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Authors: Jeffrey Moore
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don’t … Canada?”
“What city?”
“Aberdeen?”
“What she means is that she was born in Aberdeen,” said Noel. “The question was confusing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burun, for the … supplementary information. But I’m afraid this test is for your mother only. Now, Mrs. Burun, what is the name of your street? Mrs. Burun?”
“Coppertree Lane?”
“I think she means that we used to live there,” said Noel. “In Babylon, Long Island. Where Rodney Dangerfield was—”
“And what room of the house are we in now, Mrs. Burun?”
“The dining room?”
Noel put his hands on the window sill, for support. He looked up at the dark winter sky and a freezing wind swept through him. She’s taking all the latest prescription drugs, he thought. State-of-the-goddamn-art. Why aren’t they working? Why is nothing working?
“I’m now going to give you three words to remember. And then I want you to repeat them to me. All right? Are you ready? Here are the three words: cucumber, lamp, nickel. Can you repeat those to me, Mrs. Burun? Cucumber, lamp, nickel.”
Stella screwed up her face in concentration. “Cucumber, lamp … I forget the rest. I’m terribly sorry. I’m not myself today, you see …”
“That’s all right, dear, you’re doing fine. I now have a rather tricky task for you. I want you to start from one hundred and count backwards, subtracting seven each time.”
A long silence unspun as the kitchen faucet dripped with a dead beat, like a clock marking off time, like a drum beating a dirge. Images of Europe returned. A funeral in … that city full of water. With blackly ribboned boats, or whatever they’re called, and someone beating a drum. She had thought of her husband as the sound grew louder, as the coffin floated by …
“Mrs. Burun?”
“Mrs. Holtzberger,” said Noel. “ I can’t even bloody well count backwards by multiples of seven—”
“Mrs. Burun? Can you count backwards from one hundred, subtracting seven each time? No? OK, we’ll move on. Can you spell the word radar backwards? No? Can you recall the three words I asked you to remember earlier on?” Mrs. Holtzberger glanced at a watch that was embedded in the flesh of her wrist. “No? Do you enjoy life, Mrs. Burun?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“How do you feel about life?”
“I can’t say that I feel anything at all.” She wore a look of infinite sadness, resignation.
“She’s not been well the past couple of days,” said Noel. “Really. She’s got … the flu. A virulent avian strain. For that reason I’m going to have to ask you to come back and do this test another—”
“Mr. Burun, a repeat may be requested if the subject is overly anxious or upset but according to my guidelines—”
“We appreciate you coming, Mrs. Holtzberger. But I’m afraid my mother needs to rest right now …”
“Then I’ll just have to submit these incomplete test results,” she said animatedly, rolls of flesh shifting and wobbling on her neck. “Which may adversely affect your request for day help. And there’s another matter to be discussed. In private, if you don’t mind?”
“I’ve no secrets from my mother.”
“Very well. I have received reports, more than one, that your mother has been wandering around the neighbourhood, knocking on windows.”
“I … know of no such incidents.”
“Are you aware of an incident involving your mother’s cat?”
“Which … incident are you referring to?”
“Before you arrived, your mother explained that your neighbour killed her cat, maliciously.”
“He killed Morven,” said Stella.
Morven died of a tumour in 1991, Noel recalled. “That’s … correct,” he said.
“She also claimed your neighbour drowned Morven’s kittens in his hot tub.”
Noel sighed. “Alas.”
“And that he then suffocated the mother by locking it inside a suitcase.”
“I can show you the case,” said Noel. “With teeth and claw marks. I can get it if you
“What city?”
“Aberdeen?”
“What she means is that she was born in Aberdeen,” said Noel. “The question was confusing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burun, for the … supplementary information. But I’m afraid this test is for your mother only. Now, Mrs. Burun, what is the name of your street? Mrs. Burun?”
“Coppertree Lane?”
“I think she means that we used to live there,” said Noel. “In Babylon, Long Island. Where Rodney Dangerfield was—”
“And what room of the house are we in now, Mrs. Burun?”
“The dining room?”
Noel put his hands on the window sill, for support. He looked up at the dark winter sky and a freezing wind swept through him. She’s taking all the latest prescription drugs, he thought. State-of-the-goddamn-art. Why aren’t they working? Why is nothing working?
“I’m now going to give you three words to remember. And then I want you to repeat them to me. All right? Are you ready? Here are the three words: cucumber, lamp, nickel. Can you repeat those to me, Mrs. Burun? Cucumber, lamp, nickel.”
Stella screwed up her face in concentration. “Cucumber, lamp … I forget the rest. I’m terribly sorry. I’m not myself today, you see …”
“That’s all right, dear, you’re doing fine. I now have a rather tricky task for you. I want you to start from one hundred and count backwards, subtracting seven each time.”
A long silence unspun as the kitchen faucet dripped with a dead beat, like a clock marking off time, like a drum beating a dirge. Images of Europe returned. A funeral in … that city full of water. With blackly ribboned boats, or whatever they’re called, and someone beating a drum. She had thought of her husband as the sound grew louder, as the coffin floated by …
“Mrs. Burun?”
“Mrs. Holtzberger,” said Noel. “ I can’t even bloody well count backwards by multiples of seven—”
“Mrs. Burun? Can you count backwards from one hundred, subtracting seven each time? No? OK, we’ll move on. Can you spell the word radar backwards? No? Can you recall the three words I asked you to remember earlier on?” Mrs. Holtzberger glanced at a watch that was embedded in the flesh of her wrist. “No? Do you enjoy life, Mrs. Burun?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“How do you feel about life?”
“I can’t say that I feel anything at all.” She wore a look of infinite sadness, resignation.
“She’s not been well the past couple of days,” said Noel. “Really. She’s got … the flu. A virulent avian strain. For that reason I’m going to have to ask you to come back and do this test another—”
“Mr. Burun, a repeat may be requested if the subject is overly anxious or upset but according to my guidelines—”
“We appreciate you coming, Mrs. Holtzberger. But I’m afraid my mother needs to rest right now …”
“Then I’ll just have to submit these incomplete test results,” she said animatedly, rolls of flesh shifting and wobbling on her neck. “Which may adversely affect your request for day help. And there’s another matter to be discussed. In private, if you don’t mind?”
“I’ve no secrets from my mother.”
“Very well. I have received reports, more than one, that your mother has been wandering around the neighbourhood, knocking on windows.”
“I … know of no such incidents.”
“Are you aware of an incident involving your mother’s cat?”
“Which … incident are you referring to?”
“Before you arrived, your mother explained that your neighbour killed her cat, maliciously.”
“He killed Morven,” said Stella.
Morven died of a tumour in 1991, Noel recalled. “That’s … correct,” he said.
“She also claimed your neighbour drowned Morven’s kittens in his hot tub.”
Noel sighed. “Alas.”
“And that he then suffocated the mother by locking it inside a suitcase.”
“I can show you the case,” said Noel. “With teeth and claw marks. I can get it if you
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