Stone Mattress: Nine Tales(79)

The host announces that they will now take calls from their listeners.

“Don’t trust anyone under sixty,” says the first caller. They all laugh.

The second caller says he does not understand how they can be making light of this. The people of a certain age have worked hard all their lives, they’ve been taxpayers for decades and most likely still are, and where is the government in all of this, and don’t they realize the young never vote? Revenge will be taken at the polls on the elected representatives if they don’t snap to it and get this thing cleaned up right now. More jails, that’s what is needed.

The third caller begins by saying that he does vote, but it’s never done him any good. Then he says, “Torch the dusties.”

“I didn’t catch that,” says the host. The third caller begins screaming, “You heard me! Torch the dusties! You heard me!” and is cut off. Upbeat radio music.

Wilma switches off: that’s enough intelligence for today.

As she’s rummaging around for a teabag – risky, making tea, she might scald herself, but she’ll be very careful – her big-numbers phone rings. It’s the old kind of phone, with a receiver; she can’t manage a cellphone any more. She locates the phone in her peripheral vision, ignores the ten or twelve little people who are skating on the kitchen counter in long fur-bordered velvet cloaks and silver muffs, and picks it up.

“Oh, thank god,” says Alyson. “I’ve seen what’s going on, they showed your building on TV with all those people outside and the overturned laundry van, I’ve been so worried! I’m getting on a plane right now, and …”

“No,” says Wilma. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s under control. Stay where you …” Then the line goes dead.

So now they’re cutting the wires. Any minute now the electricity will go off. But Ambrosia Manor has a generator, so that will hold things in place for a while.



As she’s drinking her tea the door opens, but it’s not Tobias: no scent of Brut. There’s a rush of footsteps, a smell of salt and damp cloth, a gust of weeping. Wilma is enfolded in a strong, dishevelling embrace. “They say I must leave you! They say I must! We are told to leave the building, all workers, all healthcares, all of us, or they will …”

“Katia, Katia,” says Wilma. “Calm down.” She disengages the arms, one at a time.

“But you are like a mother to me!” Wilma knows a little too much about Katia’s tyrannical mother to find this complimentary, but it’s kindly meant.

“I’ll be fine,” she says.

“But who will make your bed, and bring your fresh towels, and clean up the things you have broken, and place upon your pillow the chocolate, in the night …” More sobbing.

“I can manage,” Wilma says. “Now, be a good girl and don’t cause trouble. They’re sending the army. The army will help.”

It’s a lie, but Katia needs to leave. Why should she be trapped inside what’s looking more and more like a besieged fortress?

Wilma asks Katia to bring her purse, then gives her all the petty cash left inside it. Someone might as well get the use out of it; she herself won’t be going on a shopping spree any time soon. She tells Katia to add the stash of wrapped floral-scented soaps from the bathroom, leaving two of them for Wilma just in case.

“Why is there water in the bath?” Katia asks. At least she’s stopped weeping. “It is cold water! I will make it hot!”

“It’s all right,” says Wilma. “Leave it there. Now, hurry along. What if they barricade the doors? You don’t want to be late.”

When Katia has gone, Wilma shuffles into the living area, knocking something off a bookshelf in the process – the pencil jar, there’s a sound of wooden sticks – and collapses into the armchair. She intends to take stock of her situation, review her life or something of the sort, but first she’ll try to wend her way through another sentence or two of Gone with the Wind on the big-print e-reader. She gets the thing turned on and finds her place, a wonder in itself. Is it time for her to learn Braille? Yes, but that’s unlikely now.

Oh, Ashley, Ashley, she thought, and her heart beat faster … Idiot, thinks Wilma. Destruction is at hand and you’re mooning over that wimp? Atlanta will burn. Tara will be gutted. Everything will be swept away.

Before she knows it, she’s nodded off.



She’s wakened by Tobias, gently shaking her arm. Was she snoring, was her mouth open, is her bridge in place? “What time is it?” she says.

“It is time for lunch,” says Tobias.

“Did you find any food?” Wilma asks, sitting up straight.

“I have acquired some dried noodles,” says Tobias. “And a can of baked beans. But the kitchen was occupied.”

“Oh,” says Wilma. “Some of them stayed? The cooking staff?” That would be consoling news: she notes that she’s hungry.

“No, they are all gone,” says Tobias. “It is Noreen and Jo-Anne, and some of the others. They have made a soup. Shall we descend?”



The dining room is in full swing, judging from the noise: everyone’s getting into the spirit of things, whatever that spirit may be. Hysteria, would be Wilma’s best guess. They must be carrying the soup in from the kitchen, acting as waiters. There’s a crash; much laughter.