A Bright Soothing Noise

The Box

163 The Box Sarah dumped his drugs—the Delantin, the Prozac, the Lipitor, everything, even the vitamins—down the toilet . That was the morning after Mike’s seventy-first birthday. A few days later, he showed the ghost of an appetite. He took coffee and bacon for breakfast. At lunch he was lively enough to refuse the Nutriform until she bribed him with a teaspoon of whiskey. During May, for the first time all year, he lost no weight. In August he was up and about. By Halloween he even beat her to the door when the Thompson ghouls arrived with their sacks open and flashlights beaming into the dark kitchen. She found him leaning on the window, treating them only to a glimpse of his bony palms against the glass and his bloodshot, wide-open eyes, his bared teeth, the blistered tongue. Mrs. Thompson hadn’t mentioned it, but Sarah learned elsewhere that little Emma had nightmares for a month. The day after Thanksgiving, while Sarah went for groceries, he got out of bed over to the stereo and turned the volume so high Sheriff Langford, who was home with the flu, climbed out of his bed, drove down the dirt road in his bathrobe and slippers and stopped in to unplug it. Mike got a satanic sparkle in his eye whenever Sarah mentioned the sheriff, but by afternoon he had collapsed again in the 164 A BRIGHT SOOTHING NOISE big chair. The blanket covered the bones in his shoulders and thighs but his shins were absurdly pretty, like a young girl’s, the ankles small and delicate where they entered his oversized slippers . She knew he watched her every step, every move of her hand, every time she looked at him he was already staring, which meant he wanted whiskey. “Did you offer the sheriff a cup of tea?” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she got up to go into the kitchen: the two of them, the professor and the sheriff, must have looked a pair in their robes and slippers. “No,” he said, when she returned, having forgotten what she’d gone in for. “Of course not.” “Why do you do that?” she said. “With the stereo.” “I don’t know,” he said. “You can’t possibly enjoy the music so loud.” “Yes, I can.” “It’s awful.” “It’s Vivaldi!” he said, and stabbed her with his eyes. Was she disloyal to Vivaldi now as well? She sat in her chair until she gathered enough peace to reach for her prayer book. After a moment, she rose and stood next to the stereo. “Can you hear me now, as I’m speaking to you?” she said. “Can you hear what I’m saying?” “Yes, I hear you.” She adjusted the volume to four and bent down to put the plug in. The CD light came on and when the music began, she said, “Can you hear that?” “Yes, I can,” he said. “How does it sound?” “Wonderful,” he said. He listened a minute. “Miraculous.” “Why then must you turn it so loud?” she said but he only shook his empty old head. The Box 165 Sarah searched back and forth from the kitchen to her bedroom several times; so many things had been misplaced. She switched off the lights and closed the doors knowing only vaguely what she was looking for. Back in the livingroom he ignored her when she said, “Have you seen my glasses?” She felt a chill then, and wanted her sweater, but stopped and looked out the front window at the sunset on the empty flowerpots , the porch table and the mountains across the way. “The nurse thinks maybe I ought to monitor your progress more carefully,” she said. “Give you a little quiz each day, shouldn’t I?” “No,” he said. “For example. Do you recall the name of your daughter?” “Sylvia,” he answered. “Oh, you monster,” she said. “You heartless monster.” “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.” She was quiet a moment, then continued. “Okay, what then did we have for breakfast?” His made a dismissive gesture with his hand and his face changed in a way that frightened her; when the moment passed, he swallowed painfully. “What is it?” she said. “Nothing,” he said but left his chin down on his ribs. “Mike, I’m sorry.” “Bacon and coffee,” he cried...