“Mary May!” Art suddenly says, and I turn around quickly.
Mary May stands at the door, watching us, back in her Mary Poppins Whistleblower uniform, and her face is a picture of anger, twisted up so tight it’s as though if she unscrews it, her face will come flying at me like a catapult.
I instinctively leave the room, not wanting to be locked inside the windowless space. Art follows.
“I’m taking her out of here. She’s innocent, Mary May,” Art says, standing in front of me, blocking her way. “Did you see the broadcast? It’s all over.”
“I don’t care about any broadcast,” she says dismissively, as if she has no idea of what has gone on. “You were in my home,” she says to me slowly. “You spoke to my mother. You were in her bedroom.”
Art turns to look at me, and the look on his face would be comical under different circumstances, but not now, because when we both look at her, she has a gun in her hand.
SEVENTY-FOUR
“WHOA! MARY MAY, put that thing away!” Art shouts, hands out in front of him. “What the … where the hell did you get that thing?”
She ignores him, as though she can’t hear or see him, as though it’s just me and her in the room. She takes a few steps forward and I start to edge back. I think of the unlocked doors in the holding cells downstairs, and I hope they will realize it, that whenever they do come around, they’ll be able to escape.
“You were in my home,” she repeats. “You were in my mother’s bedroom.”
“You were in my home, too,” I say, hearing the shake in my voice. “You took things from me, remember? I was just getting them back.”
“What did you do to my mother?” she asks, as though she hasn’t heard a word that I’ve said at all, like she’s just listening to the voice inside her own head.
Her pace quickens and I continue to back away, feeling Art’s hand on my elbow. I don’t want to turn my back to her, I don’t want to test whether she will shoot me. My legs feel weak and yet there’s a delirious giddiness awakening inside me. A feeling that none of this can be real, that after all of this struggle, it ends like this, a psychotic episode at the hands of a sad, lonely woman.
“I didn’t do anything to your mother,” I say nervously.
“Keep walking,” Art whispers, guiding me down a corridor. We walk backward, always keeping Mary May and her raised gun in our sight. As soon as we turn a corner and she’s out of sight, we pivot and run.
Art runs to the exit door. He waves his security card over the panel beside it, but nothing happens. Everything has been locked up to prevent protestors from breaking in to the building.
“It needs a real key,” I tell him, and he curses.
He takes out a ring of keys and with trembling hands starts to try the first key in the door.
Mary May appears, walking at the same speed; slow, deliberate steps, hand holding the gun extended out in front of her.
“She said you sat by her bedside,” she continues as though in a trance. “She called you her angel.” She cocks her head to the side. “Why would she say that, Celestine?”
“I don’t, I can’t…” I can barely formulate a thought as I stare at the gun pointed at me.
Art continues working his way through the key chain for the correct key. These doors are old and the keys are enormous. Art has only ever had to use the security system where he waves his card, and he’s clearly unfamiliar with the locks. I’m backed up against Art, but Mary May continues to advance toward me.
“She said she wanted to see the others. I told her no. Alice doesn’t deserve to see Mommy, not after what she did. None of them do. They all knew about him and her. Just before she went, Mommy said she forgave me. Forgave me for what?” Mary May asks. “Everybody gets what they deserve. I don’t need her forgiveness. They all got what they deserved. Alice stole him from me and they all knew about it. All of them. I spared Mommy,” she says. “I did her a favor. You were in my house. What did you do to my mother?”
“I told you I didn’t do anything. I retrieved what was mine, the things you stole from my bedroom. I took them back. I found the footage you were searching for. We put it on TV. Everybody saw it. Everybody knows. It’s all over.” I try to bring her back to the here and now.
“She woke up this morning. Ten past eight. She wouldn’t eat her eggs. Two boiled eggs and two asparagus is what she eats every morning. She wouldn’t eat them. Odd.”
Despite the situation, I snigger, nervously I suppose.
“I didn’t do anything to stop her from eating eggs,” I reply.
Art swears behind me as he tries another key in the door.
“Yes, you did. Because she’s dead now.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
“WHAT?” I WHISPER.
Art stops at the door and looks up at me.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say. “I swear. Open the door,” I say desperately now, understanding her motivation. Her mother is dead; she blames me; she’s holding a gun: This cannot end well.
“She didn’t eat her eggs,” she continues. “She always eats her eggs, so I knew something was up. She said an angel had come to her during the night and it was time for her to go to the Lord. I told her not to be silly. Said she was having ridiculous notions again, because sometimes she did. Things would come and go for her. She asked for a bath at lunchtime and I bathed her.”
Art finally finds the correct key and pushes the door open. I smell the fresh air immediately, hear the sounds of shouting in the air. I breathe in the air and step outside, moving away from her as quickly as I can. However, it’s a courtyard, it’s wide, it’s vast, a perfect square of cobblestones: There’s nowhere to hide. I’m a sitting duck for Mary May.