low over the ground until my back is bent in the opposite direction and my face is to the ceiling. I hop and my feet are between my hands as I slowly rise to mountain pose.
And then I hear her.
Agnes.
I rush to the window and see the old woman, wrapped in her ratty afghan as she wanders out the front door. I struggle to open my window, forgetting that I’d nailed it shut years ago. I call her name and pound on the glass but she doesn’t notice.
Frantically I smash my fists against the window pane; I feel the tears break loose, tears I’ve refused to cry for so many years, “Agnes! Get inside! Agnes!” My throat is tearing with the force of my cries, I see a man peek out of a dark alley and feel my hope fading.
With no time to fly down the stairs and rescue her, I watch Agnes become swept up in the celebration, the horror. The man from the alley grabs hold of her arm and spins her around to face him, I pound against the window so hard the glass shatters; I ignore the blood on my forearm and call out for Agnes again. She spins her head in my direction as the man raises his knife and before I know it a fountain of blood spews forth from her neck.
I scream and cry, I see the man’s twisted face, covered in blood and grinning up at me. He dances with Agnes’ dying body and I scream and swear down at him, he just laughs and tosses Agnes aside as he moves on.
Looking away from the street, I press my back against the wall and slide to the floor. I am a lotus flower, I am a painting of dirt and grime. I am a lousy can of beans and the ever present hunger for more. I try not to think of the man but find my thoughts straying; was Agnes his first, has he been avoiding the celebration until now? Or is she just another notch on his belt?
I cry and ball my hands into fists; I can hear Mrs. Macaulay crying even from inside her house. She’s screaming, I’m silent, she curses the world while I shake and shudder, raked with terrible sobs of pain and sorrow, grasping my bleeding arm as my emotional turmoil mixes with the physical.
The man’s face swims in my mind, his macabre dance with the frail body of a dying old woman. Why was she outside? Why did I leave her alone? I know the answer; I know that had ours been one of the buildings selected for inspection then we would both face the death penalty if I wasn’t in my own home. You can’t harbour a person on Murder Day, it’s the ultimate offence on the one day a year when the law stands still.
As I sit and wonder, contemplating what was and what could have been, my inner lotus wilts and dies; it’s replaced by his face, his bloody, joyous face. At some point I feel the world slipping away, but I don’t recognize why. I pray for the first time in my life, I pray to die; why should I go on living? What’s the point now?
My vision grows dark, I feel old tears drying on my cheeks while new ones are still forming. I blink and unleash another torrent of salty wetness as my head grows heavy and before I know it I’m asleep.
---
“It wasn’t always this way you know,” Agnes smiles down at me. I’m a child again, sitting on her knee as she tells me stories.
“What way, Aggie?” I ask, my words are muffled around one of the hard caramels she gives me every time I visit her.
Agnes laughs and turns the page of the great big album she’s showing me, “Brutal…cold…uncaring…”
“What’s that mean?” I look up at her and she smiles down at me.
“Of course you wouldn’t know, you’re so young, you’ve never known anything else.”
I blink up at her; I can feel the sweet, sugary saliva spilling down my chin. She points at a photo and I look down at it.
“This was my husband,” Her voice is always soft and warm, but now I can sense something different. She sounds sad.
“What is his name?”
“Bernard…his name was Bernard…”
“Where is he? I never met him before.”
“No, I’m afraid you wouldn’t have. He died many years ago, before you were born even,” She smiles as I twist up my face, it’s impossible to imagine that anything happened before I was alive.
“Was it during the cebebration?” I still can’t speak properly, my immature lips and tongue have difficulty pronouncing words when they are unhindered. While I’m at Agnes’ house my mouth is always stuffed full with sugary treats which don’t help at all.
Agnes smacks the back of my head and my candy flies free, hitting the ground. I rub the spot where she hit and stare up at her, confused, “The only thing worth celebrating today is your birthday, child. I don’t want to hear you speak like that again.”
“But…at school they say –“
“To hell with school!” Agnes spits the words out and I feel their weight, “You and I know better than them, don’t we?”
I smile and she smiles back, she looks down at her photos and I see tears in her eyes, “What did happen to him?” I ask as I touch the plastic covering which holds the picture in place.
“Bernard was a very brave person, don’t ever forget that. Just like your mom and dad! Just like you!”
I chew on my lips and try with all my might to imprint the image of Bernard’s face into my memory, this is what bravery looks like, “That’s not what they say at school…”
“What did I say about school?” Agnes grabs hold of my face and stares down at me, “Don’t listen to what they say, those people are full of lies. All you have to do is play along okay? It’s all just a game, you smile and nod but we both know the truth, right?”
I smile at her, she’s rough but she always knows the right thing to say. All of my life she’s taught me that it’s important to ask questions, but never out loud. Questions can keep me alive, but not if the wrong person hears me ask.
I turn back to the photos and see a young girl; I point at her and ask, “Who’s that Aggie?”
Agnes doesn’t respond, she stares down at the page and touches the back of my head – more gently than before. I turn to look at her dreamy smile and she looks away from me, “Don’t worry about her, okay?”
“Why?”
“She’s just…she’s not important,” Agnes says as she closes the big book and puts it down beside her chair, “Why don’t we go see what else we can busy ourselves with, hmm?”
I hear the trumpeting from outside and Agnes squeezes my hand. I look to her windows but she’s covered them so well it’s impossible to see outside, “What if they don’t come back?”
Agnes listens to my question and I see her eyes become glassy, she chews on her lips and puts her hands on my face, “They will, I promise,” I try to smile but just then the screaming begins. I look back to the window and Agnes forces my head around to look at her, “Don’t listen to it baby, keep your focus here okay?”
She stands up and carefully picks a record from her shelf, she puts it on and I take a deep breath with her as a woman’s low and soulful voice plays over the sounds of the celebration. She sings along with the slow lyrics and I try to join her, but I don’t know the words. She’s taught me the names of the instruments, and which one sounds like what. There’s a piano, a saxophone, a bass, the bass is my favorite. It’s low and hard to hear, I strain my ears to pick it out and every time I do I smile to myself. Agnes tells me she loves the saxophone, it’s almost like the commencement trumpet but a little more beautiful, a little less sad.
Agnes goes to her cupboard and I know what’s coming, she takes out the brightly coloured paints and sets them out on her table, “What do you want to paint today, hmm?”
I smile and touch each jar of beautiful paint, they’re like jewels to me and they make me feel rich and happy. I grab a paint brush and feel the fraying bristles, they’re soft and I rub them against my cheek, “I’m going to paint a kitty,” I smile and she does too.
“I’ll paint one with you then, how does that sound?”
We paint pictures of cats and dogs, she asks me to make the sounds they make and we laugh together, despite the screams echoing in from the street. When it’s time for me to go to sleep, Agnes knows I won’t be able to do it alone, she puts me down in her bed and crawls in with me, cradling me, covering my ears so I can’t hear the screaming and the crazed laughter that haunt my dreams every day of the year, not just today.
“Happy birthday, you little brat,” She whispers and starts to sing the low, slow jazz songs from her records.
“Thanks, old lady,” A dreamy smile creeps across my face as I drift away, slipping out of consciousness and trying not to let the horrific screams seep into my dreams.