Albert (Part 1 of a three-part short story)

by Athalie Soleyn Tue, Jun 12. 2012

The silence was unbearable. For nearly two days, she had been tolerating Albert’s reticence, but she was getting quite annoyed with him. Her small frame moved around the tidy kitchen with the easy familiarity of someone who had lived nowhere else. She opened a cupboard and took out two white teacups just as the kettle whistled shrilly. She always timed it perfectly. Carefully, she placed some stiff, dried leaves in each cup then poured the hot water over them.{{more}} She smiled as they softened and danced in the cups. The scent of bay leaves and lemon filled the air unnoticed.

Balancing both cups, she walked slowly to Albert’s dark bedroom. His bedroom gave him an unrestricted view of the living room and the front door; this had long agitated him as he hated bright lights, but it was the bigger of the two bedrooms and so he, being the older sibling, had earned it. She placed his tea next to the uneaten sandwich on the bedside table. The lettuce had shriveled. She had brought it in for him yesterday. She glanced around his room. There was not much to see; his bed held centre stage. Sighing, she broke the heavy silence.

“Some new people moved in next door, Bertie.”

Her voice was soft and lilting; like the inside of the house, it had not changed in over six decades. She took a small sip of her tea and waited. Bertie did not respond. She tried again.

“I’m sorry, Bertie.”

His refusal even to look at her made her leave the room. This was not the first time that Bertie had sulked in bed. Irritated, she left his bedroom door open. Bertie was really overdoing it this time. He had always been moody, ever since they were children. She should be accustomed to him by now, but she got lonely when she had no one with whom to talk. She went to the living room and turned on the old radio that sat in its place of duty on the polished mahogany centre table. The warbled mutterings of a far off announcer kept her company as she sat in her favourite chair, sipped her tea, and worried.

The sudden knocking on the front door startled her from her ruminations. This was a first; no one ever visited. The neighbours did not like Bertie. She knew that, but they did not know that she knew, and Bertie would never know. She would never tell him that she had overheard their whispered conversations about Bertie and her…she cut off the thought; she did not need to remind herself about their cruel words. No, she just would never tell Bertie what she had heard; she would never hurt him.

Gently, she set the teacup down beside the radio and made her way to the front door. Her small, shoed feet knowingly propelled her over every groove in the worn, faded carpet. The small brown fingers on her right hand pulled worryingly at the index finger on her left hand. Her small brown eyes flitted appraisingly over the living room, searching for any errant ornament or doily. Everything was where it should be. She smiled, small brown lips parting to reveal small, even teeth. She opened the door.

“Hi! We’re the Daniels. I’m Raymond and this is my wife Wendi. We just moved in next door and thought we’d come introduce ourselves.”

They smiled down at her graying head as she smiled happily at them. Then, the smell hit Wendi and she recoiled against her husband. Surprised, he turned to steady her and caught his first whiff of the pungent, noxious odour that was emanating from their neighbour’s home.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked, still smiling.

She was delighted; here were her first visitors. Oblivious to their discomfort, she opened the door wider.

“Come in,” she urged.

The smell was unmistakable. Flinging an arm up to cover his nose, Raymond gasped and blanched. Wendi audibly gagged. The small, old woman was greatly alarmed. She hastened to shut her front door. Clearly, these people were very ill. She could not allow them to make her Bertie sick. She could not let them inside.

(To be continued in next week’s Midweek – June 19)