Like an Eggshell

The refrigerator hummed its mundane kitchen appliance song. Nestled inside its bright white suit of armor lied stacks of pita, American cheese, tortillas, honey-cured ham, baguettes, salami, and various other breads, cheeses, and deli meats. Every item in the 'fridge brandished fuzzy, blue-gray splotches. The presence of mold within the big box gave the collection of comestibles the look of decaying organs. The knight, stinking of death, lied limp on the battlefield.

Suddenly someone dove milky fists into his body.

Her name was Lanetta. From ashy lashes to dusty eyes to colorless skin, she stood as translucently as a ghost. Lips shaped like a tombstone and fingers knotted into brambles, every bit of her whispered solemnity.

Lanetta surveyed the contents of the 'fridge, from sliced turkey to chunky cornbread, and sighed.

"Spoiled again."

She seized a hunk of bread and tossed it into the garbage bag that sat at her feet. Then she threw away a package of roast beef, a stick of pepperoni, and a bunch of aimless rolls.

"Ugh. So disgusting." A bag of mini-pitas plopped onto the growing pile of discarded food. The pitas then issued a nebulous cloud. The cloud resembled thousands of mushroom spores exploding into the air after a chickadee tapped their mother's cap with its hungry beak. Lanetta coughed.

The noises of the woman's rummaging echoed throughout the kitchen. She touched a piece of foil and it crunched. Upon grabbing a paper bag, it folded into a yielding crumpling sound.

As Lanetta scraped through the refrigerator, brown gunk seeped into the tiny crevices beneath her fingernails. It stung, as if full of legions and legions of ice crystals. Glossy photographs of shining, new refrigerators hovered in Lanetta's mind. Commercials drummed in her head. Instantly, Lanetta's soiled hand slid into her pocket, where a Sear's coupon slept, waiting for its owner to awaken her at the cash register.

Soon Lanetta began dumping everything in sight out of the 'fridge until it was completely empty. She threw her whole body into the act, thrusting her arms forward and her hips back as she dug deeper and deeper. She raked everything to the front of the 'fridge until boxes, cans, bottles, and packets alike plummeted from the cracked shelves. The food crashed to the floor, with about 2/3 of it actually landing in the garbage bag. The rest found its niche on the amber tiles.

"God," Lanetta groaned, "Always the same mess." Her chin dropped down on her bony chest. She stared gloomily at the mountain of rotten food and then moved her gaze toward the ceiling. Everything from steam engines to palm trees to grizzly bears seemed to emerge from the cracks and flakes of peeling paint.

Then the steam engine sped away, the grizzly charged toward a tumbling woodchuck, and the palm tree dropped its coconuts until it wilted completely into dust. Lanetta half-smiled and shuffled toward the kitchen sink. She turned on the faucet and watched the spurts of water hit the dirty dishes. When the water started to come out harder, she shoved her hands beneath the stream, and scrubbed vigorously. Her skin began to chaff into burning bits.

A window as wide as Lanetta was tall presided over the sink and part of the kitchen counter. Thick, ivory curtains blocked much of its glimpse to the outside world, however. Only a gap about five or six inches wide between where the two parts of the curtain should have met allowed a view of the house next door.

The glimpse allowed for a sliver of the neighbor's living room window. But looking through the neighbor's window glass was like looking through a muddy puddle. In fact, the glass was so frosted that not even the silhouette of the neighbor's sofa was visible. Lanetta only knew it was the living room because she once had the chance to visit. It had been an awkward affair. She knocked on the front door and tapped her foot for a full two minutes before anyone opened. Lanetta only decided to stay because she heard muttering, rustling, and the shattering of something fragile like ceramic. After the ceramic broke with a single crash, silence imbued the house. Then the sound of footsteps on old hardwood floors grew steadily louder as the feet's owner approached the door. A moment later, Lanetta stood face to face with a silver-haired, sagging woman with faint acne scars.

"Come in," the woman coughed. "I'm glad you remembered our appointmet. Water? Tea? Soda?"

"Um, what do you have already out?" Lanetta asked as she stumbled into the musty house.

"Whiskey."

"I, er, don't drink."

"Then how do you stay from getting dehydrated?" The woman slapped her thick thighs and guffawed. Another cough escaped from her mouth.

