Recording the Future

(Entry for Round 10 of NPR's Three-Minute Fiction. Mona Simpson asked for 600 words in the form of a voice mail message.)
    [Sounds better when read aloud]

Hello, sixty-five-year-old me.

I wonder if you recognize your own voice. I know you won’t remember having done this. How impressed am I over this technological feat of mine? Have I hung up on myself yet?

I assume you’re standing at the front window while you listen to this message. Is it arrogant of me to assume I’m still alive? There’s no particular reason why I shouldn’t continue on this earth, in this house, at this number. But if the past five years have taught me anything, it would be how fragile life is. How tenuous our hold on it. I can see me nodding my head. We still understand each other. Good.

I was going to wish me a happy retirement. Wishing me a happy birthday might be just another kick in the pants, right? But I doubt I’m anywhere near retiring. Even if the economy has bounced back by now, I was never more than a minimum wage kinda girl, was I?

There are some questions I won’t ask, in case the kids want to hear this later. I know you know what I mean, and I hope I’m answering with a smile. If so, then I’m glad I called. I hope I’ve found some more people to love. I know it’s tough. Still, I hope.

No need to ask about the kids. Those worries are always the same, aren’t they, and they never stop, do they?

What was so important that it had to come back and bite me fifteen years later? I guess I want to make sure that I finally got my act together. After all the mortgage payments and school books, all the career moves and trips to the dentist, have I found time for me? To do what I always wanted to do? If not, it’s okay. I want to remind you that there’s still time.

Have you allowed yourself the time to create that work of art? You know you have it in you. You can still feel it, I’m sure. Have you sat down, one entire day after another, and let it wash over you, under you, around you until you can feel it move you?

Did you buy the divan I dream of? The plush burgundy one that’s just as suited to being softly ravished upon as to reading?

Did you line the hall in shelving to hold all the books, or are they still in towering columns crowding the chair and desk, waiting for the right moment to topple in and imprison me forever?

Do I still want sometimes so desperately to be gently ravished?

Have I finished the Complete Works of Shakespeare?

Am I acting my age?

Have I lost my eyesight? God I hope not. Scary thought. Sorry.

I can’t seem to formulate the questions I thought I needed to ask. I’m standing here by the window, wondering why I needed to call. I guess I want to make sure I’m okay, in case I’m feeling that there’s no one left. In case we never did get over him. In case things turned out worse than I expected. If that’s the case, I’m sorry. In that case, I do know what you’re going through.

We’ve been here before. You’ll get through it. I’m persevering.

I hope I’m still drinking. If so, have one on me. I’ll be having one on you later.

Bye now, and please take care of yourself. I’ve got another twenty good years in me yet.

Okay. Bye.

Here's the winning story: http://www.npr.org/2013/03/09/173873714/three-minute-fiction-the-round-10-winner-is

# 53 (NPR's Three-Minute Fiction, Round 9)

#53

In the dream the child was all grown up, looking like one of the grandparents, although Dana couldn't say which. The close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair was Jean’s certainly, although the executive suit with the number 53 stitched in blue and gold on the lapel was fitted to Remy's trim build. Dana shook her head and reached for the baby, who was damp and hungry.

"How dare I have you looking like some of old fart?" she said as she bent to whisper against the child's belly. "You looked so serious, though, like the weight of the world was on your shoulders." She looked up. "Kind of like you do now, in fact." She blew air through her lips to make the baby chortle.

"That's better." Dana settled onto the couch to nurse. "The room you were in looked familiar, but it wasn't home." She clicked the mp3 remote and the Grand Theft Orchestra kicked in. "Not anyone's home that I know."

After two songs, Dana put the baby over her shoulder and patted to the rhythm of Trout Heart Replica until she got a resounding burp, so loud that it made them both laugh. She changed breasts and now the baby began toying with the buttons of Dana's shirt, her oddly long fingers pressing each button purposefully. It was then that Dana took notice:

"You're going to be a lefty, aren't you?"

The baby continued to suckle, pressing the buttons as if in some kind of code.

Dana leaned her head back and thought of the dream again. Her grown-up, grandmotherly daughter was standing with a bunch of suits in a room that was formal and elegant; bright, with a fireplace and a painting of George Washington over the mantelpiece.

