Heart TroublesA Story by Alysa SalzbergWhat’s in a person’s heart? I guess it’s what you live and die and could come back for.To Whom It May Concern: All
residents are reminded not to leave trash bags outside their doors, even if
only for a few moments. This could pose
possible health threats to neighbors. Mr. Thomas was always writing
notes. That’s just about all I knew of
him until those two horrible nights, and just about all I still know for
certain. Each character was so exact, I remember, the same
width and length in millimeters as the letters before and after it. I always wondered why he signed his messages,
though, because someone else in the building would inevitably scrawl something
below his name. For example: Thank
you, Wade
Thomas likes little boys We
used to live in a nice house, but when my dad left, it started to get run
down. I was really pissed off at my mom,
then one day I found myself thinking about “The Fall of the House of
Usher”. Our house’s brown-stained gray
stucco facade, and peeling wallpaper and worn floorboards, echoed my mom’s
inner despair. When things got better,
the house would look better. Finally, we had to sell it, and hope no one would
notice the bigger problems. As we drove
away in our overstuffed car, I felt like some of our memories stayed behind,
like lost and lingering ghosts. At the
first red light, I wrote: I’ll bleed forth watching the stain spread -- a distorted pool of deep red in two shattered parts, the ragged halves of a broken heart That later ended up on page 5
of my school’s Fall Literary Magazine. Our new apartment was in the
same town, at least. A big red Lego in a
gated complex of red Lego’s, it looked like every other modern apartment
building I’ve ever seen in north Georgia -- sunburnt brick, with open-walled,
white-painted wooden stairwells in the middle.
You’re probably used to seeing the place on TV by now; still, its new
fame hasn’t made its appearance any more interesting. We were on the highest floor, the third. When everything was inside and the movers had
left, I just started decorating my room.
My mom helped me put my Nightmare
Before Christmas sheets and bedspread on my old bed, which looked strange
in the new, bare-walled room. My Hexa
poster went on the closet door, my full-length mirror went on the other
side. The two small, framed Edward Gorey
prints I’d asked my dad to buy me at the mall last year, went one below the
other on the right side of the window.
On the other side was my dresser.
I taped the “Dream within a Dream” poster that Katie had bought me from
Hot Topic, above my bed. Later that afternoon, I went downstairs to put the
trash in a dumpster, and there was Mr. Thomas, standing in front of the
building notice board. He was doing what
I would usually see him do: pushing a tack into the top one of his letters, the
edge of his thumb turning waxy white. “Hello,” he nodded at me. He was polite, but his pale blue eyes were
mean. He was older, maybe in his late
sixties, and tall but stooped. I nodded
back and glanced at the note. Something
about new recycling procedures. I’m not really talkative, I guess, but I was raised
well. “Do you like history?” I remember
asking him. I’d noticed the stack of
library books he was carrying, all about the Civil War. On the top was a book of Matthew Brady’s
battlefield photos. Even then, before I
knew anything, thinking of those photos gave me a chill, as the thought of them
inexplicably always has, ever since I first saw one of them in our American
History book in Fifth Grade. In response to my question, or maybe to my shudder,
Mr. Thomas just nodded. I got the
impression maybe he was mocking me.
“Goodnight,” I told him quickly, then went back upstairs. I might have been the person
who was closest to Mr. Thomas in one way: the wall behind my bed bordered on
his living room wall. I guess apartment living is good for a writer,
because you can listen in, like a sort of ghost, following someone’s comings
and goings. Retired from whatever job he
once had, Mr. Thomas didn’t seem to have a schedule the way Mom or I did. The rhythm of his life was like irregular
heartbeats. Sometimes, he left for days
at a time. Whenever he was home, though,
the History Channel was on. Old recordings
of Presidents and World War II gunfire began to invade my dreams. To
Whom It May Concern: Residents
are kindly asked not to use the woods as a cut-through to other locations. Walking here can cause residents to bring
ticks, pollen, and other nuisances and threats to sanitation, into our
building. Thank
you, Wade
Thomas sucks “Some people have too much free time,” my mom
muttered, as we passed by the bulletin board.
I was spending the night at Katie’s while she went on a date. I had
to wonder if that specific letter was for me.