Lanetta smiled awkwardly and sat down on the yellow living room sofa after the woman pointed to it. She waved her head around, as if bobbing along to an imaginary tune. Her eyes danced from a black vase full of peonies to a table cloth with an eggplant design. When she noticed the window, Lanetta lifted herself out of the sinking cushions. Curious about what she could see of her house, she wandered toward the window, placed her fingers on the mantle, and peered out. She fluttered her eyelashes a little before realizing what stood before her.

She imagined herself bent over the sink, scrubbing dishes that had accumulated over the past week. Bits of soggy cake and crust, dissolved by gobs of green soap, peeled off of the plates.

"Some housekeeper I am," Lanetta whispered to herself.

"What?"

Lanetta turned around, where her neighbor stood holding a tray with two glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. The neighbor seemed especially stout now that she was wearing her bright pink apron. The apron cover her from the neck to very nearly her knees. Apparently the apron had been designed for a much taller person. She stank of alcohol, as if drinking in front of Lanetta made her self-conscious now that she knew she was a non-drinker, so she had to down vodka in private. The moment Lanetta had sat down on her ugly, beaten sofa, she snuck to her spirits cabinet and glugged like Dionysus.

Lanetta tugged at her own sweater sleeve. "Oh, I was just...nothing."

The neighbor stretched her face into a polite smile. Lanetta could imagine a chronic gambler dying with that same expression. A heart attack would strike during that fatal game of poker right before the player realized he was about to lose everything.

"I'm out of ice. I hope that's not a problem."

"Oh, no, not at all." Lanetta reached for the glass and put it to her lips. "Thanks."

Lanetta could not remember how the scene proceeded from there, only that it involved mundane conversation. She turned off the sink and heaved up the big bag of garbage. It had begun to spread out across the floor like rolls of fat from a lying dog. She squeezed the bag as she tightened her grip. Putrid air puffed in lightly-lined Lanetta's face.

"I can't...ugh."

Lifting the bag proved difficult for the thin, bookish woman. She fumbled with her keys as she attempted to unlock the kitchen door.

"Why don't I ever unlock this thing first?"

She rammed her hip into the door, certain of the bruise that would greet her later that evening. She tried to ignore the rawness as her teeth jumped away from where she had bitten her lip. Lanetta pushed out the door. Cool, suburban breeze rustled her hair.

"Oh, Cape Mandrake," Lanetta sighed, and then quoted the town slogan, "'where families learn and grow together within a convenient distance from the city'." She dragged herself to her garage, which rested at the very edge of her backyard. Broken beer bottles, cat dung, and gravel littered the fringes of her property.

As she wrestled open the garbage can, she muttered something about "the woes of teenage suburban boredom." That was before the stink of old eggs and rotten cheese crept into her nostrils, of course. A coughing fit overtook her as her face dimmed into shades of pink and red. Lanetta upturned the bag of garbage, shook into until all of the contents had piled into the bin, and then retreated to her house.

Lanetta's home seemed removed from an enchanted forest. It was the oldest building in Cape Mandrake, dating back to the 1600s. It had been passed down through the family, though nothing about it carried the aura associated with beautiful and invaluable heirlooms. Everything about the house seemed like it was on the verge of breaking. From its sagging roof to its narrow front door, it appeared dainty and fragile. The shutters, unlike the rest of the shutters in the neighborhood, actually functioned, but Lanetta always left them open to allow more light into the dark and dank living room. At that, all of the shutters hung crookedly. The bottom left one on the front of the house in particular dangled so wrecklessly from its hinges that it seemed to be waiting for the most perfectly theatrical moment to fall. Even the hedges surrounding the cottage appeared ancient and dusty. Spiderwebs covered them almost completely, with only the occasional small hole devoted to chipmunk tunnels.

Lanetta glanced at the kitchen sink, rubbed her hands on her jeans, scrambled to the dining room, and took a seat at the head of the table. It was time to rest, she reasoned. A thin book of Spanish poetry beckoned her. She opened to the page where she had left off and began mouthing the lines to herself. Her brow furrowed and relaxed, furrowed and relaxed. It furrowed either when she encountered an unfamiliar word or when a thought presented by the poem disturbed her. It relaxed either when a thought presented by the poem pleased her, or she felt nothing at all. Her eyes told of her pleasure or indifference.