"It's so strange to think of you being grown up, being older than I am, being old, when I don't even know what your voice is going to sound like or whether you'll be good at sports or at playing the piano."

Dana gazed down at the diaper-and-onesie-clad child and smiled. "At least you weren't all dressed in Star Trek uniforms," she said, "Lieutenant Uhura."

The baby stopped sucking and smiled.

"You like that, do you?" She repeated the name again, “Uhura”, thinking of the gold uniform with the Enterprise chevron over the heart, when she remembered another detail from the dream.

“Now why did you have a spread-eagled eagle on your jacket where your Division Patch should be?” Dana teased. “I’m going to have to get this dream analyzed after all.”

Dana held the baby up to burp her again, then danced her across the small living room. It would only be a couple more weeks before she would be packing her off to daycare and returning to work.

"Shall we go pick up Aunt Amy down at the shelter?" Dana carried the baby over to the chest of drawers, pulled out miniature overalls: "We'll need some sturdy duds for the meet and greet, won't we?"

Dana slung a diaper bag over her shoulder, sat the baby on her hip and grabbed the folded-up stroller from the corner by the front door.

"Maybe one of the girls can tell me what it means to have the number 53 stitched on a suit lapel." Dana shook her head. “I can just imagine what they’ll say about the bird!”

She put the baby into the stroller and dangled the key chain in front of her. When the baby reached out her hand to make a grab for them, Dana smiled.

"Yup," she said, "you're definitely a lefty."

My Round 9 entry for NPR's Three-Minute Fiction contest, which had to revolve around a US President.
The winning entry is here: http://www.npr.org/2012/11/04/164264711/three-minute-fiction-the-round-9-winner-is

Softball at Dusk (NPR 3-Minute Fiction, round 8)

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

Evening was spreading a bluish shadow over the front yard when Jackie’s mother called again from the kitchen. "Didn't you hear what I said?" Jackie stopped short of the door and backed up the stairs.

"Joanne's the one who left it there," Jackie said. "Not me."

Her father's car crunched over the gravel driveway. Jackie listened for the slam of the car door. Her father would set things straight, make Joanne get her stupid ball, tousle Jackie's hair. The garage door opened and closed. Her father sat heavily on the stairs to take off his shoes, and her mother raised the tone of her voice.

"Jackie, go get the ball from the yard. Don't make me ask you again!"

"I didn't leave it out there," she said evenly, wondering if her father would make Joanne go to bed without any dinner.

"Jackie!" her father's voice boomed below her. "Get over here right this minute!"

Not daring to disobey, Jackie walked back down the steps to where her father stood by the front door. "It's not my ball," she whined, "I didn’t leave it there."

"I didn't ask who did what. Get out there and bring it in."

"It's not..."

Her father pulled her across the threshold and smacked her bottom, sending her stumbling across the porch into the murky twilight. The door clicked shut behind her. She stood in the dampening grass and tasted the metal onset of tears, blinking them back as the white softball went in and out of focus across the grey expanse of lawn. The unfairness of it engulfed her where she stood listening to the swish of cars passing on the road out past the wooden fence.

She shuffled down the brick path that lead to the driveway and the cold, dark, hungry world beyond. She stopped next to the umbrella tree, the showy one she had never climbed before. Her sister couldn’t climb trees. Jackie reached out and with a small jump grabbed a branch, swung her legs up. She eased into the crook where the thick branches spread out, trussed in heavy, oval leaves. She tucked her feet up under her and was hidden absolutely, sheltered and unafraid.

She sat wishing that she had her book, watching for a light in their bedroom window. Her father would appear soon. He would drag Joanne out and make her pick up the softball, send her to bed early, then come back outside and stand under the tree. "I’m sorry," he would say quietly before holding his arms out for Jackie to climb into, pretending not to hug her as he set her on the ground.

The light came on in her bedroom, then went out again. Across the street the McCarthy’s spaniel barked sharply. Cars continued to swish by, brake lights blinking red through her leafy blind. Jackie let a stream of tears dry on her face, swiped the back of her hand against her nose. Her stomach grumbled. It was so unfair. She dangled her legs against the rough bark, swung herself out of the tree and landed softly, dropping to her knees. She ripped at blades of grass and held them to her nose, breathed the crisp green smell. She stood to brush herself off, then walked to where the softball lay bright against the dark lawn and picked it up. She tossed it into the air and caught it again twice before turning towards the front door that shone orange under the powerful porch light.