I cut through the woods all the time to get to the main road, or to go
to I didn’t really know what to think about death,
despite all the poems I wrote about it, and the skulls on my notebooks. I knew no rules for it. All I knew then, I guess, was that it was sad
that someone could leave and never come back, or that you could die and take
nothing with you. I didn’t have a problem with
Mr. Thomas, no matter what anyone might think.
I never had anything mean to say to him -- or to anyone, if you think
about it, not even to Tommy Answorth, who once leaned over to me in Physics and
said, “Are you a Goth, or just a b***h?”
There was just one time I was rude to Mr.
Thomas. It was a few months after our
first meeting, and many, many notes later.
I’d just come back from walking Arthur Gordon Pym, the puppy Mom had
bought me for my birthday. I love Arthur
Gordon Pym. He’s a golden retriever with
really soft fur. In the lobby, there was
Mr. Thomas, in his spot near the bulletin board, his thumb turning white as it
forced down a green tack. He turned to
me, still pushing. “So you’re the one leaving dog droppings all over the
landscaping out front. You know, that
doesn’t look good, and it costs a lot of money to clean up.” That last wasn’t true; the landscapers came weekly
- it was included in our rent. Maybe that’s what made me angry, or maybe
it’s how he was sneering down at me.
Normally I would have thought of how Mr. Rochester seems like a total
dick but ends up being Jane Eyre’s true love, or of the lonely sound of the
History Channel echoing through a quiet room.
But instead, something else happened: “Excuse me, but have you ever seen me leave my dog’s droppings behind? How do I know it’s not you making a mess out there?” Mr. Thomas
stared. It was the only time I would see
him look surprised, despite what was to come.
I’m
definitely not a b***h, as Tommy Answorth had suggested, so when I said all
that, my head felt like it was floating off my neck, and my stomach had dropped
far below the rest of my body. I
picked up Arthur Gordon Pym and ran up the stairs. Once inside our apartment, I ran to my
bedroom. For a while I laughed and looked at myself in the mirror, feeling
pretty good and looking kind of pretty, maybe, in the black lace top Katie and
I had found the week before at Goodwill.
I thought of how I really didn’t
pick up Arthur Gordon Pym’s poop -- it just wasn’t dignified -- and I laughed
some more, but felt worry burning in my stomach. I’d have to be careful; I didn’t want any
more problems than I already had in my life. I’m going to admit one more
thing: One day, I went to get the mail, and there between my mom’s bills and
other stuff, was a letter for Mr. Thomas.
I guess it’d gotten mixed in with our things by mistake. I should have just slid the letter into his
mailbox, but I was curious. The envelope was handwritten, so it wasn’t a check
or anything official. I guess I’m sort
of an expert at that, because when my parents first got divorced, I used to
open all my mom’s mail before she could.
I don’t really know why. So anyway, I took Mr. Thomas’ letter and ran upstairs
with it hidden in the middle of the rest of our mail. I threw all the other stuff on the kitchen
counter, then went in my room and locked the door. I worked the envelope open slowly. In books the people always do it with steam,
but I was worried if I tried that my mom might come home early for once and
catch me. I was hoping for a love letter or something. But instead, it was just a card with a photo
of an old man inside. “Wade,” the letter went, “Had a great time. When I get back from - George PS The bullets sold for
$300. Not bad.” Later, when the body started
showing up at our apartment building, I tried to get in touch with this guy,
George Tucker. But when I called, his
family told he’d been dead for a while, probably a few months after he’d
written this note. Time went on. The day after New Year’s: To
Whom It May Concern: Please
consider beginning to remove your Christmas wreathes and trees. Keeping them up for too long can create dirty
and inappropriate conditions for our building and its residents. Thank
You, Wade
Thomas is a buttwipe On page 2 of the Winter
Literary Magazine: One wilted rose On the violet of her cold lips A last kiss Before I sent her body Back to the sea. The leaves falling on your
forehead, on your hair, make me think of two lavender
petals that now rest, I’ll never know where. One night, everything
changed. Mom was out, and I remember I’d
just finished a section in the novel I was writing, and I was on my way to the
bathroom to dye my hair again. Suddenly, there was a noise in the hallway. I know what it was now, and I’ll never forget
it, but it’s hard to describe. When
we’d first moved in, my mom had opened a box and untangled the wind chimes that
used to hang from a nail on the wall by our deck. They’d slipped from her hand and fallen on
the tile floor, sliding towards the refrigerator. If you took the silver bells and discs away,
the sound of the hollow wooden tubes was maybe the same as what I heard
now. But
stronger. The
sound got louder. I went to look out the
peephole. Arthur Gordon Pym followed me. Moving down the hallway, was something I couldn’t
believe. Bones, all bones, nothing but
that and some tattered brown rags that dropped clods of dirt on the white
ground. To say it simply, it was what looked like a skeleton -- a real one, not
white but yellowish-brown. I felt very
cold. Was it a trick? I strained my eye
to see more, even though no part of me wanted to see anything else. I stared until the thing moved past the
limits of the peephole. Beside me, Arthur Gordon Pym seemed frozen in
place. The toes of all four soft paws
were splayed, his eyes were wide. He
whimpered and swallowed. The
kitchen clock ticked loudly. I thought
of all the dark rooms around me and imagined horrors there. From far away came a noise I hadn’t heard
before. I knew what it was, though: the doorbell of Mr. Thomas’ apartment. I carried Arthur Gordon Pym to my bedroom and
sat down on the bed, holding him tightly in my lap. The History Channel turned off, and the sound of Mr.