So engrossed in the book was Lanetta that she did not initially hear a light tapping at the window. Her right pointer finger continued tracing letters and words with the timidity of a child learning to read. The tapping came again. Lanetta glanced up but immediately went back to reading. The tapping grew stronger. Lanetta closed her book over her finger and looked up. She paused for a few seconds and, sensing no danger, opened the book again. She ran her fingers through her hair as Lorca taught her about love and death. Not even a verse later, the tapping interrupted Lanetta yet again. She shut the book and stood up. Worry washed over her, but she would not let it paralyze her. She approached the kitchen with cautious steps.

As Lanetta rounded the corner from the dining room to the kitchen, she stopped and peered around the wall, as if she expected a goblin to be ransacking the oven or burying clusters of something vile beneath the stove burners. But the kitchen seemed clear. Lanetta tip-toed toward the kitchen door and had almost unlocked it to check on the backyard when--

WHACK!

Lanetta's eyes flew open, and she dropped her keys. THAP. She paused, deciding whether or not to pick up the cluster of keys. Afraid to let her guard down for even an instant, she thought against it. Her heart galloped in her chest, despite Lanetta's desire for it to slow down to a mere tremor. She slapped her right hand over her heart and studied the tiny hairs near her knuckles in an effort to soothe herself. When Lanetta's heartbeat assumed a normal pattern again, her gaze swooped up to the kitchen window.

A plump-breasted bird pecked its beak against the glass. A light breeze ruffled its shadowy feathers. Impatience shone in its black eyes.

"What are you expecting," Lanetta breathed, "A four course meal?"

She scrambled toward the window, tripping over a can of beans along the way. Lanetta cursed the beans and then faced the little beggar. The bird cocked its head, examining Lanetta's tired figure. She appeared older than ever before thanks to the harsh sunlight streaming into the kitchen. The bird seemed so carefree compared to Lanetta, who tried harder and harder everyday to ignore the purple bags that expanded under her eyes and the silver hairs that sprouted near her forehead.

Lanetta opened the window, but the bird barely budged. It only lithely stepped to one side. Lanetta reached for a loaf of old bread on the counter. Then she removed a slice from the bag and tore it up into accommodating morsels. She scattered a few pieces in front of the bird. Eagerly, the bird gulped up the bread. Each time it swallowed, Lanetta observed a pistachio-sized bulge protrude from its throat. For some reason, Lanetta imagined how only a slightly larger object would be big enough to choke it. She shuddered at the thought and continued watching the feathered creature devour its meal.

When the bird finished its starchy feast, it swiftly plucked something from under its left wing, dropped it on the windowsill, and then stared at Lanetta for a split second. Lanetta stared back, searching the bird's inky eyes. She didn't even blink once as she stared harder and harder. Suddenly, just when Lanetta thought she detected a form shimmering in the vast blackness, the animal took off. When it disappeared, the window slammed behind it, as if its pumping wings had created a mighty wind.

Lanetta's gaze remained on the window for some time after, and, then, as if smelling her kitchen's rotting fumes for the first time, she snapped out her daze.

"What an odd bird," she said.

She was about to slide on her gloves again when her gaze dropped down to the windowsill. A long, silver ring encrusted with white diamonds gleamed at her. The ring was so long, in fact, that it looked as if it would cover the first third of whosever finger it went on. The skull that occupied the ring's center seemed to wink at her. Lanetta, startled that she had only just noticed the magnificent ring, gasped. She picked it up and immediately sneezed. As she bent over, the ring flew out of her hand. It clinked on the floor and then slid off into seclusion.

"No!"

Lanetta wiped her hands on her pants and spun around, increasingly madder with each spin.

"I couldn't have lost it so soon."

She dropped on her hands and knees, spitting stray strands of hair out of her mouth. "It must be right here...I just..." Lanetta bit her lower lip and patted the floor. Each time her palm touched the hardwood, she grew more anxious. Sweat began to bead down her cheeks and drip into her fine wrinkles.

"I bet that thing could've paid all my bills for a few months, too."

Lanetta patted some more, only stopping when she felt something sharp pierce her hand. She swiftly brought her hand to her face, shaking it all the way up. A bubble of blood popped out from her skin. It jiggled slightly.