(Versión en castellano)

Cerró el libro, lo dejó en la mesa, y finalmente, decidió pasar por la puerta.

El atardecer tendía su penumbra azul sobre el césped del jardín cuando la madre de Jackie volvió a gritar desde la cocina. -¿No me has oído? -Jackie se paró ante la puerta y volvió a subir las escaleras.

-Joanne la dejó fuera,- dijo Jackie.- No fui yo.

El coche de su padre sonó en el camino de tierra y Jackie esperaba el cierre de su puerta. Su padre pondría todo en su sitio, obligaría a Joanne a recoger su propia pelota. Despeinaría a Jackie con la mano al pasar. La puerta del garaje se abrió y se cerró. Su padre se dejó caer en un escalón para quitarse los zapatos, y su madre elevó el tono de voz.

-Jackie, ¡ves y recoges esa pelota del jardín! ¡No me lo hagas repetir dos veces!

-Yo no la dejé allí fuera, -dijo con voz queda. Quizás su padre enviara a Joanne a la cama sin cenar.

-¡Jackie! –la voz de su padre retumbó desde la entrada. -¡Ven aquí ahora mismo!

No podía desafiarlo. Bajó las escaleras hasta llegar donde le esperaba su padre ante la puerta principal. –La pelota no es mía –se quejó. –Yo no la dejé fuera.

-No he preguntado quién dejó nada ni dónde. Sal a buscarlo.

-Es que no es m...

Su padre le arrastró por el umbral de la puerta donde le pegó en el culo, enviándole a cruzar el porche dando traspiés hasta entrar en el hosco atardecer. La puerta se cerró con un clic detrás. De pie sobre la hierba húmeda, notaba el gusto metálico de un principio de lágrimas que paró con los párpados al enfocar y desenfocar el punto blanco que era la pelota de softball a través de la extensión grisácea del césped. Le fue creciendo la sensación de injusticia con el siseo de los coches que pasaban por la carretera al otro lado de la verja de madera.

Jackie arrastraba los pies por el sendero de ladrillos que llevaba al camino del garaje. Más allá esperaba el mundo frío, oscuro y hambriento, pero se detuvo al lado de la morera, el gran árbol de sombra al que nunca antes había subido. Su hermana no podía subirse a los árboles. Jackie alargó los brazos. Con un pequeño salto se agarró a una rama y elevó las piernas. Se acomodó en la horquilla de donde se extendían las ramas gordas, adornadas con pesadas hojas ovaladas. Se acurrucó con los pies metidos debajo y quedó escondida de manera absoluta; protegida y sin miedo.

Aunque echaba de menos su libro, se contentó con vigilar la ventana de la habitación por si se encendía alguna luz. Pronto aparecería su padre. Arrastraría a Joanne por el brazo hasta obligarle a recoger la pelota de softball. Le enviaría a la cama antes de hora. Luego volvería a salir. Se pararía debajo del árbol. –Perdóname –diría pausadamente antes de extender sus brazos para que Jackie bajara, fingiendo no abrazarle mientras le depositaba sobre la tierra.

Se encendió la luz de la habitación y luego se volvió a apagar. Al otro lado de la calle el cocker de los McCarthy soltaba ladridos secos. Seguían con su siseo los coches, y las luces rojas de los frenos parpadeaban a través del frondoso escondite. Jackie dejó que se secara un reguero de lágrimas en las mejillas y restregó la mano contra la nariz. Hacían ruido sus tripas. No era justo. Dejó caer sus piernas contra la corteza áspera y saltó del árbol, cayendo suavemente a las rodillas. Rompía unas hojas de hierba y las llevó a la nariz, inhalando el nítido olor a verde. Se puso de pie y se sacudía la ropa, luego se acercó al lugar donde quedó luminosa la pelota contra la hierba oscura y la recogió. La tiró al aire y la volvió a coger dos veces antes de girar hacia la puerta principal que brillaba naranja bajo el potente foco del porche.

