Free Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl by Carolita Blythe Page B

I hearthis hoarse voice say, “P-please.” And now I’m shaking even more because maybe it’s not the old lady’s ghost. Maybe she’s really alive. And suddenly, I’m not so sure which is worse. If I leave, she won’t be able to tell on me and I’ll be able to get away. Maybe no one will find her and I won’t get in trouble. But if I leave and no one comes to find her, she might really die. But then again, I thought she was dead before, so would it be so wrong to just keep on acting as if she were? I really don’t know what to do. Maybe God is trying to test me. But I’m not quite sure how this divine forgiveness works. I probably shouldn’t have played hooky from Mass so much.
    “Please,” she says again. And I turn around a little, but I don’t walk back to the kitchen.
    “Help me.”
    She’s lying there so helpless, and then I realize something. Maybe she doesn’t even remember me. I mean, old people are always confusing stuff. My grandfather used to mix up all his grandkids, even the boys and girls. He’d call me Andre sometimes and call my cousin Andre Lisa. So who knows.
    “Please, help me. Help me get up,” she says as I inch toward her. “My back …”
    Once I reach her, I bend and put her right arm around my neck and try to pull her up, but I guess old people weigh more than they look like they do. She’s no bigger than a Smurf, but I can hardly even budge her. I have to put one leg on either side of her and lean against a chair, which pushes against the table. And my right foot is in that puddle of pee,but there’s not really much of anything I can do about that. The table slides all the way over to the china cabinet in the corner of the room before it stops, and I’m finally able to get some leverage and pull her up a bit.
    “The bedroom,” she says. And it takes like forever for me to help her to her room. I’m breathing so hard and sweating. I mean, the apartment is really warm. I don’t think the radiator has stopped sizzling since I’ve been here, and my coat is still zipped up over my uniform pants, vest, and blazer. Then there’s my knit cap and scarf.
    The bedroom is a wreck, with the mattress halfway off the box spring, the fancy red velvety bedspread and sheets on one side of the room, and the drawers from the long, wide dresser piled on the floor with all their stuff scattered about. I guess I didn’t realize how much of a mess we’d made.
    I have to rest the old lady in an armchair near the dresser and readjust the mattress on the box spring, then put the sheets back on the bed. Once that’s done, I’m really sweating buckets, but I don’t want this woman catching a glimpse of my uniform or the Bishop Marshall crest, which is stitched into the left breast pocket of my blazer. I’ve watched enough of those cop shows to know that you should never reveal any identifying symbols. I go back over to the old lady and pull her coat off. Then I put her arm back around my neck and hoist with all my might since she’s not really able to help any. I drag her over to the bed, which we both fall onto. I’m practically lying on top of her, but I’m breathing so hard and I’m so spent, I can’t really move. And so we lie there forI don’t know how long. This is about as awkward a moment as I’ve ever had, but there’s nothing I can do about it. And I can hear her breath coming in harsh, interrupted spurts.
    “Some water, please,” she says, her puckered lips all white and peeling. I run to the kitchen and take a glass from the china cabinet, but I have to be careful of all the broken glass and stuff on the floor. The water from the faucet gushes brown when I first turn it on, so I let it run a little while before filling up the glass. When I get back to the bedroom, I have to take the pillows off the floor to help prop her up a little. She makes these slurping noises as she drinks, and she holds the glass as if it’s the most precious jewel ever. I just stand there with