Thomas rising from his chair waded to me through the thick silence. “Who is it?” The reply was muffled. “Don’t open it,” I murmured. “Don’t open it,” I said louder. Arthur Gordon Pym whimpered. I took a breath to yell. “Don’t -- ” The sound of the key turning, the sound of the door
swinging open, then slamming shut. “You have some things that belong to me.” The skeleton’s voice was reedy and unreal,
but I could hear it clearly. It seemed
like the wind, it could go through fissures and vents to reach my ears. Mr. Thomas’ reply was steady and calm, “How did you
get into the building? This is a good joke, I’ll admit.” There was some other noise, hollow wind chimes
clacked, and I heard Mr. Thomas give a low gasp. “You have some things that belong to me,” the voice
said again. “I don’t know
what you’re talking about.” “Do you remember me from Resaca? You picked over my bones. You have some things that belong to me.” This time the voice was tighter than before,
the words came more quickly, sharply, like something dangerous. “Buttons, jewelry, coins. A bullet.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my neighbor
insisted. A wordless wind encircled us like a storm. There
was a pause. Then Mr. Thomas said: “I
don’t have them anymore. I sold them
last week.” After a few moments of silence, the reedy voice
returned: “Get them back.” “I can’t.” Strangely enough, Mr. Thomas didn’t seem that
afraid. “Get. Them.
Back.” Arthur Gordon Pym gave a short bark. “Shh!” I held
his mouth closed. “They’re in “ things -” “-What was left of them.” “Where are my things?!” The wind whirled faster. “They
weren’t yours to begin with.” “The
bullet! That was mine. That was my blood splattered over the metal.”
The wind settled. “Get. Them. Back.” “I found them fairly.” “You have one week.” The door handle turned. The door opened. The hollow wood sound was in the
hallway. When it was gone, I took my
hand off Arthur Gordon Pym’s muzzle. He
struggled out of my arms and hid under the bed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, getting down on the floor to see
him. I held out my hand to touch him,
but he didn’t move towards it. A few minutes later, I called
Katie. When I told her what had
happened, she got quiet and then: “A skeleton?
You’re not doing drugs, right?” It seemed like it was something she’d
been meaning to ask me for a while. I didn’t want to leave for school the next morning; I
didn’t want to leave the apartment at all, I guess. I kept thinking about what
I’d seen, and a feeling of terror would fall down my throat to my stomach. But then I’d wonder if I’d gone crazy or
something. In
the hallway, there were tracks of red clay mud all over the white boards. That could have been from anyone. When
I saw Katie at lunch, I wondered if I should try to explain again. Instead I told her I was just trying to freak
her out. Back in my room after school, I kept moving around,
and Arthur Gordon Pym kept looking at me and whining. I put on his leash, and we headed for the
stairs. A few feet away from them,
Arthur Gordon Pym stopped dead. He
whimpered again. His nose whistled. “Come on,” I said.
But he wouldn’t move. I looked to where he was looking. On the landing, in the left-hand corner by
the first step down, was a small whitish round thing. I moved closer and bent over it. Arthur Gordon Pym stayed behind. His leash, with its line of white skulls
against black, strained between us. What
I was looking at could have been, say, a game piece, or a discolored plastic
part of something - but I understood as well as an anatomy student might have:
it was the top of a skeletal finger or toe.