"Ack! A splinter."

She brought her hand as close as she could to her eyes without losing focus of the new, crimson mark. Lanetta pressed her tongue to her skin to loosen the splinter, but the splinter was stubborn. It remained in place despite Lanetta's flood of saliva. She shoved her fingernail against the side of the splinter, only to further drive it into her flesh. She felt it tear layers of herself she could not see. After wincing at the burning, Lanetta glanced away from the splinter to re-focus her eyes. Her contacts had wandered out of place. Her eyelids pushed them back over her pupils.

When she could see properly again, she randomly spied the ring shining in the corner of the kitchen. Loose hair, spilled salt, and lint circled it in worship. Lanetta crawled toward the ring, scuffing the knees of her pants. When she reached the ring, Lanetta studied it for a moment. It glimmered as if fairies were tapped inside its band. The ring's quality of enchantment made Lanetta suspicious for only an instant before her fears dissipated. Then she slid it onto her finger.

Suddenly, the splinter sprung out of her sore palm. It hit the floor and splashed like a teardrop. Lanetta gaped at the puddle that formed before her. Her eyes and mouth rounded into almost perfect circles. When she realized that some of the teardrop had splashed onto her pantsleg, her mouth grew even wider. Gradually the surprised melted away from her face. Lanetta sighed and massaged her whole face, applying pressure to her temples, the sides of her nose, her jaw, her chin. By the time she was finished, her face felt warm and the teardrop had dried.

Lanetta pulled herself up from the floor and walked over to her floral couch. She pressed her face deep into the red pillow sitting against one of the couch's arm until she no longer even sensed it was there. Lanetta slept there the rest of the day, curled up like a withered finger. She breathed softly, evenly. When she finally woke up, the ring was gone.

The next day, Lanetta was washing the dishes when her ears caught a tapping at the window. She almost broke the kidney bean shaped dish she was holding. The same bird from the previous day gawked at her.

"Back for more bread?" Lanetta chuckled, relieved that it was a bird, not a Peeping Tom or her neighbor, standing at the window. "You better have another ring for me because that last one just...well, I can't even explain what it did. I don't need a bird thinking I'm crazy...It was a great ring, though...from what I remember, anyway."

Lanetta opened the window to the sound of the bird's soft cooing. She laid out a handful of bread crumbs into a small mound. They fell with a soothing pitter-patter against the gray windowsill. The bird stepped forward and began pecking at the humble meal. Lanetta smiled wearily.

"I know one of those coos meant thank you," she murmured. She bent down over the sink again, humming an old-fashioned saloon song. Her hands scraped against a course, metal scrubber. Rough soap ate at her skin. Yet the pain and irritation that a poor woman normally experiences washing dishes melted away as Lanetta observed the hollow-boned animal that had asked her for sustenance once again. Someone actually depended on her. For the first time in a long time, Lanetta felt sincerely loved.

Once upon a time, Lanetta was young, beautiful, and lucky enough to choose from a long line of men at the art academy. She settled for Scott, a welding student. Only one week her senior, Scott courted her with original poetry and roses from his mother's garden. Once, he even welded a miniature horse for her coffeetable. It was like he had read ever Harlequin romance novel ever written.

Scott was tall enough that he always had to stoop a bit to kiss Lanetta, but not so tall that they could not easily gaze into each other's bright faces after a leisurely stroll through the park. Lanetta always admired his deep dimples and the single freckle beneath his left nostril. His laugh reminded her of clouds floating through the sky on a Sunday afternoon. His voice was like the breeze that moved those clouds.

Lanetta imagined herself marrying Scott, having children with Scott, even being buried next to Scott when the time came. He confessed to sharing the same thoughts about her one evening over a mug of hot chocolate. They cuddled in front of his fireplace, his arm over Lanetta as she huddled in his sweater.

"I love you, Lanetta. I want us to be like this forever. Maybe someday soon we could run off to a place where outside forces could never ruin us, where we would be free to be ourselves. Together. Always."

But, after one year, he denied everything:

"We were never going out, Lanetta," Scott breathed into the receiver, "You were never my girlfriend. You were just some girl I slept with. If you think otherwise, you're just delusional."