Jetlag

[NPR 3-Minute Fiction, round 7]

   Folding attic stairs had been pulled down from the ceiling so the heavy boxes could be pushed

up them one by one, then shoved across the floorboards to form a shelf against the western

slope of the roof. The boxes, uniform light-brown rectangles with the weight distributed evenly

among them, were full of books, but also of photo albums (the missing photos were in a bulging

envelope she had placed in the middle of the suitcase) and mementos to show her children

some day.

   The suitcase had no wheels or straps, just a handle. At first she put too few things in; her father

said it would rip. Then she added winter clothing until it pushed out too far and her mother said it

would rip. She pulled out a bulky sweater she would never wear anyplace but home and tucked

it back into the bottom drawer of the pine chest, on top of the blue and white scarf a senior boy

had wrapped around her freshman neck when he kissed her at a high-school basketball game

in the gym.

   She stood surrounded by her family as she watched the suitcase bounce and jerk its way along

the conveyor belt, then she stood surrounded by her family at the entrance to the security corral.

Finally she stood alone before the wall of departure panels, waiting in the lounge.

   Outside the arrivals exit stood her friend. Next to her stood an unfamiliar man, hugging her

friend familiarly. They all kissed each other’s cheeks, but did not hug. Her friend chattered,

eagerly waiting for her and the man to become friends. She smiled and rubbed her eyes,

apologizing for the jetlag. Lunch would be at a place the man knew out by the river. They would

drink sangria.

   In the one bedroom of her friend’s tiny apartment, she unloaded her things on the twin bed

nearest the wall. Because there was no desk in which to place her passport, her envelope of

photographs or her notebook and pen, she stowed them in the underwear drawer. The rest of

the clothes she hung in the section of closet she’d been allocated. There was a folding shelf for

shoes, and her empty suitcase, requisitioned as a repository for winter blankets, was hoisted

atop the closet.

   Her friend gave her a small tour of the medicine cabinet and the half-kitchen’s half refrigerator.

She was shown where the packaged food was stored, where the plates and glasses were

stacked, and where the purse with money for household expenses was kept. With a smile, her

friend led her to a small shelf beside the black and white television set and placed the airplane

novel between a treatise on contemporary political thought and a dictionary.

   She stood out on the wisp of a balcony hours before dawn and breathed in the foreign smell

of dry plateau, diesel and black tobacco. The empty street was bathed in an orange glow. She

listened to the grinding buses blocks away and then the steady drone of a Vespa, and thought

how impossibly far away it all was.

Bridget

460-character post for Three Minute Fiction warmup

If Bridget’s life had been a work of fiction, she could have put someone with a lesser sense of irony in charge of plot, and she would have awarded the main character a more clever disposition. If only she had been given a minute before the staging was set, she might have formulated with greater clarity and precision those three fateful wishes. As it turns out, quality, size and safety can be decisive in matters of fame, fortune and a shiny red sports car.

fiction, minute, three

Colateral (versión en castellano)

Había preparado el maletín empleando una lista mental que detallaba todo lo que pensaba no incluir. Desesperanza. El cepillo de dientes de él. La añoranza. Anticonceptivos. Impaciencia. Al sacar el pijama y dejarlo en la litera inferior, la que quedaba entre la mujer del mejor amigo y su favorita de las antiguas compañeras de clase, intentó recordar algún chiste que pudiera contar durante la cena del aniversario. Su hija se colgó de la litera superior y le dió un golpecito en el hombro.

¿Por qué tienes que contar un chiste?- preguntó.- No eres graciosa.

No tengo porqué contar un chiste- contestó,- y gracias por el cumplido. Sólo que me gustaría sentirme más parte del grupo, ¿sabes?

Pero si lo eres. Siempre venimos nosotras.

Son los colegas de Papa, no los míos, y eso lo sabes. La que quieren que venga eres tú en realidad. Ei, ¡podrías contar un chiste tú!

Clara resopló y se cayó de espaldas contra el colchón.- Sí, claro. Tú nunca te ríes cuando te cuento un chiste.

Tus chistes no tienen gracia.

¿Tenían gracia los chistes de Papa?

No.

Tampoco cuentan chistes las demás madres.

