The Little Sleep by Paul Tremblay

Author:Paul Tremblay
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FIVE

An old woman answers the door. She might be the same age as Brill the happy cabbie. She’s short and hunched, which maximizes her potential for shortness. Her hair is curly and white, so thick it could be a wig.

She says, “Can I help you?” After getting an eyeful of me, she closes the front door a bit, hiding behind the slab of wood. I don’t blame her. I don’t exactly have a face for the door-to-door gig.

I say, “Yes, hi—um, are you Mrs. Sullivan?”

“No, I’m her Aunt Patty.” She wears a light blue dress with white quarter-sized polka dots, and a faux-pearl necklace hangs around her neck. I know the pearls are fake because they’re almost as big as cue balls.

Aunt Patty. Doesn’t everyone have an Aunty Patty? I give her my best opening statement. “My late father was an old friend of Brendan’s. He grew up with Brendan in Southie. When I heard of his passing and the arrangements, saw I wouldn’t be able to attend the wake or the funeral, I felt compelled to come down and give my family’s condolences in person.”

I hope that’s enough to win over the jury. I look at her and see conflict. Aunt Patty doesn’t know what to do. Aunt Patty keeps looking behind her but there’s no one there to talk to, no one to make the decision for her. She’s here to cook and clean and help keep the grieving widow safe from interlopers and unwanted distractions. She’s here to make sure that grief happens correctly and according to schedule.

I know, because Ellen has been part of so many grief squads in Southie that she might as well register as a professional and rent herself out. Maybe Ellen does it to remember Tim and grieve for him all over again or she’s trying to add distance, going through a bunch of little grievings to get over the big one.

I say, “I’ve come a long way. I won’t stay too long, I promise.”

That cinches it. Aunt Patty gives me a warm milk smile and says, “Oh, all right, come in. Thank you for coming.” She opens the door wide behind her.

I’m in. I say, “You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me in. Means a lot. Is Janice doing okay?”

“About as well as can be imagined. She’s been very brave.” Aunt Patty shuffle-leads me through the dining room, our feet making an odd rhythm on the hardwood floor.

It’s dark in here. The shades are drawn over the bay windows. The house is in mourning. It’s something I can feel. Sullivan died somewhere in this house. Maybe even the front room. Gun under his chin, bullet into his brain. Coerced or set up or neither, this is serious stuff. I can’t screw any of it up.

There are pictures and decorations on the walls, but it’s too dark to see them. There are also cardboard boxes on the dining room table. The boxes are brown and sad, both temporary and final.

Aunt Patty limps, favoring her left side, probably a hip.

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