I stayed fixed to the spot, like when you see a spider in the bathroom
and don’t know if you can bring yourself to crush it, or even to run away. I wasn’t crazy, like someone out of Poe. I was still, staring at a piece of bone that
meant I’d really seen what I’d seen last night. Finally, I stood up and walked Arthur Gordon Pym back
to our apartment. He ran beside me, and
peed on the welcome mat. S**t. I cleaned it up with some paper towels, then
patted him, made sure I had the key in my pocket, and closed him back inside. A few paces down the hall, I reached Mr. Thomas’ door
and knocked. I didn’t want to touch the
bell. The History Channel was on, so I knew he was there
and alive and well. But he didn’t
answer. “Mr. Thomas, it’s me -- your neighbor,” I called out. The TV turned off, and I heard him move to the door,
but he didn’t open it. I wanted to just
walk away, but I had to say something.
“I heard what happened - last night.
Maybe I can help you get back the stuff that - If you need any help, I’m good with finding
things online - I could get the address - ” He interrupted me from behind the door: “How do I
know it wasn’t you who sent him here
in the first place?” In his voice there
was the same meanness I’d seen in his eyes.
His eyes which, I could somehow feel, were staring pointedly at my black
coffin earrings. I left. In our living room, I turned on the computer. The skeleton said he was missing some
things. I Googled “coins, skeleton” and
other combinations. Nothing came up that
made sense. I thought again. He’d talked about a bullet a lot. I thought about the letter I’d stolen. I went to my room and took it out of my desk
drawer (sorry George). “Resaca.” The
skeleton had mentioned that, too. According to my research, it was an old Civil War
battle site. The War happened almost a hundred and fifty years
ago. It was pretty hard to imagine
anything surviving. But a friend of my
dad’s, Mr. Patrick, used to say you could still find bullets, and even old
buttons from the uniforms of decomposed soldiers, if you looked hard
enough. The War happened a long time
ago, but its traces had stayed behind, like a lot of things do. Like red clay and bone in a new,
white-painted hallway. I didn’t know much about Mr. Thomas, but I knew what
I needed to know. I took out an old stationary pad I’d never used, and
wrote a brief note: Dear Mr. Thomas, Be careful with the undead. I went out and slid it under
his door. He never replied. The week somehow went by. Every morning when I went down the stairs, I
walked as far as possible from the corner where the piece of bone was. When
the seventh day came, it was gone. At
school, I told Katie I really had to study for a math test (true) and asked her
to take Arthur Gordon Pym for the night so I wouldn’t be distracted. She came home with me and took him. I tried not to
show how much I wanted them both gone, but how much I hoped that somehow they’d
stay. An hour or so later, in the empty apartment, I sat on
my bed, and waited. I felt like I would
throw up. I felt like nothing was real. The hollow sound came a little after sunset. I could hear it even in my room, even over
the loud drone of the History Channel on Mr. Thomas’ TV. Cold chills coursed through my veins. Mr. Thomas’ bell rang. He didn’t turn off the TV, and he didn’t get up. The bell rang again. And again -- soon it was sounding off without
stopping. But Mr. Thomas still didn’t
move. My head came to settle back on my
neck. And then I heard his door fly open. Now the TV shut off, though I’m not sure by whose
hand. “You have some things that belong to me,” came the
corpse’s popular refrain. “No I don’t,” Mr. Thomas’ voice sounded calm. “They’re gone, sold to that fella in “I told you to get them back.” The wind of the voice was a gale. “If you’re really what you seem to be, they didn’t
really belong to you to begin with. I’ve
done my homework, I’ve studied up on archaeology. Your position in the ground says it all: You
weren’t a soldier -- you were there picking the dead ones clean, and you got
shot on the job. No, I couldn’t get the things back, and they’re not
yours.” Mr. Thomas seemed annoyed, more
than anything else. “The bullet.” For one second, the voice sounded
almost normal. Then it sort of
choked. “You have made a terrible
mistake.” Rage laced his words like
frost on high grasses. “I’m not sure about that. Like you, I knew I could make some good
money. I did.” One thing I’ll say for Mr. Thomas, besides being a
real dick (not the Mr. Rochester kind), he was also the bravest person I’ve
ever met. The ice in his visitor’s voice cracked and in this
cracking came: “I’ll find a way to make you regret what you’ve done.” With that, the hollow wood sound started again, and I
heard Mr. Thomas’ door close. The hollow
sound continued down the hall. My skin
went cold. When there was no more noise, I lie back on my
bed. My neighbor had turned back on the
History Channel. My clothes were soaked
with sweat. Mr. Thomas died three months ago. It’s been over a year since those two
nights. He’d
apparently had heart problems for decades, so none of his relatives or doctors
were surprised about his death. As you probably know, the surprise came the morning
after his funeral. That morning, I woke up to screams coming from the
floor below us. Mom was already
dressed. After she’d looked through the
peephole, we opened the door. Then,
still seeing nothing bad, we ventured to the balcony. Our downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Cather, was
still screaming, standing just outside her door, where a man was lying in a
heap on her doormat. Everything stopped.
