Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [36]
I hear cans hitting the counter. Good. If I slip downstairs real quiet, maybe I can make it out the front door before she’s finished. After all, it’s a new house with no creaks, carpet everywhere.
I step into the upstairs hall. I see the back of her legs heading into the living room. What a break! She didn’t glance upstairs. I retreat back inside the master bedroom and stand stock-still, listening for clues about what to do next.
From downstairs, I hear someone talking. Mrs. McCready’s listening to her voice mail on the speaker phone. And then ... humming. It’s coming upstairs!
Should I run to the en suite bathroom? But what if she has to pee? I can hide behind the shower curtain. No, there isn’t one; it’s made of glass. At the last minute, I dive under the bed. I can see what’s happening from a crack between the floor and where the eiderdown ends.
Flash. The door to Jason’s room is open. What if she sees the mess?
But she isn’t paying attention. She comes into the room. She walks towards me. She stops, turns and sits on the edge of the bed. She sits very still. I hear a gentle clink of ice cubes. She must be having a “tomato juice.” I hear her set the glass down on the night table and sigh.
All this time, I’m staring at the back of her high heels. My brain’s fried. Like, I’m having palpitations, but all I can think is: She wears high heels shopping? And now she slips them off. She stands up, walks to the closet and unzips her dress. She hangs it up and comes back to the bed in her bra and panties. She crawls under the eiderdown.
Oh no. She’s taking a nap.
What do I do? I can’t very well crawl out. But the longer I lie here, the more I worry about Jason. What’ll happen if he comes home and I’m still here?
Lucky for me, Mrs. McCready can’t sleep. Within minutes she’s rolling over like a dog doing tricks. She lets rip a big ripe fart. I’m so amazed I don’t know whether to gag or laugh.
“Lord,” she mutters and gets up. I watch her put on her bathrobe, walk out of the room and head towards the stairs.
I wait just long enough to make sure she’s really gone, then crawl out of hiding. Peek into the hall. The coast is clear. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs. Listen hard. No sound.
Here goes nothing.
I race down the stairs as fast as I can—and right into Mrs. McCready at the bottom.
She screams. Her left hand’s clutched to her throat. Her right hand’s clutched around another glass of “tomato juice.” “Leslie!”
“Mrs. McCready!”
“What are you doing here?”
“School’s out early. Jason said to come by.”
“He’s here?”
“No. He dropped me off. But he should be back soon. He’s doing an errand.”
She looks fuzzy. “How long have you been here?”
“I’m not sure.”
Then it’s like she sees me for the first time. “My god, Leslie, you’re a mess.”
“Am I?”
“Are you all right?”
I fake a laugh. “Oh, you mean my clothes and stuff. Today, at school, it was Hobo Day.”
“Hobo Day?”
Talk about dumb. But I can’t back out now. “We were supposed to come dressed like tramps. Student Council thought it’d be great for school spirit. We had to bring cans of food, too, for these boxes in the lobby we’re donating to the Food Bank. I brought a can of spaghetti.”
Mrs. McCready considers this. “What a wonderful idea.” Thank god she’s drunk.
“Yeah. It was lots of fun. But I better get going. I just remembered Mom needs me at home to help her clean up. She’s having friends over for bridge.”
“Why don’t you wait till Jason gets back? He can give you a ride.”
“That’s okay. I can take the bus. I don’t want to be a drag.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“No, really. It’s no big deal.”
“Well, suit yourself.” Mrs. McCready passes a hand vaguely across her forehead and stares into the air at a point somewhere behind the middle of my forehead. She’s elegant, even in a yellow chenille bathrobe, all limbs and high cheekbones. But she’s Botoxed to the gills, and her eyebrows are plucked and painted, which makes her look permanently surprised.
I must be hallucinating, because she doesn’t even look like herself anymore. She looks like Ms. Graham. Ms. Graham