Droplets of water sprayed her hand and cheek.
“Fuck it.” Emory leaned forward again as far as she could, pulling at the handcuffs behind her. She stretched until it seemed her neck would snap under the strain. The metal of the cuffs chewed at her wrist, and she forced herself to ignore the pain, her thoughts on one thing and one thing only—water.
She tugged forward.
Her tongue brushed the surface of the metal plate for a second, only a quick second at best, and the taste of rust found her lips. It happened so fast and the metal was so cold, she couldn’t tell if she had actually gotten any water or simply imagined the cold metal to be water. Certainly it wasn’t enough to quench her thirst. The little sample only made her thirst worse.
She wouldn’t cry. She refused to cry.
She leaned in as far as she could and pulled at the handcuffs with all her strength. The metal cut at her wrist, and she didn’t care. Emory used all her weight to pull forward. Something gave and her face went forward. Her tongue found the water—icy, refreshing, dirty, rusty water pooled at the center of the plate. Her tongue dipped into the puddle for only an instant before the gurney tipped and crashed down on her back, slamming her head against the floor, sending all to an even deeper black.
33
Diary
I located a breakfast tray in the cupboard and loaded it up with a few slices of toast, a banana, orange juice, and a cup of Cheerios (my personal favorite breakfast selection). I wanted to add milk, but when I checked the refrigerator I only found a cup or so left in the carton. Father happened to be fond of milk, and I would never consider crossing him by taking the last of it, knowing full well Mother had not purchased a replacement when she last went to the market.
The steps leading to the basement seemed steeper since I’d last descended them. I eyed the tall glass of orange juice perched precariously on the tray, the liquid sloshing back and forth, pausing as it reached the lip and racing back to the other side with my next step. If the juice were to find its way up and over the lip of the glass, the resulting spill would surely dampen the toast, and I couldn’t have that. I felt guilty enough for tricking Mrs. Carter last night. I had no intention of compounding that guilt by serving soggy toast.
Mother started up the staircase as I neared the bottom. She was carrying a bucket, a few rags, and a large scrub brush. Her hands were dressed in long plastic yellow gloves that went nearly to her elbows.
“Good morning, Mother.”
She glanced up at me and grinned. “Well, aren’t you a kindhearted little soul! Our guest will be tickled pink when she sees you. She’s been mumbling so. I can only imagine she has a hankering for a nice meal and a little something to moisten her palate.”
As she slipped past me, she took a nibble from one of the toast slices and placed the remainder back on the plate. “Make sure she understands the rules. I’d hate to see her get off on the wrong foot so early in her stay.”
I had to agree.
“Not too many lights, either. We don’t want to aggravate your father with a hefty power bill.”
“Yes, Mother.”
I watched her ascend the stairs, my keen sense of smell taking in the mix of damp copper and bleach hanging in the air.
I spotted Mrs. Carter a moment before she saw me. Mother (or possibly Father) had handcuffed her left hand to the same water pipe her husband had been attached to only hours earlier. Rather than sitting on the floor, she was perched on Father’s old cot. Her right hand was cuffed to the opposite side. He once told me he brought the cot back from the war. It seemed like the rickety old thing had seen its share of fighting in days long past. The thick canvas was tattered and worn, and there were several holes in the faded green material. The metal legs, no doubt shiny when new, were now dull and covered in rust. The frame creaked under her weight as she shifted slightly to her left.
She was lying down, whether out of comfort or necessity, I couldn’t be sure. There was little light. Mother had extinguished all the bulbs except one, which hung bare from a wire at the center of the basement. Although the air was still, the light swung gently back and forth, casting thick, dancing shadows along the walls and floor.
Mother (or Father) had the foresight to place her on the right side of the pipe, leaving the space on the left previously occupied by Mr. Carter free from obstructions. The bright red blood that flowed so freely last night was now gone, replaced by a dark stain on the concrete. I imagine Mother had scrubbed at the mess with the same enthusiasm she applied while creating it, but blood was a stubborn mistress and not one to release her hold once she got her snarled old hands wrapped around something she liked. I made a mental note to suggest Mother apply cat litter. Not only was litter absorbent, but it would help mask the odor.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Carter recognized the scent of her husband’s blood and sweat.
I nearly dropped the tray when she sat up and stared at me, her eyes bloodshot and large. She cried out from beneath a gag, but I couldn’t make out what she said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carter. Would you care for some breakfast?”
She struggled to draw breath through her gag. Her nose was no doubt mucked up with snot from all the crying, but I tried not to think about that. Despite enduring what was surely not the best of nights, she was still rather pretty. I could see past the bruises and the right eye that had gone black. Her left seemed better, not yet normal but no longer as swollen as it was only a few hours earlier.
Setting the tray down on the edge of her cot, I considered the headache that welcomed me this morning and imagined her head was most likely worse. Aside from the beating, she’d drunk far more than I, and although she seemed experienced, I seriously doubted she’d escaped without a hangover. “How about some of the dog’s hair?”
Her gaze became puzzled and I realized my error. “I’m sorry, a little hair of the dog?”
She continued to stare at me with bewilderment, her head cocked slightly to the left. At least the screaming had stopped.
“For your headache? Father has bourbon upstairs, and a little sip did wonders for me. I know the time may be early, but there is no reason to spend the day in pain.”
Mrs. Carter shook her head slowly, her eyes fixed on me.
I nodded at the tray. “Left to our own devices, Father and I aren’t the best of cooks. Perhaps tomorrow Mother will prepare something. I’m sure that would prove to be a treat indeed. Would you care to eat?”