Free Pretending Normal by Mary Campisi Page B

asleep, except you wake up in a different place.” A faint smile hovers on his lips. “For those people it’s the living that’s a bitch, not the dying. And the horrible thing for these poor sons of bitches is when some do-gooder shuts off the engine and opens the door, thinking he’s trying to save a life when all he’s doing is prolonging a death.”
    “What if they just think it’s what they want but it really isn’t?”
    “There are too many people walking around dead for me to believe that. If I were in that car,” he says, pointing to the Chevy beside him, “with the engine running and the garage door closed, I’d damn well know what I was doing. And nobody, not Jesus Christ himself, better try to stop me.”
    “You’re not … you wouldn’t…”
    “Me?” His eyes glitter, dark shards of steel, boring into me. “Nah, not me.” He shakes his head, laughs, takes another swig of Cutty Sark. “All I’m saying is life’s a bitch and then you die, one way or another.”
    ***
    Ms. Evelyn ‘Peck’ O’Grady might be retired, but there is still plenty of teacher left in her. I arrive at one thirteen Beech Street the next morning at nine o’clock sharp.
    “Come in, Sara .” Ms. O’Grady opens the screen door and I step into the house that’s been whispered and wondered about for as long as I can remember. The sitting room is a glum attempt to preserve the treasures of the O’Grady family in proper decorum and good taste with a doily-covered sofa and side chairs, heavily laced curtains, mother of pearl vases and gilt framed pictures of a young Samuel and Earla O’Grady. A single nightlight shines in the corner of the room, illuminating a three foot statue of the Virgin Mary, hands extended in supplication.
    “I’ve made a list of projects,” Ms. O’Grady says, removing the red pen she’s tucked behind her ear to jot down another few items in a steno notebook. Her thin frame is covered in a blue T-shirt and jeans, her feet in black Keds. “We’ll start in the basement, and work our way upstairs.”
    Upstairs? Frank said basement and yard work.
    She must see something on my face because her voice softens and she says, “Thank you, Sara. It’s always so much easier when two people share the work. Patricia threw out her back hauling boxes from the basement and Dr. Blatenbush ordered her on bed rest and muscle relaxers.”
    “It’s okay, I’m glad to help.” Sure.
    “Well, then,” she says, “I hope you don’t mind getting that outfit dirty.”
    “These are old clothes.”
    She nods her cropped head. “Smart girl. Let’s get started. Follow me.”
    “Evelyn.” A thin, reedy voice trickles down the hallway. “Bring my sweater. I’m cold.”
    Mr. O’Grady. Cold? I’m sweating to death.
    “Yes, father .” Ms. O’Grady slips past me into the next room.
    “Who are you talking to?”
    “Frank Polokovich’s daughter, Sara.”
    “What’s she doing here?”
    I inch closer, curious to match the voice, the man, and the feet .
    “Remember I told you she was coming to help clean up the basement for the garage sale?”
    “You paying her?”
    “Yes.”
    How much?”
    “I don’t know, I guess it depends on how much work she does.”
    “Why can’t you do it yourself?”
    I peek around the corner and spot the back of a gray Barcoulounger. Mr. O’Grady is sitting in it and all I can see is the back of his thin, veiny right arm.
    “I can’t, Father . I’ve tried but it takes two people.”
    “Who’s going to fix my oatmeal?”
    “I will. Once I get Sara started I’ll come up and fix it.”
    “Don’t be forever. You know I can’t take my pills on an empty stomach.”
    Ms. O’Grady bows her head, looks away and spots me out of the corner of her eye. I slink against the wall and inch my way back to the center of the sitting room.
    “I won’t be long.” Her words vibrate like a deflating tire.
    “I’ll need my toenails clipped, too. Bring the clippers when you come