Everyone stayed in their apartments while the police and firemen came to
ask questions and remove the body. At
first we all thought it was someone who’d gotten drunk and wandered there
before passing out. Then word got around
that it was a dead body. No one had seen anything. No one knew who the corpse might belong
to. A
few hours later, they confirmed that it was Mr. Thomas. When I heard, I felt dizzy. “Are you alright?” my mom asked me. She looked like she felt like she should talk
to me -- about death maybe or that I dressed too weird and the cops might start
to ask questions. I shook my head and
went to my room. Mr. Thomas was buried again, after endless apologies
from the cemetery. The following night, I heard that sound. It made my
blood turn instantly to ice, even after I’d had nearly a year and a half’s time
to forget it. Hollow wooden wind chimes
moving slowly down the hall. This time,
a dull noise dogged every pace: something heavy being dragged. I shivered and pulled the blankets over my
head. Mr. Thomas’ body was found the next morning near the
third floor balcony. The police and
fire department came quickly and did the same things they’d done the morning
before. This time, the question was, who was digging up the
body and placing it in our building? I
knew the answer, but knew I couldn’t tell, because no one would believe me. “This
can’t go on,” the neighbors started complaining. But it did go on, as everyone knows. Soon, news crews were showing up even before
the police and fire departments. I don’t want to describe what we saw every morning,
but I think I have to. It was different
than one of those Matthew Brady photos.
It was in color, for one thing.
The skin was pigmented like an old person’s fingernail. Some kids looked at his eyes, but I
couldn’t. I don’t even know if there was
anything left. The smell made me want to
vomit, but maybe that had nothing to do with the smell. The following week, Mr. Thomas’ body was moved to
another cemetery, but still it would turn up somewhere in our building, morning
after morning. “My kids are traumatized,” Mr. Brown on the first
floor complained. “And it’s unsanitary.” “It smells awful.” Someone
wrote a note to the But still Mr. Thomas’ cadaver kept reappearing. Last week, as you know if you’re still
following the story, or if you’re one of those kids doing the Weird Georgia tour and sneaking out
here, they closed down our building, even though Mr. Thomas’ body still keeps
showing up. We moved again, to another
apartment complex that looks exactly the same.
Now there are no more hollow wind chime noises,
though I do dream about them sometimes. What’s in a person’s heart? I guess it’s what you live and die and could
come back for. I’ve
been thinking a lot about Mr. Thomas, and what was in his heart. It didn’t seem to be love or friendship, or
even history. Like I said, I didn’t know
much about him, but I can’t help but think I know what was there, and what
remains, something solid as a bullet lodged in rapidly disappearing muscle and
flesh: a last, unfinished letter. To
Whom It May Concern, (I can see the precise
lettering in my mind) I
would like to apologize to my former neighbors, and especially to the Residency
Board, for the constant reappearance of my body in various locations in our
building. I am aware that this is not
only unsightly, but a health hazard and a violation of a number of city
sanitation codes. I ask that you inform
the proper authorities and that you please be patient. Thank
you, Wade
Thomas likes being touched by firemen © 2010 Alysa SalzbergAuthor's Note
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4 Reviews Added on August 14, 2010 Last Updated on August 14, 2010 Tags: Horror, Southern Gothic, Goth, skeleton, ghost story AuthorAlysa SalzbergParis, FranceAboutA reader, a writer, a fingernail biter, a cat person, a traveller, a good kid to be around if you don't like silence, a movie buff, a history buff, sometimes walks around the house in the buff, an ins.. more..Writing
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