Then the phone clicked. The deadest silence ensued as Lanetta clutched the phone to her breast with glazed eyes. Her heart had been racing during her conversation with Scott, until the very end when it just seemed to putter out. She did not speak to anyone for the next seven days.

After Scott had stomped on Lanetta's heart, she spat in his face the next time she coincidentally saw him at the supermarket. She aimed particularly for what she then deemed his disgusting freckle. They were standing by the cake mixes, icing, and sprinkles. No matter how sweet the aisle smelled, Lanetta's tone pumped bitterness into the air.

"I don't care what the Irish say," she hissed, "Freckles aren't angels' kisses. You aren't pure enough for that kind of blessing, you no good--"

A sales associate rapidly wedged between them before Lanetta could finish her sentence out of many more to come. It had taken the associate a solid five minutes to notice the confrontation, but when he did, he knew he had to stop it before birthday candles ended up in someone's eye sockets.

"Don't s-s-spit on me," the associate stammered. He was a skinny teenage boy who could've passed for eleven or twelve anywhere. Rashes climbed the edge of his cheeks and his apron was meant for someone twice his size. He reeked of vinegar.

"Don't worry. I only want to spit on him."

"You already did," Scott mumbled, and winced upon hearing himself admit that. Then he took a step back, not realizing that a display shelf full of cheerful cake ornaments stood right behind him.

"Um, could you spit on him outside, miss...er, ma'am? And, uh, sir, you're about to run into Big Bird--"

Lanetta stomped her foot and shrieked, "Go outside? I don't have time for that. I've given him more than enough of my time."

Scott winced again and stepped back again. He nearly knocked over the whole display.

"Excuse me," Scott said. He turned around, only to face the giant stacks of Barney the Dinosaur, Snow White, Bugs Bunny, and other children's favorites. When he turned around again, the sales associate had slunk off. Scott was then almost nose to nose with Lanetta.

"I hope you rot," she slurred and spat in his face again.

Scott called her repeatedly after that, but eventually Lanetta just smashed her phone. At age forty-two, twenty years later, she remained unmarried. During the day, she worked at a pottery store. Customers milled in and out, admiring the delicate jars and pots, but rarely opening their checkbooks. At night, she read and sculpted with the fervency of a squirrel chasing after a rolling acorn. Lanetta just couldn't determine where the acorn in her own life lied...or even if it was an acorn at all.

"It's probably a cashew," Lanetta muttered to herself, "Or not a nut at all. Probably a bicycle horn." Images of a squirrel version of herself, scampering after a legged bicycle horn, generally followed. The picture had a way of clinging to her mind.

But now she funneled all of her focus on the feasting bird. Lanetta marveled at the shameless animal as it bit another piece of bread, shocked that it had not yet exploded. The bird instantly shuddered upon swallowing, as if experiencing a new, religious form of digestion. Then, as if poised to cough, it opened its beak. Lanetta returned to washing her dish, expecting the bird to vomit and not wanting to witness it. The bird did not cough, nor did it vomit, but something other than air and half-digested food emerged from its gullet.

"Oh, ew...what--?"

Lanetta screwed up her face, her lips in particular.

"That is just..."

Lanetta bent over and picked up the object the bird's body had rejected.

"A thimble? How did that...?"

The bird jerked its head at Lanetta, grabbed a piece of bread, and without eating it, flew away. Lanetta went over the dining room, where the light shone brightest in the whole house, to inspect the thimble.

The sterling silver thimble seemed small enough to fit over a mouse's snout. Engraved at its very center were doves darting in and out of rose bushes beneath a rainbow. Lanetta flipped it over to examine its inside, where she found the initials 'J.C.' She shrugged her shoulders and went to the linen closet in the hall connecting her bedroom to the bathroom. Lanetta pulled out her sewing basket and opened it to reveal a bunch of scrap cloth, colorful spools, and dull needles. She dropped the thimble into one of the wicker basket's many canvas-covered compartments. Then she wandered back to the kitchen to wash dishes.

The next morning, Lanetta decided to mend her church dress after her shower. Hair dripping, scented like honey-infused tea, she scuttled to the linen closet. She picked out a baby blue towel to wrap up her hair. Then Lanetta grabbed the linen basket and walked to the living room sofa. When she flipped open the basket, she squinted her eyes. Since she hadn't put on her contacts after the show, Lanetta reached for her glasses case on the end table. She quickly removed them from the case and jammed them on.

