Short Story: When Skies Are Gray

When Skies Are Gray

Sinking apartment buildings crowded Fairview Avenue, huddled up together like they were trying to keep warm. Occasionally street lights flickered, outlining the sharp edges of benches, open windows and aluminum cans. At times like these, tattered mittens were thrown up over the faces of the homeless sitting by the dumpsters, and babies cried, startled by the sudden brightness. Most of the time though the neighborhood was blurred and dark, casting a convenient shadow over the tenants and passersby. Kate's apartment was at the end of street, across from a small grocery.  At night, her building was completely dark, tucked away in a corner that was not reached by the flickering light. Most of the other tenants in her building were elderly, and had reached that point in there lives when the outside world was no longer familiar, and so they hid in their rooms. Her son, Michael, was the only child in the building. Every week when Kate hur

ried home after a trip to the grocery store, his voice would echo through the walls and into the corridor. The sound always surprised her because his baby talk sounded hollow, almost alien, in the empty building. 

If she could, Kate liked to bring home stickers or crayons as a peace 

offering to Michael for having to leave him alone for the fifteen minutes or so it took her to buy food. But lately she barely had enough money for bread and cereal. She'd come home, scoop Michael up out of his playpen with one hand and prepare dinner with the other. On nights like these, they would feast on hot dogs and instant mashed potatoes. 

~

On Tuesday and Thursday nights, Kate took Michael with her to work the toll booth on the St. Matthew bridge. He was happy enough sitting propped up by the window, watching the car headlights-blurry at first, slowly sharpen to two beams and sort themselves neatly into rows. Somet

imes commuters brought him candy and commented on how big he was getting. Mrs. Denton, a doctor's wife, often came through Kate's booth on her way home from the gym. She brought Michael lollipops, and would say things like, “I bet that boy eats you out of house and home.” 

Every Thursday, long after Michael fell asleep, Mr. Burbank pulled up in his Toyota. Tie undone, hair slightly coming loose from its gel, taking short drags from a cigarette. 

“Pretty Kate, how's life treating you?” The traffic was usually slow by then, and it was his custom to sit and talk with her for a few minutes.  

“It has its bright moments.” Her gazed shifted, taking him all in, settling on 

his ring finger.

“Isn't your wife going to be mad that you're always getting back so late?” 

“I doubt she even notices.” 

Kate counted out the change and handed it back to him. He stared at her hand and nodded toward the sleeping child. 

“Buy him some ice cream,” he said. 

She waited until he drove away, tail lights fading into the pale grayness of early morning, before wrapping her arms around herself, squeezing until she felt all the breath leave her lungs.

But most people passed through without noticing Michael. They were commuters from the city in such a hurry to get home that they didn't bother to look up, so that Kate became familiar with all the different kinds of male pattern baldness. Most drivers didn't like to make eye-contact whereas the people in the passenger seat, separated by a solid cushion of blood and bone, generally stared. They were the ones that noticed Michael and frowned in disapproval.

~

Kate had stopped taking Michael to Big Mama's Grocery store a few months ago. The colorful cereal boxes and shiny floors excited him. Every few moments he would reach out f

rom his perch in the cart, spreading his fingers so that they looked like a spider, and touch something. She always caught whatever he knocked over a second too late, chasing rolling oranges down the aisle or picking up the crunched remains of a bag of cookies. 

Once, she had left the cart at the front of the aisle, parked beside a large pyramid of popcorn boxes. Michael stood up in the cart in an effort to touch one, lost his balance, and fell over into the pyramid. Kate hurried over, picked up Michael and turned around to leave.

“Had an accident there, did we?”  A tired-looking old man approached them, his skin wrinkled and hanging loosely, chicken-like, from his neck. His name tag identified him as Jim, but Kate had always thought of him as Big Mama's husband. 

“Yes, he gets excited by everything in here. I'm sorry we made such a mess.”

