Chapter 1
Years had passed since she had last seen him; months had gone by since she had sent him an “I Love You” letter; but on the last day of each month, Sondra made it an obligation to place a call to her only child Presley. Having virtually been out of his life for the past nine years as a result of her own careless and selfish actions, her monthly dial-up was the least she felt she could do to maintain some sort of parent-child relationship.
“I love you so much, Presley,” she muttered as her emotions began to get the best of her during one of these calls, “and I promise I’m going to see you this upcoming month.”
“I’ve been hearing that same story for the past several months now, mom. When are you really gonna visit?” the boy retorted in an understandably angered and elevated tone of voice.
“Don’t you dare raise your fucking tone at me, Presley,” his inebriated mother blared back, the clangor of her finished alcohol bottles adding to the discord as she slammed an open palm onto a nearby coffee table. “Now, if I promised you I’ll be there, I’ll be there,” she repeated, only to have her over-the-top jeremiad earn the response of a distinct chuckle.
“Hand your grandmother the phone,” she ordered, her instruction accompanied by a heavy sigh, a clear indication of her regret over making her usual call this particular month.
“Sondra - ”
“Why can’t I just get this parenting thing right, mom?” a frazzled Sondra queried, cutting off her mother at the very sound of her voice.
“My darling Sondra,” her mother carried on, “raising a child is never an easy task, particularly when you’ve been out of the child’s life for so many years.”
“But I call my boy every month. Why can’t he just understand how much I love him?”
Her mother broke a gentle laugh. “My dear daughter, it takes more than just a monthly phone call to build fondness. The day you left that boy at my doorstep was the day that you lost both his love and respect. Sadly, it appears that you want to lose him altogether. I can foresee it already: if this bickering and quarreling between you two continues, soon enough he’ll no longer want to take your calls. He has your exact temperament, you know. Give the boy a visit, Sondra. He’s 15 now; you’ve had him waiting long enough.”
“I will, mother,” Sondra promised yet again. “And thanks so much for stepping up to the plate in my absence. I’ll talk to you guys later,” she said, slow to hang up the phone, fully cognizant that the end of the call meant the beginning of her lonesome misery for another 30 or 31 days.
“That bitch I gave birth to will never see the light,” her mother murmured to herself as she hung up the telephone receiver and slowly turned to the boy in the kitchen. “Thank you for your assistance this evening, Joshua,” she said as she handed him a crinkled 20-dollar bill she had retrieved from a dusty cookie jar that sat atop an otherwise empty kitchen counter. The entire conversation her daughter was engaged in a few seconds ago had been nothing more than an elaborate charade.
“No problem, Mrs. Sillow,” the terrified young boy replied as he simultaneously plucked the money out of her hand and darted out the kitchen door to his adjacent home. He had swung open the screen door with such force that the velocity it returned to the house with conjured a breeze strong enough to flare the bottom of Ms. Sillow’s floor-length nightgown and left the door hanging on just one hinge. Wary of his parents’ strict instructions regarding their strange next door neighbor, Joshua never spent more time in her home than was necessary. In actuality, had his father not ordered him to spend some time at her place on a monthly basis, he never would have dreamt of being in such close proximity to her. She spooked him more than any fictional horror character his parents had told him of as he was growing up ever could. She was all too frighteningly real. He did his best to appear to be a brave young man while in her presence, nonetheless. He would answer her questions in a loud, clear tone of voice which he had craftily altered with unnatural bass, careful not to allow his pitch to tremble; and for as long as he possibly could - 10 seconds tops - he would make eye contact with her. Every time that he made it home safely, he considered his valorous tactics a huge success.
“That boy reminds me so much of my grandson,” the delusional old hag said to herself as she hoisted the lolling screen door to an even level, slammed it closed, and locked it behind him. “I can’t wait to see him next month.”
Then she began to recite her most beloved eulogies.
