Santo’s
mobile home. The first piece nicked his ear as it sailed past. The second
cleared out the rest of the glass fragments that had been clinging to the frame,
causing one lonely shard to land, quivering, in the top of his bare foot. Santo
made the mistake of looking down while preparing an indignant reply to such
uncalled-for vandalism, and his forehead provided a perfect target for the
final chunk of concrete.
***
There was an elephant sitting directly on his head. He was
sure of it. He forced his eyelids open, and saw only darkness. The womanly
shriek that issued forth from his person made Cleo jump. “You made me mess up,”
she said. The acrid smell of acetone filled the air, and he could feel wet
cotton stroking against the side of his right index finger.
“Ohmigod, I’m BLIND!” Santo wailed.
He couldn’t see her, but all adults instinctively know when
a nine-year old rolls her eyes. It only increased his distress, and he started
to squirm against the weird fabric that was pinning his arms to his sides.
Exasperated, Cleo slapped the back of his hand. “Stop
moving!” she said. “I’m almost finished with this hand.”
Santo took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “Why can’t
I see?” he asked.
He felt wetness against the end of one finger, and Cleo
cursed under her breath. “Because I covered your head, dummy. Now quit moving.”
He thought about that for a moment before asking, “Why?”
Speaking as though he were a small child, she replied,
“Because there was blood on your face and I got tired of looking at it.”
“Why can’t I move my arms?” he asked.
Sighing as though the weight of the world rested on her
shoulders, Cleo replied, “It’s your shroud,” she said. “I made it using the
curtains from your bedroom.”
Deep thought only made his head hurt worse, so Santo decided
to accept that, for now. “Oh, okay,” he said. A minute later, he added, “What
are you doing?”
“Painting your fingernails, stupid,” was the reply.
“Oh, okay,” he said again. Really, it was better to just not
think about it, he decided. But, curiosity got the better of him, and a few
minutes later, he asked, “Why?”
“Because I don’t have time to make a death mask, and I
wanted you to look nice for the funeral,” she said.
From some primitive part of his brain, a DANGER! signal
started pulsing. Santo began to feel very uneasy, and this only made the
pounding in his head even worse. He became aware of a burning sensation in the
vicinity of his right ear, and his foot felt like it was embedded in an iceberg.
“Why is my foot so cold?” he asked.
“Because I have it stuck in a bag of chipped ice,” said Cleo
as she sat back to admire her work. “There! That’s a pretty good paint job, if
I do say so myself.”
Numbness gradually worked up Santo’s ankle, until he
couldn’t have said for certain if his leg even extended beyond the knee. Struggling
against the panic attack that lurked just around the corner, he took another
calming breath and cheerfully said, “Can I see?”
After what seemed like years, but was really only a minute
or two, the rough fabric was pulled from his face. He blinked against the
sudden brightness streaming in where his filthy window had previously been.
There was movement behind him, and he felt something hard and smooth slide
between his spine and the floor. Using the board that she had found in a
closet, Cleo managed to prop Santo in a saggy seated position. He was wrapped
in fabric to the hips, where his hands were exposed, and then another piece of
fabric tightly bound his thighs and knees together. Experimentally, Santo tried
wiggling his fingers. The rainbow of nail colors rippled across his pelvis, and
he was relieved that at least part of his nervous system was still functioning.
He had a lot to say, and decided that he might as well lead with the
mobile home. The first piece nicked his ear as it sailed past. The second
cleared out the rest of the glass fragments that had been clinging to the frame,
causing one lonely shard to land, quivering, in the top of his bare foot. Santo
made the mistake of looking down while preparing an indignant reply to such
uncalled-for vandalism, and his forehead provided a perfect target for the
final chunk of concrete.
***
There was an elephant sitting directly on his head. He was
sure of it. He forced his eyelids open, and saw only darkness. The womanly
shriek that issued forth from his person made Cleo jump. “You made me mess up,”
she said. The acrid smell of acetone filled the air, and he could feel wet
cotton stroking against the side of his right index finger.
“Ohmigod, I’m BLIND!” Santo wailed.
He couldn’t see her, but all adults instinctively know when
a nine-year old rolls her eyes. It only increased his distress, and he started
to squirm against the weird fabric that was pinning his arms to his sides.
Exasperated, Cleo slapped the back of his hand. “Stop
moving!” she said. “I’m almost finished with this hand.”
Santo took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “Why can’t
I see?” he asked.
He felt wetness against the end of one finger, and Cleo
cursed under her breath. “Because I covered your head, dummy. Now quit moving.”
He thought about that for a moment before asking, “Why?”
Speaking as though he were a small child, she replied,
“Because there was blood on your face and I got tired of looking at it.”
“Why can’t I move my arms?” he asked.
Sighing as though the weight of the world rested on her
shoulders, Cleo replied, “It’s your shroud,” she said. “I made it using the
curtains from your bedroom.”
Deep thought only made his head hurt worse, so Santo decided
to accept that, for now. “Oh, okay,” he said. A minute later, he added, “What
are you doing?”
“Painting your fingernails, stupid,” was the reply.
“Oh, okay,” he said again. Really, it was better to just not
think about it, he decided. But, curiosity got the better of him, and a few
minutes later, he asked, “Why?”
“Because I don’t have time to make a death mask, and I
wanted you to look nice for the funeral,” she said.
From some primitive part of his brain, a DANGER! signal
started pulsing. Santo began to feel very uneasy, and this only made the
pounding in his head even worse. He became aware of a burning sensation in the
vicinity of his right ear, and his foot felt like it was embedded in an iceberg.
“Why is my foot so cold?” he asked.
“Because I have it stuck in a bag of chipped ice,” said Cleo
as she sat back to admire her work. “There! That’s a pretty good paint job, if
I do say so myself.”
Numbness gradually worked up Santo’s ankle, until he
couldn’t have said for certain if his leg even extended beyond the knee. Struggling
against the panic attack that lurked just around the corner, he took another
calming breath and cheerfully said, “Can I see?”
After what seemed like years, but was really only a minute
or two, the rough fabric was pulled from his face. He blinked against the
sudden brightness streaming in where his filthy window had previously been.
There was movement behind him, and he felt something hard and smooth slide
between his spine and the floor. Using the board that she had found in a
closet, Cleo managed to prop Santo in a saggy seated position. He was wrapped
in fabric to the hips, where his hands were exposed, and then another piece of
fabric tightly bound his thighs and knees together. Experimentally, Santo tried
wiggling his fingers. The rainbow of nail colors rippled across his pelvis, and
he was relieved that at least part of his nervous system was still functioning.
He had a lot to say, and decided that he might as well lead with the
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