A Chilling Absence of Love

About the Book

Something was moving in the apartment.

  Something other than the rippling of the drapes in the larger of the two bedrooms; partly open accordion shapes shifting just enough to occasionally expose dark, irregular stains within their folds.  Something other than the barely perceptible ooze from a damp towel wadded into the bathroom sink; a sticky, pinkish ooze slowly dribbling down the drain while the bulk of the stained towel was drying into a stiff clump.  Something other than a small table fan idling from side to side, its whirring blades stirring the emptiness across that corner bedroom.

It was a shadow...a child's shadow moving along the apartment corridor and through the living room:  first undulating in soft curves past rounded sofas and pillows; then changing into geometrically precise rectangles and bars as it moved into the kitchen.  It brushed by the harsh outlines of a chipped table, a grease-encrusted stove, a refrigerator, cabinets and counters, until it finally paused beside the linen closet.

It inched past the partially closed door to the corner bedroom and hesitated.  Inside the room an exposed window, overlooking the alley parking lot, allowed in enough daylight to distinguish objects.  There was an odd difference about that window.  The drapes were drawn back unevenly into unaccustomed pleats.  The window now afforded a partial view of the unkempt landscaping across the way, and of the weathered old church which fronted on Victory Boulevard.

It was this view that momentarily caught and held the child's attention.  The scene was smudgy because of dirt and rain streaks on the window panes. Katie and her shadow moved into the brightening rays pushing through the dirty window; uneven rays which disguised the dark smears they touched on the dull-white drapery panels.  

Now the shadow was moving faster than the small figure to which it was attached.  Quickly changing sun ripples created a living thing of her silhouette, twisting it into a huge, gray veil with no definitive shape--and yet--a mass which appeared to breathe on its own.  Katie moved uncertainly as light squeezed further through the window.

A tiny form it was to cast such a large shadow which continued to grow as it challenged the morning sun for possession of a dramatic 3 x 6 foot painting covering the near wall.  Sudden brightness touched the painting, bleaching many of its iridescent colors into muted tones.  The effect could only slightly soften the bold picture.

It came alive.  That proud portrait of the child's mother:

a life-size form reclining nude on a red velvet divan; her graceful body partially covered with greenbacks of all denominations.  Her lips were slightly parted, seemingly to smile sardonically down at anyone favored enough to be in this small, garishly decorated bedroom.

Little Katie was not thus favored.  Her mother had often admonished, "Go on over to Mrs. Gonzales's apartment and stay there until I call you."  None of the three children was often allowed beyond this doorway.  But somehow today was different. Curiosity overcame habit.  Still hesitant, the girl followed her disintegrating shadow into the forbidden room.  "Mommy?" her small voice whispered.

    "Mommy. Then, more insistent when sunlight brought courage to the youngster, "Mommy!"

No answer. The three-year-old, in oversized slippers and her sister's old, lavender pajamas, padded up to her mother's four-poster bed.  She pushed against it.

"Mommy, I'm hungry," she persisted while her lips turned downward into a pout.  It was past 7 a.m., long after her mother usually had the coffeepot half empty and doughnuts warming in the oven. And her mother hadn't come in to ruffle her hair or inspect her ears or help her dress.

She lifted her pajama top to cover her nose.  Mommy? What's stinky?"  S

About the Author

Authors of the award-winning story, “Deathwatch,” Betty J. Hunt and Helen-Aurelia Smith became co-writers after retiring from the California Institution for Women. Betty lives in Riverside near her family. Helen shares her hilltop home, overlooking Lake Elsinore, with her dogs.