Ya, pero no soy las demás madres, ¿verdad? Me gustaría poder contar un chiste, como lo hacen los padres.

Era consciente de que se hallaba muy metida en un agujero del que convendría salir (¿cuál es la primera regla de los agujeros? para poder salir, primero deja de cavar.). ¿Dónde había guardado la tolerancia? ¿La paciencia? ¿La indiferencia? Cogió el neceser y lo agitó. ¿Dónde estaban las pastillas que dan la sensación de pertenecer? ¿La barra de labios para sonreír ante las conversaciones empezadas hace 25 años? ¿El perfume para borrar la peste de la soledad?

¿Y porqué no estás jugando con Jessica y Patricia? Son de tu edad.-

¿Es una obligación?- Clara miraba hacia la pared.

Por supuesto que no es ninguna obligación, pero por eso estamos aquí. No es por mi, desde luego.-

¿Por qué no te gustan los amigos de Papa?-

Paciencia. Allá, justo debajo de la novela de la mesita de noche.

¿Quién ha dicho que no me gustan los amigos de Papa? Estoy aquí, ¿verdad? Pero en el fondo lo hago por ti, así que porqué no te vas a jugar?- Se puso de pie para darle un toque en el hombro a Clara y vió que en sus pestañas brillaban lágrimas.- Clara, cariño, ¿qué te pasa?

Nada. Déjame en paz.- Se escabulló de la mano de su madre.- No quieren que juegue con ellas. Ni siquiera me hablan.

Benevolencia. Magnanimidad. Aunque no lo podía justificar, sabía cómo se sentía su hija. ¿Autocompasión? Desde luego que no la había incluido cuando hizo la maleta. Transigencia. Píldora no tragada. Compañerismo. Aquí mismo en su bolsillo trasero.

Vale, escucha.- Apartaba el flequillo de la frente de su hija.- Vamos a lavarnos la cara y peinarnos un poco y luego iremos al comedor a esperar la cena, ¿de acuerdo?- Calló un momento.- Vamos a pensar en un chiste, ¿qué te parece?

Clara se giró hacia su madre que le abrazaba, se sorbió y dijo: -¿Qué dan más, tetas o carretas?

Clara sonrió y su madre esperó. Clara siguió:

¡Te dan más las tetas que las carretas!

¡Tiran! ¡Tiran más dos tetas que cien carretas!- corrigió mientras bajó de la litera a Clara, cuyos mofletes se teñían de rojo, y la depositó en el suelo.

Tiran más dos tetas que cien carretas- dijo de nuevo.

Clara lo repitió: -Tiran más dos tetas que cien carretas.- Negó con la cabeza.- No lo pillo.

***

Collateral (NPR Three-Minute Fiction, round 6)