Jim bent down, re-stacking the pyramid. “Oh it's alright. He reminds me of my son at that age.” Jim looked up at Kate from his crouched position while he spoke, “Could you hand me those boxes over there?”

Kate sat Michael in the cart and crouched down to help him straighten. 

“You live across the street?” Jim's hands shook slightly as he shifted the boxes.

“On the corner.”

“Can't imagine raising a kid in this city.”

“Where are you from?”

“Kentucky." Jim squinted at her, sucking on his teeth. After a moment, "I had a ranch." 

Some of the corners on the cereal boxes had been crushed. Kate tried to fix them, pressing the thin cardboard together with her fingers. "Sorry."

Jim took the box from her and shook it before putting it back in the pyramid. “One time I got this full grown Mustang somebody had managed to catch out in Montana somewhere. It was beautiful, that horse.”

“Aren't Mustangs wild?” 

Jim looked up at Michael who stared right back at him, his round head tilted to the side. “Most people think they are, but in fact they're feral animals. The cowboys tamed them and were their masters for a while. But after there were no more cowboys left, they escaped and became wild again. That Mare from Montana was beautiful, you could tell she was never gonna let me tame her.”

“What happened?”

“I tried for a while, trying to break her down. But you could see it in the way she flipped her mane back, the way she danced on her front legs—she would die before she let someone tame her, make her do things she wouldn't ever do otherwise."  

Michael began to fuss, and reached for one of the boxes on the newly-formed pyramid. Kate stood up and pushed the buggy back. 

Jim said, “She quit eating after a few weeks and died.”

"I'd like to see a Mustang.”

“You won't find one here. They need wide spaces and sunlight to survive.”

Kate apologized again and left. That night, after she had put Michael to bed, Kate sat in a chair by the window. The cold colors of the street seeped through the window pane and into the room, mixing with the dust and dirt on her floor. That was the last time she took Michael grocery shopping. 

~

Most of the time, Kate waited. If the safe in the wall was full and the rent was paid, then she didn't mind waiting. She passed the time by playing with Michael, working at the toll booth, or cleaning. She cleaned often because a layer of dust and grime covered her brown furniture and thin rugs, and no matter how 

hard she tried to wipe it away it always came back. Waiting was okay because it divided life up into short, small doses that were easily swallowed. Sometimes Kate pictured herself on a time line that remained flat during her periods of waiting and spiked sharply when something important happened. The spikes were merely a bump, a small blip on her time line.

Waiting was hard when the safe was empty. Kate passed the time by sitting in a kitchen chair next to the phone, staring ahead into space. She moved only to attend to Michael or answer the phone. When the phone finally rang, she moved quickly, snatching it off its cradle and talking in sharp, efficient tones.

“Yes?”

“22nd and Fletcher, black Mercedes, the doors will be unlocked.” 

She moved quickly, grabbing her case out of the closet with one hand and scooping up a sleeping Michael with the other. He was used to their late-night outings and slept on peacefully while she shifted him into a sling on her back. The steady movements of her quick strides and then the subway kept him asleep until they reached their destination. She crept into the back of the Mercedes and locked the door. Hunching down, she made sure Michael wasn't squished between her and the seat before assembling her pistol and fitting it with a silencer.

Kate waited again. This time, her waiting was defined by a sharp sense of 

purpose, a goal. A small thrill fluttered in the pit of her stomach and she gripped the handle of her gun tighter. After a while, Michael began to stir, so she sang softly to keep him asleep.

“You are my Sunshine, My only Sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are gray.” 

The song faded as a man in a tuxedo approached the car, fumbling in his pockets for the keys. He stood there with the door open, talking on the phone and gesturing animatedly. His arms flailed around and his mouth gaped open for a few seconds and then shut tight again. He reminded Kate of a fish out of water, an angel fish she decided since he was wearing black and white. 

“No, I can get you the money. I swear to God. Just give me a few days-I'm good for it. My kid had to get braces and all this shit, please-hello? hello?”

