LORI MCINTYRE - THE WATCHER & THE WHIRLPOOL

Lori McIntyre has been carrying beloved stacks of books for decades. It began in her youth and continues even today. Encouragement from a high school English teacher propelled Lori into writing stories for others to read. She has been writing ever since, but is often drawn back to the short story format. Lori is a retired school teacher and college instructor who lives in Simcoe County. 

​THE WATCHER

Her name is Audrey and I hear the click of her shoes on the sidewalk as she races by my house each morning. She’s in a rush just like everyone else. Audrey wears a uniform: a matching short sleeve top and a pair of pants made of thin cotton. The style of the uniform is always the same, but the colours change. Sometimes it’s pale pink, other times it’s turquoise, robin’s egg blue, or violet. Perhaps she is a nurse? I don’t know because I never speak to her as I watch her clip by. Audrey’s hair is a warm auburn colour, just like mine used to be when I was twenty-something. She has a sense of purpose and determination in her stride, a youthful energy as she swings her purse, and a warm smile that matches the soft pink hue in her cheeks. Despite her hurry she casts a look my way as I peek out my door.
    “Hello,” she says warmly.
    I live alone and so this predictable contact with a real person is something that I seek each day. I’m very old now, the bloom of my youth having faded long ago. My chestnut hair has changed to a dirty and matted gray with only a tinge of light brown left, as if it’s struggling to reclaim those bygone days. My vision and hearing is failing me, too. In fact, my eyes look shrouded as if a veil has descended over them. I can discern what is directly in front of me, but my peripheral vision has disintegrated. It’s the same with my hearing. Voices are quieter now and I strain to decipher words and sounds that were once detected with absolute clarity. Even the whisper of the wind is gone, reducing the outside world to a muted entity.
    I watch as uninspired teenagers idle away their time as they walk past my house. They stop to point and laugh at my home; a home that has also suffered the effects of old age and time. There is no one here to fix the curled shingles on the roof. Those that remain hang on tenaciously to the bit of cracked tar that threatens to release them without notice. The exposed wood on the roof also looks soft and wet to me.
    I take comfort in the little white fence that embraces my property. Yes, I know the paint is peeling. It also wobbles when leaned upon initiating the release of veteran slats that fall to the ground like tired soldiers. However, this little white fence offers me a sense of protection from those who stare, from those who fling hurtful words my way, and from those boisterous and brazen teenagers who taunt me. I am alone, lonely, and afraid.
The first cold day has arrived as I hear Audrey’s brisk steps approach. An icy frost has misted the air and covers the sidewalk, like a delicate piece of white lace. Audrey is wearing a navy trench coat over her thin violet uniform. She has on a pair of purple woollen gloves. I feel a penetrating chill seeping through the walls of my house. I fear this frigid air is going to worsen the rattle in my chest. 
I am chained by old age and frailty to a shell of a house that offers me little warmth, comfort, and protection. I take a cautious and trembling step just outside my door. I can see my breath and my gaunt body begins to shake. My stomach rumbles and I suspect no one is coming to bring me something to eat today. Audrey continues to notice me, but lately she slows down and briefly hesitates on the other side of the rickety white fence.
“You okay?” she shouts to me with an anxious look on her face, as she hurriedly checks the time with her purple-gloved hand.
My gaze is cemented to Audrey’s. I strain forward, unable to speak, but hopeful that she will interpret the signs of hunger, abandonment, and loneliness in my soft brown eyes. Audrey bites her lip and then scurries to the neglected gate that remains tentatively fastened by a rusty nail. She puts her hand on the top of the decaying portal and then withdraws it. She looks at her watch again, and then bolts in the other direction, casting a concerned look my way. I take a dejected step slowly backwards, just inside the frame of the door. I peer out as I hear the raucous sound of voices approaching.
    “There he is, fellas!” shouts the spikey-haired kid, who visits daily to whack a stick along the battered slats of my flimsy fence. “Throw it, now. Throw it before he gets back in!”