She had packed the overnight bag using a mental checklist of all she meant to leave behind. Despair. His toothbrush. Longing. Birth control. Impatience. As she unpacked her pajamas and laid them on the bottom bunk, the one between his best friend’s wife and her favorite of his female classmates, she tried to think of a joke to tell at the anniversary supper. Her daughter leaned down from the top bunk and tapped her shoulder.
“Why do you have to tell a joke?” she asked. “You aren’t funny.”
“I don’t have to tell a joke,” she replied, “and thanks for the vote of confidence. It would just be nice to feel like I was more a part of the gang, you know?”
“But you are. We always come.”
“They’re Papa’s classmates, not mine, you know that. They want you here, really. Hey, you could tell a joke.”
Chiara snorted and flopped back on the bed. “Yeah, right. You never laugh at my jokes.”
“Your jokes aren’t funny.”
“Were Papa’s jokes funny?”
“No.”
“The other mothers don’t tell jokes, either.”
“Well, I’m not the other mothers, am I? I would like to be able to tell a joke, like the fathers do.”
She knew she was digging too far into the hole she warned herself to climb out of (what’s the first rule of holes? When you’re in one, stop digging!). Where had she packed the Tolerance? Patience? Indifference? She took the cosmetic bag out and shook it. Where were the pills for a sense of belonging? The lipstick for smiling as conversations begun 25 years ago wafted over her? The perfume to wipe out the stench of lonesomeness?
“Why aren’t you playing with Jessica and Patricia, anyway? They’re your age.”
“Is it an obligation?” Chiara’s face was turned away towards the wall.
“Of course it’s not an obligation, but it is why we’re here, after all. It’s certainly not for my sake.”
“Why don’t you like Papa’s friends?”
Patience. Over there, under the bedside novel.
“Who said I didn’t like Papa’s friends? I’m here, aren’t I? But, really, I do this for you, so why don’t you go play?” She stood up to shake Chiara’s shoulder and saw that her eyelashes were glistening with tears. “Chiara, honey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Leave me alone.” She shrugged her mother’s hand off. “They don’t want me to play with them. They won’t even talk to me.”
Benevolence. Magnanimousness. She did, however nonjustifiably, know how her daughter felt. Self-pity? She had most certainly not packed that one. Compromise. A grain of salt. Comradeliness. Right there in her back pocket.
“Okay, listen,” she stroked Chiara’s bangs back from her forehead. “We’ll wash our faces and comb our hair and then just go out and wait for dinner, okay?” She paused. “We’ll go think of a joke to tell, how’s that?”
Chiara turned towards her mother for a hug, sniffed and said: “What did the bra say to the hat?”
Chiara smiled and her mother waited. Chiara continued:
“You go on a head. I’ll give these boobs a ride.”
“A lift! I’ll give these two a lift!” She corrected as she pulled Chiara, her cheeks burning a bright red, off of the bunk and set her down on the floor.
“You go on ahead. I’ll give these two a lift,” she said again.
Chiara repeated it: “You go on a head, I’ll give these two a lift.” She shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

26 Bryant Park Place / NPR 3-minute fiction

(NPR 3-minute fiction: 600 words max., first and last lines given by Michael Cunningham)

26 Bryant Park Place

Some people swore that the house was haunted.

Many people, being oblivious or contemptuous of the consequences, are given to swearing about anything; yet not one person on the street could provide concrete evidence or personal experience to bolster this claim. The only one who might have refuted or confirmed such an outlandish statement was struck down by lightning one bright September afternoon.

Janice Wilson had been standing at the top of her porch stairs, staring across the street into the space above Esther Harris’ dormer window. Esther had waved at Janice. Wanting to return a bill that had mistakenly been dropped through her mail slot, she then turned from the window, made her way down the stairs and across the hall to retrieve the bill, intending to continue out the front door and across the street.

When Esther opened her door, she was startled to discover that it seemed to be late at night. The neighborhood was dark, quiet and cold. She lifted her left hand and discovered that, instead of her neighbor Janice’s bill, there were just gray, dusty bones in the shape of a hand. She opened her hand to drop the bones gently into the mulch behind the potted zinnias, but found that all she managed to do was spread open her own gray, dusty finger bones and splay them in an unsightly manner. Perplexed, she glanced over towards her neighbor’s front porch and found, quite to her surprise, that Janice still stood there gazing out across the top of Esther’s own roof. At least she assumed it was Janice, as it was really quite too dark to be sure.

Esther called out to Janice, waving her finger bones in a mute “you-hoo”, but found that, not only did she make no sound, she could not even feel her mouth change shape. She reached up to touch her lips, and heard the distinct clack of bone on tooth. She sighed deeply and gazed at Janice a moment longer before turning back through the front door. She made her way in a distracted fashion back up the stairs to her bedroom and over to the window she had been standing at just a moment before. She was again holding Janice’s phone bill in her left hand, and as she leaned into the pane of glass she watched Janice turn her gaze to focus on Esther’s face in the window and smile in the sun-drenched afternoon. Janice raised her arm briefly and then started down the porch steps to make her way across the street, having understood finally that Esther had something for her. She strode down the front walk and across the one-lane street towards the Harris’ front gate and, just as her hand grasped the black metal handle, a single flash of lightening sizzled out of the bright blue sky and laid Janice flat on the sidewalk. Her arms splayed, her head split where her skull had met the road, Janice’s predicament brought neighbors rushing out of their houses and onto the street. An ambulance, a police car, even the small fire department van were all uselessly deployed.

Esther watched as the afternoon wore into evening and then collapsed into night. The street cleared slowly, until finally Janice was swept into a municipal hearse and whisked away. Esther tried to envision herself moving towards the stairs and down the hall, but the shift in her soul had been too enormous. Something that she had not known was there was now missing.

