Don’t think about that. Nothing can be done about it, so don’t think about it.
One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve.
She bends down and picks up the biggest shard of plate. It’s about nine inches long and forms a crescent, made mostly of the outer edge of the plate, and ends in a sharp point. It is lined with painted vines and at the tip a blue flower. If she has to she will plant it in Beatrice. But not tonight. She carries it to the back of the stairs. There is a cavity beneath the bottom step filled only with darkness. She sits on her haunches and reaches the shard toward it, to hide it there, but hesitates as she imagines a large claw emerging from the darkness and grabbing her wrist and pulling her bodily into the shadows. That’s silly, of course, and impossible. There is nothing in the shadows but more shadows. She knows that. Nothing bigger than a cat could even fit beneath that first step. Even so she simply sets the shard of plate on the concrete and pushes it into the shadows, not allowing her fingers to touch the darkness. She will have to reach into it to get the shard back out, but she’ll worry about that then. For now she just wants it hidden and she doesn’t think anybody will find it there. Not unless Borden is watching from the shadows.
He’s not real.
That’s right: Borden is not real and she does not have to worry about him.
She is just getting to her feet when the door at the top of the stairs squeaks open and the light comes on. Feeling sick and guilty, caught, she walks around to the front of the stairs and looks up toward the door.
Beatrice stands silent looking at the shattered plate on the floor. Her hair lies flat and dull on her head, framing a sad round face. Her wide-set eyes droop on the outside, her mouth at both corners. It’s like invisible hands are pressed against her cheeks and pulling down. Her shoulders are round, dresses always hanging from them lifelessly before catching on her heavy lower body and bulging outward with lumps and ripples, making her look to Maggie like a poorly stuffed toy animal.
She turns from the plate and looks at Maggie. Her mouth hangs open for a moment and she breathes heavily from it. Finally she shuts her mouth, swallows, and says, ‘What happened?’
‘I dropped it,’ Maggie says. ‘I’m. . I’m sorry.’
‘By accident?’
Maggie nods.
‘It don’t look dropped.’
‘It was.’
‘Looks like you thrown it.’
‘I didn’t. I promise.’
‘How’d it get way over there?’
‘I’ll clean it up.’
‘You don’t have no shoes. It’s not safe. I’ll clean it up.’
She turns back to the stairs and walks up them, each plank sagging beneath her weight. Her thighs brush together beneath her dress, making a swishing sound with each step. It makes Maggie think of her daddy sanding in the garage. She would help him sometimes. She liked the feel of the fine dust from sandpapered wood on her hands. Beatrice pauses at each step, inhale exhale, and goes one more. She walks through the doorway to the kitchen.
Maggie walks to her mattress, away from what she is hiding, and sits.
When Beatrice returns she is carrying a broom and a dust pan with her, and a small plastic grocery bag crumpled in her fist. She walks down the stairs the same way she walked up, one step at a time, standing on each with both feet and taking a breath, inhale exhale, before moving on to the next. She stops at the bottom of the stairs. She breathes heavily and with great effort. Her face is pale and beads of sweat stand out on her oily skin.
Maggie stares at her with great concentration. Please die please die please die.
She hates that she has those thoughts, she feels like a bad person for having them, but she can’t help it. She doesn’t think she could kill a person-she knows she couldn’t; the very idea makes her sick-but if Beatrice were to just die, that would be different. She knows she would feel guilty for thinking it if it happened, but she feels guilty for thinking it when it doesn’t happen, so it might as well. It would make her life so much easier.
Part of her feels sorry for Beatrice. Part of her feels that in her own way Beatrice is as trapped as she is. But even so if she would just die all Maggie’s problems would be solved. If she died at the right time, anyway, with Henry gone for work and the door unlocked. If he was home and Beatrice died he might take it out on her. He certainly wouldn’t have any reason to keep her alive.
‘Oh, Lord,’ Beatrice says, large chest rising and falling, rising and falling.
‘Are you okay?’
After a while Beatrice nods. ‘Yeah.’
Too bad, Maggie thinks, hating the thought.
Then Beatrice walks to the shattered plate and bends down and sweeps the shards of glass into the dust pan. She dumps the contents of the pan into the plastic bag she brought with her, sweeps the floor once more, dumps the pan once more, ties off the bag, and stands.
She did not notice that a large piece of the plate was missing.
‘You need to be careful about walking barefooted over here.’
‘Maybe I could get some shoes.’
‘What for?’
‘So I don’t cut my foot.’
‘Henry says no shoes.’
‘Okay.’
Beatrice stares at her a blank moment, then frowns. ‘Did he hurt you bad yesterday?’
Maggie rubs at the thin scabs that have wrapped themselves around her wrists. They’re only about the width of a man’s pinky finger, but the wounds are deep, and tender purple bruises surround them. She thinks of the slaps across the face and tongues the split in her lip. She remembers the punch to the gut, the air rushing out of her, the feeling of drowning. And the fear: this time she might really die.
She nods.
‘I’m sorry,’ Beatrice says. ‘I don’t like it when he does that.’
‘He’s never going to stop.’
‘He don’t mean to hurt you. He’s just got a temper.’
‘He might kill me.’
‘He wouldn’t do nothing like that.’ She purses her lips a moment, thinking. ‘Not on purpose.’
‘He might on accident.’
Beatrice exhales through her nostrils but says nothing.
‘You could. . you could let me go.’
‘Sarah, you know we can’t do that.’
‘He couldn’t hurt me if you let me go. I wouldn’t tell anyone what happened. I wouldn’t tell anyone where I’d been.’
‘You don’t understand the world yet. It’s meaner out there than Henry could ever be, I promise you that. I know it.’
‘But I don’t want you to keep me here.’
‘Oh, Sarah. How many times do we have to have this conversation?’
Maggie looks down at her lap, at her hands clasped there, at the brown scabs wrapped around her wrists just below them.
‘Sarah?’
‘Not too many more, I guess,’ she says without looking up.
‘Good. And don’t worry about the plate. I won’t tell Henry you broke it. It’ll be our secret.’
Beatrice makes her way up the stairs and they protest under her weight.
Fall down and die, just fall down and die.
Beatrice reaches the top of the stairs. The overhead light goes out. A moment later the door closes, cutting off the light from the kitchen, and the deadbolt slides home.
After a while Maggie’s eyes adjust to the darkness. She sits doing nothing for some time.
Then she gets to her feet and walks to the back of the stairs and looks into the shadows beneath the bottom step. She wants to hold the shard of plate again. Her stomach feels tight at the thought of reaching into the shadows. She can see one corner of it. She reaches down and quickly puts her hand upon it and slides it out of the shadows. Nothing grabs her wrist or brushes against the back of her hand or nibbles at her fingertips. She picks up the shard of plate. She holds it in her fist and imagines burying it in Beatrice’s arm or leg or neck. It makes her sick to think about. It makes her sick, but she’ll do it. Maybe not in the neck. She knows there are important arteries there and a person can die. She doesn’t want to kill Beatrice. She just wants her hurt bad enough that she can’t chase after her when she runs. If Beatrice were to die on her own Maggie would not shed a tear, but she cannot kill the woman. But stabbing her in the arm or the leg, causing enough pain that she couldn’t chase Maggie up the stairs and out the front door, so she couldn’t get upstairs and call Henry on the telephone, Maggie could do that. If it meant getting away she could do that.