Ryan Jahn - The Dispatcher

She takes another step up, gently rolling the ball of her foot onto the wood and then putting her weight upon it and pushing herself up. The step does not moan in protest as it would were Beatrice putting her weight upon it. It accepts Maggie silently. The only sounds she can hear at all: the muffled vibrations of the television coming through the walls and the rhythmic sound of her heart beating in her chest and ears and temples.

She takes another step-oh, God, don’t let it make any noise-and that is followed by yet another.

By the time she reaches the top of the stairs her palms feel itchy and her throat constricted. Her breath wheezes into and out of her through a throat like a kinked garden hose.

She swallows.

Then grabs the doorknob. It is cool to the touch and smooth. She pulls. The sliver of light cutting its way into the basement becomes a block of light splashing door-shaped against the wall to her left. The shadow of her arm in relief against the wall.

On the other side of the door she can see scarred green linoleum flooring, dark cabinets, a laminated kitchen counter piled with filthy dishes. The oven is ancient, and while it once must have been white it is now splattered with all manner of food. The window above the sink is water-spotted. The ceiling is fly-specked.

A cockroach scrambles from a stack of plates piled like porcelain pancakes and runs across the counter toward the sink, into which it disappears.

To her left she can hear the television and though she can neither see nor hear them she knows Henry and Beatrice are in there. But then she does hear them. She hears one of them.

The floor creaks just the other side of the wall.

She pulls back from the door and eases it shut but for a crack and continues to peer out to the kitchen. Her breath catches in her throat. Her eyes are wide and feel very dry, but she is afraid to blink. Beatrice enters the kitchen. Maggie’s muscles tighten and lock her motionless.

The woman scratches between her legs through the fabric of her dress as she walks to the stainless steel sink. She turns on the faucet. Pipes rattle and moan. The faucet spits a wad of rusted water, and then flows orange for a moment before going clear. Soon the water is steaming, fogging the window above the sink despite the heat outside.

Beatrice squirts orange dish soap onto a green scouring sponge, grabs a dirty plate-Maggie’s lunch plate-from a stack of them, holds it under water a moment, and then scrubs at it. Once it’s clean she rinses it and sets it into a rusty dish drainer. She grabs a second plate.

Her back is to Maggie. Maggie thinks that if she doesn’t get out now she might never get out. The door is unlocked and she’s standing at the threshold. She pulls the door open and simply stands in the doorway a moment. She is waiting to be noticed. Her heart is beating so loud Beatrice almost has to hear it. Except she doesn’t. With her back to Maggie she continues to wash dishes.

‘Get back here before she sees you.’

Maggie jumps and glances over her shoulder.

Borden stands on a step halfway up the stairs, only his horse’s head in the light, the rest of him hidden in shadows. His eyes are like great pits spooned out with an ice cream scooper. His mouth is covered with a frothy foam.

Maggie swallows. Then she shakes her head at him. No. I’m not coming back. She turns her back on him. Beatrice is still standing at the sink washing dishes.

‘Get back here.’

No.

Though she does not know the layout of the house she knows she cannot go left-the sound of the TV is coming from there-so she turns right and walks as carefully as she can, praying-God, please-that the floor does not creak beneath her feet. One step, two step, red step, blue step.

Beatrice puts another plate into the dish drainer.

Ahead of her and to her right a door opening onto a hallway. Old-timey pictures hang crooked on the wall on the other side of the door. A yellow light splashes across them from somewhere. The light is rippled with shadow and reminds her of light reflected off water. She hopes the yellow light is coming from the sun. She hopes she is that close to outside, to the daylight world.

Another glance toward Beatrice. The woman is picking up a dirty saucepan. It has dried pieces of cabbage sticking to it. Beatrice hums as she scrubs at the pan. Maggie recognizes the tune. Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong, for we are weak and He is-

A dog barks. Maggie jumps. A squeal escapes her throat. She slaps her hands-both of them-over her mouth, trying to hold it in, but it is too late. It’s out on the air where Beatrice can hear it.

She knew there was a dog up here. She has heard its nails clicking on the floor above her head for years. She even knows its name: Buckshot. But until now she has never seen it. It is standing in the doorway toward which she has been walking. It is waist high and the color of tree bark. Its tongue hangs from its mouth and its tail thumps wildly against the doorframe as it wags.

Beatrice has stopped washing dishes. She now stands looking at Maggie. Her shoulders are slumped and her mouth agape. Her hands hang empty at her sides and drip water onto the dirty green linoleum.

Buckshot growls and the growl grows slowly into a series of quick barks.

Maggie jumps again.

From the basement just other side of the doorway Borden whispers loudly to her: ‘Come back now and you won’t get into trouble.’

‘Henry!’ Beatrice says. ‘Henry, she’s got out! Sarah’s got out the basement!’

Maggie glances behind her but Henry is not there. He will be coming soon. She glances to the doorway where Buckshot stands and blocks her way, his tail thumping and thumping against the wall. He is scruffy and scars line his face and the side of his body, but he is not Henry. She runs toward him. As she runs past he licks her hand and his tail thumps against her hip, but he does not bite, nor does he bark again. She glances right and sees the hallway leading deeper into the house. To her left is a wooden door, the top half filled with yellow pebbled glass which allows the light to come in but does not allow visitors to get a good view of the interior. She grabs the door handle and thumbs down a brass paddle. She pulls.

A wall of heat greets her and bright sunlight like opening an oven door and finding an entire universe within. Wind blows against her face.

‘Sarah, get back here! She’s getting out, Henry!’

She turns back to the open door. Beatrice’s fingers at the back of her neck. She runs across the porch and leaps, arcing through the air and down onto the gravel driveway. The sharp gray stones dig into the soles of her bare feet. She almost falls, but does not. She looks around, trying to figure out where her best chance lies. To her left, a grazing pasture in which a few cows stand dumbly working their jaws. To her right, woods of hickory and oak and pine. Maybe she can disappear into them. She runs toward the trees.

Her heart thumps in her chest and her throat feels dry and scratchy, but her skin is hot from the sun, a wonderful feeling, and she is outside outside outside with a hot breeze blowing against her back as she runs, pushing her forward, pushing her toward freedom.

As she reaches the wall of trees just other side of the driveway she looks back over her shoulder and sees Henry running toward her. Running after her. An old man with his big gut swinging back and forth like the pendulum on a grandfather clock, a few strands of gray comb-over hair blowing in the wind, face a grimace, eyes cruel, bulbous red nose bursting forth like an internal hemorrhage about to rupture.

‘You better,’ he says angrily between great heaving breaths, ‘you better stop, Sarah!’ Another breath. ‘You fuckin’ stop!’