Knucklehead & Other Stories by W. Mark Giles Read Free Book Online Page B

and corn-starch slippery. Her gorge rose. She bolted from her chair and ran up the three flights of stairs to the master bathroom. She dry-heaved. When she thought it was over, a vision of the worn plastic tub of stew popped into her head, and she had another round of spasms. Her throat was raw and constricted, as if she had swallowed hot stones.
    Beverly sponged her face, then almost lost it again as she scooped a handful of water from the faucet to rinse her mouth. Her stomach muscles and diaphragm were cramping from the days upon days of morning sickness. In the mirror, she saw not exactly a stranger, but a different self. She spoke out loud and watched her mouth as it moved, as if she were reading her own lips: “What the hell is that man doing in my kitchen?” She grabbed the cordless phone from the bedroom and started down. Stopping on the stairs a couple of steps above the kitchen level, she crossed her arms to keep her hands from shaking. “You have to leave,” she said.
    The man stood at the counter, shoveling stew into his mouth with one hand; with the other he poked around in her cupboard. He looked at Beverly, the phone. “Can I take the spoon? I found it in a drawer,” he said.
    â€œTake the spoon, I don’t care. You have to go. Now.” The man licked the spoon, stuck it in his shirt pocket. He popped the lid onto the container, opened his mouth like he was going to speak, then closed it. She didn’t follow him to the door, only listened to the rustle as he donned his boots and jacket.
    â€œI’ll leave it in the mailbox,” he called up to her.
    â€œJust go,” she said. “Get out.” She wasn’t sure her voice was loud enough to be heard.
    â€œThe spoon,” he said. She heard the door open and close, waited for the sound of the screen door latching. She peeked around the corner, then hurried to the door and shot the bolt. She put her eye to the peephole. He was just a few steps from her, exactly where he had been standing when he rang the doorbell. He held the container under his chin, and spooned food into his mouth. He was looking at the door, at her. Beverly’s hand trembled as she slid the burglar chain into place, careful not to make a noise.
    A rush of blood throbbed in her temples. She panted in short breaths, too fast and too shallow, until she started to feel faint. Hyperventilating. She knew the remedy: breathe into a bag. She tiptoed back to the kitchen, ignored the crumpled paper sack the man had left on the counter, and found another in a drawer. She cupped it around her face and concentrated on each inhalation and exhalation. She twitched when the phone began to howl with an off-the-hook alarm. She found it on the couch in the family room and pressed the Talk button to disconnect. She slid to the floor and buried herself in the bag. The crinkle of kraft paper marked the rhythm of her breathing.
    When she looked through the peephole again, the man was gone. The spade and clippers still lay on the grass. She didn’t open the door to check the mailbox.

    That evening, Colm made a sandwich for his supper. Ham and cheese, a bagel from the freezer. He zapped it in the microwave to thaw, halved it, then toasted and buttered it, careful to spread the butter evenly to the edges. He peeled the outer layers from a head of iceberg lettuce, tossing out those that were the least bit spotted with brown. “You’re sure you don’t want one?” he asked. “You have to eat something.”
    â€œOh god, don’t even mention food.” Beverly spoke around a mouthful of pins pressed between her lips. She had sketched a pattern for the mermaid suit on onionskin paper and laid it on the floor. She knelt down and pinned the fabric in place. Quiet jazz drifted from a Toots Thielman CD , turned low.
    â€œYou need to eat. You can’t expect to stay healthy if you don’t eat and then throw up all day. You or the