    I try to step backwards. I am weak though and unable to move quickly. Before I have a chance to take cover a rotten tomato explodes against my chest. I stumble and my fragile legs give out beneath me. I’ve grown so tired of these attacks, as both my house and I are pummeled with rotten food everyday now. Streaks of decomposing vegetables stain my thin exterior walls.
“Great shot!” shouts the spikey-haired kid. “See you tomorrow, loser!”
Laughter erupts from the pack of teenagers as I struggle to my feet. Putrid tomato slides down my hollow chest and onto my bony legs. Maybe they won’t come back tomorrow, I think hopefully. 
I awake from a fitful sleep this morning to find a layer of frost covering me like a blanket. The rotten tomato is still on my body and a penetrating hunger gnaws at me. I feel weak and nauseated. The shakes have settled in, too. I hear the scrape of shovels on icy driveways as the bite of cold pricks the inside of my nostrils. A bright whiteness of snow filters through the slits of my eyes that are now crusted over in the corners.
The familiar crunch of footsteps approaches on the sidewalk. I recognize the step and detect the pale violet form on the other side of the wooden pickets. I hear the gate creak open. It’s a sound I have not heard in a very long time. I feel the purple-gloved hand gently smooth the matted hair on the top of my head.
“Hey, are you alright? You don’t look so well,” says Audrey in a voice that sounds far away, despite her nearness.
I sense the weight of her coat upon me; I feel the warmth of her draped body over me; and I notice her tender kisses on the top of my head. The last whispered words I hear her say are, “I’m so sorry. I just didn’t know. Please hold on.”
Audrey remains slumped over the crusted and lifeless body, as the sound of scuffing footsteps approach. Anguished tears stream down her face. 
“What happened to him?” scoffs the spikey-haired kid, as he hovers over Audrey.
“He’s . . . dead,” she sobs. “He suffered and died alone. I walked by him every day. I watched him. He watched me. I didn’t know that he was abandoned. I should have done something to help, but now it’s too late.”
“What’s the big deal, lady?” snickers the spikey-haired kid, as he kicks the side of the house. “It’s just a dog! There’s plenty of those everywhere. One less isn’t going to change a thing.”
Audrey begins to shake uncontrollably. She buries her head into the sparse fur and skeletal frame of the Golden Retriever. A layer of frost lines the inside of the doghouse and a heavy chain remains clipped to his collar.
The spikey-haired kid saunters back through the crumbling gate. He stops at the opening and looks directly across the street. A wide smirk grows on his face, as Audrey remains over the dog, kissing the top of his head and gently whispering the words,
“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
Audrey’s broken-hearted sobs and shaky gulps echo through the crystal cold air and reverberate into the stillness. People walking nearby abruptly stop and turned towards the direction of the devastated cries.
Across the street a pair of eyes stare sadly and quietly at the crumpled figured draped over the lifeless body of the Golden Retriever. The elderly woman stands silently at her window. She clutches at a beige threadbare sweater that has slipped from her narrow shoulders. She wears a pair of grey track pants beneath a soiled and stained pink nightdress. Faded red slippers, a size too big, and with balding patches of flattened fluff, swallow her feet. 
The aged hand trembles as it reaches forward to touch the window. She uses her cracked and thickened fingernails to scratch away the film of frost that lines the interior of the glass. As the scraped and icy shavings fall to the floor, she peers through streaks of freshly thrown rotten vegetables. 
She is shivering, hungry, and very alone. 

​

The Whirlpool
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The crying started as soon I entered the car. My anxiety spiked and I felt the familiar drowning swell of doom. My father scowled at me as he adjusted the mirror in the car. My mother frowned, but remained mute. I slunk into the vibrating door, wishing I were it, and not a nine year old who was supposed to look forward to seeing her grandfather.
    My two sisters never cried on this journey, but they stole peeks at me as we drew closer to our destination, anticipating the trauma that was about to unfold. 