He snapped the phone shut and climbed into the car, slamming his fist into the dashboard and grunting with the force of it. Michael jerked awake, letting out a loud cry of protest. It was one of his more substantial cries, starting from the depths of his belly and emanating from the throat. The man turned around in surprise. Kate shot him. It was clean and almost soundless, right between his eyes. She dissembled the gun, wiping it down to make sure there was no blood or gray matter on the weapon. Quickly she exited the car, careful to avoid the cameras at the ATM machine across the street. Michael's cry echoed in the 

deserted business district, bouncing off bricks and plate glass windows. Filling up the emptiness.

~

After a job, Kate relaxed. She let the answering machine pick up missed calls and took Michael out to the park. She'd push him around in his blue stroller on the walking track to get exercise and fresh air. Afterward, she followed Michael around on the playground, his skinny arms digging holes in the sandbox or climbing precariously up wooden platforms. He was awkward and shy with the other children, preferring to play alone or with Kate. The few times other children played with him, it was in the form of bullying. Michael was made to march behind another child, or move over to let someone else ahead of him in line for the slide. Kate, who was waiting to catch him at the bottom, would have to stifle her urge to yell at other people's children. If there was money left over from the subway ride, Kate took Michael to get ice cream before returning to Fairview Avenue. He would fall asleep early on evenings like these, before the streets had a chance to turn gray with the setting sun.

~

The streetlights that flanked Big Mama's Grocery were the only working lights on Fairview Avenue. The circles of fluorescence surrounding the store acted 

as a kind of line of demarcation: Gang members and drug dealers on one side and less obvious customers on the other. The people who entered the store did so with hunched backs, keeping their heads down and away from the glare. 

The tall automatic doors at Big Mama's seemed to be vacuum sealed, so that every time they opened, the swooshing sound made Kate feel as if all the air were being sucked out of her lungs. Breathlessly, she skimmed through the toiletries, throwing Johnson's shampoo and rash cream in her cart without glancing at the prices. After a job, she was careless, almost reckless with money, buying impractical food like pork rinds, avocados, and sushi the deli made several hours earlier. She walked quickly through every aisle, running her hand over plastic wrappers and cold freezer windows. In the bakery she sampled little square pieces of stale pumpkin bread sitting, lumpy, in a plastic bubble. 

She saved the magazines for last, slowing down to browse through “Travel” and “National Geographic.” She imagined Mr. Burbank and Michael sitting at home on a blanket spread out on the floor. She would return home from the grocery with bags full of goodies, presenting Michael with his stickers first before giving Mr. Burbank the National Geographic she had bought him as a surprise. He would look at her, pleased, and say “That's the right kind of thing for a man to be reading.”

Kate picked up a “Star” and an “Inquirer” magazine instead and walked up 

to the checkout counter. Jim greeted her, his thin mouth turned upward in a vague attempt at a smile. 

“Hello Kate.” He rang up the sushi and the magazines, and Kate could hear him sucking on his gums. When he finished, he looked up, squinting through his glasses, and said, “Where's Michael? I haven't seen him around lately.”

“He's at home.”  

“I liked that boy. He reminds me of my son.” 

“How's that?”

“Oh, its that look. Wesley was bright in the eyes and the heart, like your boy.”

“Bright? There's not much of anything bright around here,” Kate glanced out the door to the twin circles of light illuminating the otherwise gray sidewalk.

“Its a kind of freedom they're born with. People like me and you, we don't have it. We can earn it sometimes, we can try real hard, but most of the time we just have to see them on their way,” Jim paused for a moment, holding her bag of pork rinds, “I'm lucky. Wesley moved up here to the city, got a big fancy job commuting and everything, and he let me follow him. I lived a few good years with him and his family before he died.” 

“I'm sorry,” Kate looked up at him, “How did he die?”

“Somebody up and shot him. Should've known with this damn city and all the crime. Anyway, its been a few years ago now. I'd trade all the horses in the world to get Wesley back.” Jim finished bagging the groceries and handed them to her. She grabbed them and walked to the door. Jim let out a breath.

