The Extinction Club by Jeffrey Moore Read Free Book Online

bed.
    She shook her head in a preoccupied way, then moved her lips as in a silent film. With her pointer finger she touched her mouth, tapping it two or three times.
    « Ma pauvre. T’as faim! » I rose to get some food, but she clutched weakly at my wrist with her hand. Again she put her finger to her mouth, but this time made an “x” over her lips.
    « Oh, I see! You can’t speak! »
    She nodded weakly, closing her eyes. Or perhaps rolling them at my stupidity.
    I gazed at her for several seconds. A deaf mute. Well, obviously not deaf. A baritone on the box intruded: three Quebec soldiers, one of them from here in the Laurentians, had been killed by a suicide bomber in Afghanistan. I turned off the TV. Tried to refocus.
    The sole words in my sign-language repertoire—“Hello,” “How are you?,” “I love you”—were met with a frown. She made frail little writing gestures in the air. Why didn’t I think of that? I pulled a pencil from my breast pocket, along with some folded real estate notes.
    On the back of one of them she wrote English words that I had to put on my glasses to read: I’m dying, aren’t I.
    I shook my head violently, but wasn’t sure she noticed. She continued to write: No police.
    I nodded. At least we agreed on that.
    I don’t want to be found.
    There was a time, around her age, when I didn’t want to be found either. She fell back on the bed, her head dangling over the side of the mattress. Her eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, unblinkingly.
    “What’s your name?”
    She reached for her pencil, flat on her back. Wrote something and scratched it out. Then wrote again and held up the page. Église de Ste-Davnet, you know it?
    “The church? Yes, that’s where I found you. In fact, I may even be …” I left the sentence dangling as she continued to write, or rather print. Not in a slow scrawl, as you might expect, but quickly, neatly.
    Ring of keys in bird feeder. Backyard, rectory. Big key opens back door. I need my glasses. And sketchbook.
    For a last will and testament?
    Upstairs, first room on the left. Bed table. Smallest key.
    “Okay. But how did you—”
    And can you feed my 6 cats? And get me some smokes?
    “Yes of course, but—”
    BE CAREFUL.
    “I will, but how did you—”
    I used to live there. With Grand-maman.
    “You did? And where’s your grandmother now?”
    In the cemetery.

IV

    It’s the glove I remember. An orange rubber glove, like the kind used to wash dishes. I was sleeping in my bed. I heard the creak of a floorboard — the creak that Grand-maman always makes. I heard the click of the bed light being switched on, the thump of footsteps from bed to closet, from closet to dresser — a routine that always ended with her leaning over & whispering “Asleep?” & my small groan that said Yes, I’m asleep but I’m glad you’re here & that we’re going to have breakfast together.
    I heard the creaking sound but for some reason she wasn’t going through the routine & that’s what woke me. I waited sleepily for the light to go on, for the footsteps to move between bed & closet. Somehow the thought became a snake crawling down my spine, winding tight around my chest. Poor thing, it said to me, this isn’t your grandmother at all. How could it be? She’s dead.
    I opened my eyes & a gloved hand slammed over my mouth. I saw a long shadow & heard heavy breathing & smelled beer. I bit down on the hand that gagged me, my teeth sinking into the rubber glove, grinding it as hard as I could. But there were two hands of course & the other, in an orange fist, slammed into my throat. I gagged & gasped & then blackness came.
    When I came to I was tied up, with gooey muck in my face and hair.

    I’m wrapped in bandages like a mummy. Dopey with painkillers & nauseous too. Just the thought of eating — or even smoking! — makes me want to hurl.
    Without my glasses I can barely see. And with a broken windpipe I can barely breathe. At least it feels like it’s