    “Not again!” shouted my father. “What the hell is wrong with you, Lori? Stop your bawling!”
    This paternal reprimand heightened my anxiety. I knew I was supposed to be more mature. I was after all, the middle daughter and not the youngest, however I was unable to control the swirling funnel of fear that enveloped me. I was the vortex and there was nothing I could do to escape. I cast a glance at my mother hoping for an inkling of support, but she looked straight ahead, denying the emotional destruction in the back seat. I was alone and I knew it.
    We approached the granite walls of the Canadian Shield. Their rigid presence on either side of the highway corralled us into a claustrophobic alley. I saw the familiar heart shape with the names, Deb & Jim, inscribed on the stony canvas. I pictured the two of them painting their names and laughing, as we sped past their cherished landmark. How could they be so happy in a place that only offered rock, decaying trees, and a dark river? 
    I hurriedly wiped my eyes as my father pulled into my grandfather’s driveway. I peered out the window feigning interest in a rusted lawnmower, hoping it would distract me from my inevitable fate. The car came to an abrupt stop though and my sisters scrambled out. I yanked on my bangs drawing them closer to red and thickened eyelids. Of all the places in the world why did my grandfather have to live here? This place was one of the reasons I feared visiting him. It was dark and dangerous. 
    “Remember, girls,” said my father as he pointed at the river, “those whirlpools will suck you right down to the bottom. The current is strong here, so keep away from the bank.” 
    I stared at the raging river that threatened to swallow little children whole. Did everyone and everything in this isolated place have to be so angry? I quickened my pace, walking behind my mother, while my eyes remained transfixed on the enraged Black River. This liquid canal defied the entry of light. Once I even watched a thick, charcoal coloured snake skim across the surface. My grandfather’s words echoed relentlessly in my head:  
    “Little Danny Cullen never had a chance. That boy fell into the river and was sucked down, deep and far. His body didn’t resurface for two days, way down by Coopers Falls. He’d been warned, you know.” 
     I shivered but within seconds the spinning whirlpools and slithering snakes quickly faded. We had arrived on the threshold of the tomb. My spine stiffened and I drew in my last breath of fresh air, as I faced my grandfather’s summer home. Summer sparked images of sunshine and warmth; home kindled a sense of comfort and belonging. None of those existed in a place that could only be described as some sort of crypt. 
    As I tilted my head upwards and scanned the exterior walls, I realized that this dwelling looked like my grandfather. The reddish-brown paint on the exterior walls was cracked and peeling, as it clung to wooden slats that were rotting and soft. A contagious rusty fungus, that threatened to suffocate the entire house, grew on crumbling roof shingles. Even the spongy wooden steps bounced underfoot. 
    The door creaked as my father pushed it opened. He entered first and the rest of us followed like captive prisoners. My sisters trudged along next, then my mother, and finally me. I didn’t want to be at the beginning of the line, but being last meant I had to be fanatically vigilant. 
    “You’re going to walk right up my back!” scolded my mother.
    I continued along in careful proximity wishing I could hold her hand, or at the very least, just touch some part of her for reassurance. All of us remained wide-eyed and mute, knowing we were inching closer towards him.
     The entrance to the crypt was dark despite it being midday. It revealed a large living room with a multitude of strange and frightening artifacts. I’d never seen such items before, but they always held my attention and were never moved or changed. A large replica of a beer bottle stood in a corner as I passed. It was dark brown and shoulder height. A reckless assortment of menacing fish on plaques also inhabited the walls. Some had sharp teeth, one was missing an eye, and another had whiskers. 
    Black and white photographs were plastered everywhere. I peered at men holding beer bottles and smoking cigarettes. They posed together like old friends, deliriously happy and alive, as dead fish hung on clips in their hands. I fixed my gaze on the last photograph, compulsively seeking out the one that unsettled me most. I stared at the tall and only man, the one who was both my grandfather and yet a young man. He was smiling, even friendly looking. That should have offered me comfort, but it didn’t. A crude rack made from sticks and strung with wire was in the foreground. I winced at the sight of dozens of dead frogs, the largest I had ever seen, hanging upside down like sheets on a clothesline. The warm smile my grandfather offered seemed sickening now. I wondered how he could be so happy with such a slaughter? Worst yet, what was he going to do with all those lifeless and pale amphibians? 