Instead of the spools and scraps that had dominated the basket just the day before, Lanetta met a little jacket composed of bits of every fabric previously there. Tailored to fit someone the size of Lanetta's pinkie, the jacket sported big buttons up its tiny front. An absurdly small pocket sat next to the top button on the left side of the jacket. In it, Lanetta found an even smaller, multi-colored handkerchief. Wondering where all the other cloth had went, Lanetta pawed through the basket. The jacket was too small to have required all the scraps she had hoarded. But, after searching every compartment, Lanetta discovered nothing.

The woman pouted, upset that she would have to spend the next two or three years to make up for the lost cloth.

"Well, I might as well put this little thing to use," Lanetta whispered to herself. She stood up and headed to her television set. Toys of every make and size decorated the top of the TV, as well as the table upon which it was displayed. Lanetta plucked up to a teeny Teddy bear and wiggled the jacket onto its plush form. She smiled lightly at her newly clothed friend.

"I guess you won't be cold anymore."

Lanetta placed him back on the TV and lied down on the couch. As soon as she touched the cushion, the towel on her head fell off and plopped onto the floor. Her hair puffed out into a full mane, absolutely dry. A pleasant surge of heat shot up through Lanetta, from the tips of her toes to her forehead. She grinned and plunged deep into the couch for a nap.

The following day, Lanetta was walking past the Teddy bear when the same surge of heat she had experienced the previous day filled her entire being. She felt a soft fluttering inside of her chest. Then she made her way into the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea. As she reached into the cabinet for a box of Jasmine, a tapping she almost anticipated came at the window.

"I know just who that is."

She put down the tea box and fisted a bunch of bread crumbs she had chopped up that morning. Lanetta opened the window, but instead of placing the crumbs directly on the windowsill, kept them in her palm. The bird did not hesitate in hopping toward her and eating right from her hand. It shivered, from the top of its head to the tip of its tail, as it ate.

"That's right," Lanetta said, "Enjoy it."

The bird continued gobbling up the crumbs, bobbing up and down. Lanetta detected every flinch, every twitch issued by the warm, feathered body. When it stole the last crumb, Lanetta stroked its wings so that she felt every ripple in its plumage.

"I've never held a bird before. I never imagined it being so...peaceful."

The bird suddenly jolted up and began gagging. Lanetta kept it in her hand, already marveling at what was to come. The bird shook this way and that, convulsing like a dying insect, until it spat up something. But instead of shooing the bird away in disgust, Lanetta stood there very calmly as the bird disappeared without her prompting. Her hand remained outstretched despite the wet mound piled up on her palm.

The woman swallowed and, very slowly, looked down at her hand. Quietly, she brushed away the regurgitated bread and saliva that encased whatever the bird had now presented her. As she shifted more and more, she started to feel the contours of a long, metallic object. Lanetta picked it out, not daring to guess what the object was until she washed it. She turned on the faucet and held the object under the running water for a few seconds before discovering...

"A key. An old-fashioned key."

Indeed it was an old-fashioned key, slender at the stem with an elaborate, arabesque handle. Lanetta bit her lower lip as she beamed.

"But where does it--?"

For some reason, Lanetta knew to look at the kitchen door, and, when she did, it flew open. Trance-like, she approached the door, key in hand. All of a sudden, the bird entered the doorway, cooing.

"I'm coming," Lanetta said, "I'm coming."

The bird whipped around and began flapping its way into the garden. Lanetta followed it, step by step, over flowers and tomato plants. It led her to a golden nest perched up in a sycamore.

"Is this your nest?"

The bird answered the question by landing on the side of the next. Lanetta stood up on her toes and peered inside to discover three light pink eggs. One of them contained a tarnished lock that seemed perfectly suited for Lanetta's key. When she picked it up, the bird left, but she did not bother looking where. Lanetta stuck the key inside of the lock and twisted it very carefully.

Slowly, the egg unhinged into two parts, throwing white light into Lanetta's face. That's when she noticed the words inscribed inside of the shell, in black, cursive letting.

She mouthed them to herself. "Love is like...an eggshell."

She smiled strangely and cradled the egg within her hands, heading back to the house.

The End