Nothing was ever the same again after that.


Kymm Coveney September 2010


(National Public Radio -NPR- ficción en 3 minutos: máximo 600 palabras en inglés, primera y última líneas obligadas por Michael Cunningham)

26 Bryant Park Place


Algunas personas juraron que la casa estaba encantada.

Muchas personas, indiferentes o desdeñosas de las consecuencias, son capaces de jurar sobre cualquier cosa; sin embargo, ni una sola persona de la calle pudo ofrecer hechos concretos o experiencia personal para apoyar esta afirmación. La única persona que podía haber refutado o confirmado una declaración tan estrafalaria fue alcanzada por un rayo una luminosa tarde de septiembre.

Janice Wilson había permanecido de pie ante las escaleras de su porche, mirando hacia el otro lado de la calle, justo por encima de la ventana del desván de Esther Harris. Esther había saludado a Janice con la mano. Quería devolverle una factura que había sido erróneamente depositado en su buzón de correo, y así dejó la ventana, fue bajando por las escaleras y atravesó el pasillo para recoger la factura, con la intención de continuar por la puerta principal y cruzar la calle.

Cuando Esther abrió su puerta, le asustó comprobar que parecía ser de noche muy cerrada. El vecindario estaba oscuro, tranquilo y frío. Elevó su mano izquierda y descubrió que, en lugar de la factura de su vecina Janice, sólo había unos huesos grises y polvorientos en forma de mano. Abrió su mano para dejar caer los huesos suavemente en el mantillo detrás de las macetas de hortensias, pero descubrió que lo único que fue capaz de hacer era abrir sus propios dedos hechos huesos grises y polvorientos y extenderlos en un tétrico abanico. Perpleja, echó un vistazo hacia el porche de su vecina y se sorprendió al comprobar que Janice seguía de pie mirando por encima del tejado de Esther. Al menos supuso que tenía que ser Janice, ya que era demasiado oscuro para saberlo a ciencia cierta.

Esther llamó a Janice, saludando con sus dedos de hueso en un mudo “yu-ju”, pero se dio cuenta de que, además de no conseguir emitir ningún sonido, tampoco notaba que se cambiara la boca. Intentó tocar sus labios, pero sólo oyó el inconfundible sonido de hueso sobre diente. Suspiró profundamente y se quedó mirando a Janice un momento más antes de entrar de nuevo por la puerta principal. Volvía a subir por las escaleras, moviéndose de manera distraída, hasta encontrarse de nuevo en la ventana donde había estado hacía un momento. De nuevo tenía la factura de teléfono de Janice en su mano izquierda, y al apoyarse en el cristal de la ventana, vio como Janice giraba la mirada hasta enfocar la cara de Esther por detrás de la ventana y sonreír bajo la soleada tarde. Janice elevó su brazo rápidamente y comenzó a bajar las escaleras del porche para alcanzar y cruzar la calle, por fin entendiendo que Esther tenía algo para ella. Caminó con paso enérgico por el camino de ladrillo, atravesó la estrecha calle y siguió hasta la puerta de la verja de los Harris. Justo en el momento en que tocó el pomo de metal negro, un único rayo salió crepitando del cielo de azul transparente y dejó a Janice fulminada en la acera. Sus brazos en jarras sobre el asfalto, el cráneo partido donde su cabeza había dado con la calle, Janice ofreció tal espectáculo que atrajo a todos los vecinos, que llegaron corriendo desde sus casas hasta la calle. Una ambulancia, un coche de policía, hasta la pequeña furgoneta de los bomberos fueron inútilmente despachados.

Esther miraba mientras la tarde se convertía en atardecer hasta colapsarse, haciéndose la noche. La calle se iba despejando lentamente, hasta que por fin Janice fue barrida por el coche fúnebre municipal que rápidamente la engulló y se alejó. Esther intentó visualizar cómo se movería hacia las escaleras y pasillo abajo, pero el desplazamiento de su alma había sido demasiado enorme. Algo que antes no había sabido reconocer ahora faltaba.

Nada volvió nunca a ser lo mismo después de aquello.