“Hurry home to your boy. Mothers should be Mothers, you know.” 

Kate listened to the doors swoosh shut behind her, cutting off his words. She stepped quickly into the darkness, hunched over with her head down.

~

The phone rang. Michael had fallen asleep on a blanket in the living room after a long day at the park, his stomach full from eating a scoop of double chocolate chip ice cream. Kate rushed to pick up the phone, glancing at Michael to make sure he was still asleep. But when she put the phone to her ear she hesitated. A voice on the other side said, “Hello?”

“Yes. I'm here.”

“The warehouse on Highview Boulevard. The target will exit out the side door and into the alley.”

Michael was fussy on the subway ride into the city, jerking awake every time the train stopped. They hid behind a dumpster in the alley, the smell of rotten food and cat litter hung in the air, as well as the acrid stench of some sort of chemical. Kate crouched low, balancing on her haunches while she assembled her gun. Behind her, Michael's feet dragged the ground, his white tennis shoes getting streaked with the grime of the alley. 

She waited, her legs falling asleep underneath her from squatting for so long. She concentrated on her heartbeat, trying to see if it matched Michael's rhythm, faint but discernible up against her back. Then she tried to match his breathing, but his breath came too quickly so that when she sped up her breathing to match his, she began to feel light-headed and anxious. 

The night was beginning to take on the gray hues of morning when the warehouse door finally opened. A man side-stepped into the alley. Kate could see the back of his head and the outline of his shoulders under a black overcoat. He was holding a cigarette in one hand and fumbling for keys with the other. When he dropped them, the small tinkle of keys hitting pavement echoed in the empty alley, creating a sound too big for such a small object. She stood up, wincing at the pain of a thousand pinpricks as blood rushed back into the lower parts of her legs. The man bent over to retrieve his keys and Kate stepped out from behind the dumpster. 

Something about his hunched position made her take a step closer instead of shooting. The hair on the top of his head was thinning but well-styled by a generous helping of product. The hand holding the cigarette had a slight tremor, automatically shaking the ash off the end of the cigarette when it got too long. Kate knew who he was before he stood up and met her gaze.

The surprise in Mr. Burbank's face quickly faded, replaced by fear and then a sort of coldness. 

“It's you.”

She pointed the gun at his chest, holding it with both hands.

“The fucking toll booth girl and her kid...Fuck.” Mr. Burbank took a drag 

from his cigarette and stood facing her, his hands hanging awkwardly by his sides. 

Kate felt Michael's small, steady heartbeat. It was slower now than it had been earlier when he was pumping his legs on the swing set at the park or chasing bugs in the grass outside their apartment. As she stood there, gun in hand, some strands of her hair were pulled, stuck to Michael's sticky face as he turned in his sleep. 

“They won't stop.” 

Gray morning sunlight entered the alley, blurring the spaces between the trash and brick walls and crumbling pavement. Mr. Burbank closed his eyes and exhaled. By the time he opened them again, Kate was gone.

~

Michael was crying. He had refused to eat his dinner and now sat on the floor, balling his hands into tight fists and directing his cries toward the chair where his mother sat, waiting for the phone to ring. The phone had been silent for three months, and Kate had begun to pass the time she spent waiting for the phone by twisting the cord around her fingers, tightening it until the tips turned white.

She looked out the window onto Fairview Avenue, the lights surrounding Big Mama's grocery casted shadows on the surrounding street. She wondered if the grayness that seemed to occupy the street most of the time, sinking into the crevices and defying the light, was there because of her. She wondered if it was her fault that there were no horses on Fairview Avenue. 

Kate walked over to Michael and picked him up, pressing his chest against hers. He stopped crying momentarily, looking at his mother with wet eyes. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight, until all the breath left their bodies. They stood like that, slightly bent, silhouetted against the shabby neighborhood outside the window.