    As we trudged towards our final destination the curtain-less windows stared at the irritated river. If I had been offered a boat at that moment, I would have bolted aboard and risked losing my life in that swirling tributary. Escaping what awaited me would be worth the risk. I wondered if those frogs were the lucky ones after all? The familiar rattling cough of the crypt keeper sounded and I slammed into my mother once more. She pushed me back wordlessly, but with a harsh frown.
    We entered another room now, the one that preceded the kitchen, where my grandfather was encased. I had never been in a room that looked like night in the middle of day. There was no window, but through the blackness I could make out the shape of a bed that was lumpy and never made. I always felt unnerved walking through my grandfather’s bedroom in order to get to the kitchen. The murkiness of the space screamed at us to hurry along. 
    I braced myself as we approached our final destination. I closed my eyes tightly, like a fawn, believing that if I couldn’t see the threat it didn’t exist. My nasal passages, however, refused to permit such a delusion because they were in a full out Code Red, as we cut through a toxic layer of cigarette chemicals that hung in the air. A bare light bulb hung loosely from the ceiling. It illuminated a defiled yellow strip covered with the corpses of flies. A tiny window that would allow for the escape of a small child was located at the back of the kitchen. It disturbed me though, because it stared directly at a wall of rock, heightening my sense of being trapped in the tomb. Through the toxic haze I spotted the glowing ember of a cigarette, the one that remained permanently affixed to the long and bony fingers that I feared. Brownish, yellow stains were forever present on his right hand. 
    Like a group of tourists who repeatedly visited the same museum, we halted in front of the familiar human artifact. I stood stiffly behind my mother in an attempt to conceal my presence. Without moving my feet I tilted my head to catch glimpses of the skeletal figure before us. His clothes hung loosely on a bony frame and I could clearly see his collarbone. Suspenders were clipped to his waistband and he wore the same sleeveless undershirt, stained with reminders of previous meals. He sat beside a kitchen table with rusted metallic legs and an orange melamine top. An over-filled ashtray offered companionship to a chipped and stained coffee cup. 
    “Come and say hello to your grandfather, girls,” said the raspy voice, accompanied by a deep wet cough.
    My sisters stepped forward like soldiers drilled to march in perfect unison. I envied their togetherness and position at that moment. They were getting the dreaded greeting over with first, and splitting the intensity of the contact. I watched as my youngest sister shut her eyes and covered her nose in anticipation of a face plant with the repugnant soiled shirt. 
    My mother reached behind and drew me near for the first time now. I felt my small hand inside hers and the warmth of the security it offered. I gulped down the reassurance like a mad dog offered water in the hot day sun. I knew my turn was near, so I squeezed my mother’s hand harder hoping that our bond would not be severed. 
    “Now someone is missing,” sputtered the raspy voice between fits of hacking. “Where’s Lori?”
    My mother pried my fingers from her hand and pushed me forward. I halted, traumatized by the abrupt detachment, but continued cautiously as my father’s warning eyes bore into me. My sisters parted quickly and everyone watched as I approached the one I feared most, the tomb dweller, my grandfather. His liver spotted arms were outstretched and I inched quietly closer. I held my breath while locked in his embrace. 
    “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” I said to myself. “Think of that lawnmower … think of anything.”
    The embrace ended and I raced back to stand with my sisters, relieved that the worst was over. I felt the tenderness of my sister’s hand as she reached out to clasp mine. The sharp clog in my throat softened then, but a headache percolated in my temples. I knew that within a short time the visit would conclude. We would leave behind the tomb and its dweller. We would leave behind the angry river, the granite cliffs, and the decaying trees. We would leave them all behind, at least that is, until the next time.     

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