Auntie died six months later. She keeled over on the staircase on her way up to the apartment, and I heard her moaning and thrashing out there. I hauled her up the stairs with my good arm, and she crawled along on her knees, making gargling noises.I got her laid out on the rug in the living room. I tried to get her up on the sofa, but I couldn’t budge her. So I gave her pillows from the sofa and water and then I tried tea, but she couldn’t take it. She threw up once, and I soaked it up with a tea towel that had fussy roses on it.She took my hand and her grip was weak, her strong hands suddenly thin and shaky.It took an hour for her to die.When she died, she made a rasping, rattling sound and then she shat herself. I could smell it.It was all I could smell, as I sat there in the little apartment, six years old, hot as hell outside and stuffy inside. I opened the windows and watched the Hasids walk past. I felt like I shoulddo somethingfor the old lady, but I didn’t know what.I formulated a plan. I would go outside and bring in some grown-up to take care of the old lady. I would do the grocery shopping and eat sandwiches until I was twelve, at which point I would be grown up and I would get a job fixing televisions.I marched into my room and changed into my best clothes, the little Alice-blue dress I wore to dinner on Sundays, and I brushed my hair and put on my socks with the blue pom-poms at the ankles, and found my shoes in the hall closet. But it had been three years since I’d last worn the shoes, and I could barely fit three toes in them. The old lady’s shoes were so big I could fit both feet in either one.I took off my socks—sometimes I’d seen kids going by barefoot outside, but never in just socks—and reached for the doorknob. I touched it.I stopped.I turned around again.There was a stain forming under Auntie, piss and shit and death-juice, and as I looked at her, I had a firm sense that it wouldn’t berightto bring people up to her apartment with her like this. I’d seen dead people on TV. They were propped up on pillows, in clean hospital nighties, with rouged cheeks. I didn’t know how far I could get, but I thought I owed it to her to try.I figured that it was better than going outside.She was lighter in death, as though something had fled her. I could drag her into the bathroom and prop her on the edge of the tub. I needed to wash her before anyone else came up.I cut away her dress with the sewing shears. She was wearing an elastic girdle beneath, and an enormous brassiere, and they were too tough—too tight—to cut through, so I struggled with their hooks, each one goingspungas I unhooked it, revealing red skin beneath it, pinched and sore-looking.When I got to her bra, I had a moment’s pause. She was a modest person—I’d never even seen her legs without tan compression hose, but the smell was overwhelming, and I just held to that vision of her in a nightie and clean sheets and, you know,went for it.Popped the hooks. Felt it give way as her breasts forced it off her back. Found myself staring at.Two little wings.The size of my thumbs. Bent and cramped. Broken. Folded. There, over her shoulder blades. I touched them, and they were cold and hard as a turkey neck I’d once found in the trash after she’d made soup with it.
Auntie died six months later. She keeled over on the staircase on her way up to the apartment, and I heard her moaning and thrashing out there. I hauled her up the stairs with my good arm, and she crawled along on her knees, making gargling noises.
I got her laid out on the rug in the living room. I tried to get her up on the sofa, but I couldn’t budge her. So I gave her pillows from the sofa and water and then I tried tea, but she couldn’t take it. She threw up once, and I soaked it up with a tea towel that had fussy roses on it.
She took my hand and her grip was weak, her strong hands suddenly thin and shaky.
It took an hour for her to die.
When she died, she made a rasping, rattling sound and then she shat herself. I could smell it.
It was all I could smell, as I sat there in the little apartment, six years old, hot as hell outside and stuffy inside. I opened the windows and watched the Hasids walk past. I felt like I shoulddo somethingfor the old lady, but I didn’t know what.
I formulated a plan. I would go outside and bring in some grown-up to take care of the old lady. I would do the grocery shopping and eat sandwiches until I was twelve, at which point I would be grown up and I would get a job fixing televisions.
I marched into my room and changed into my best clothes, the little Alice-blue dress I wore to dinner on Sundays, and I brushed my hair and put on my socks with the blue pom-poms at the ankles, and found my shoes in the hall closet. But it had been three years since I’d last worn the shoes, and I could barely fit three toes in them. The old lady’s shoes were so big I could fit both feet in either one.
I took off my socks—sometimes I’d seen kids going by barefoot outside, but never in just socks—and reached for the doorknob. I touched it.
I stopped.
I turned around again.
There was a stain forming under Auntie, piss and shit and death-juice, and as I looked at her, I had a firm sense that it wouldn’t berightto bring people up to her apartment with her like this. I’d seen dead people on TV. They were propped up on pillows, in clean hospital nighties, with rouged cheeks. I didn’t know how far I could get, but I thought I owed it to her to try.
I figured that it was better than going outside.
She was lighter in death, as though something had fled her. I could drag her into the bathroom and prop her on the edge of the tub. I needed to wash her before anyone else came up.
I cut away her dress with the sewing shears. She was wearing an elastic girdle beneath, and an enormous brassiere, and they were too tough—too tight—to cut through, so I struggled with their hooks, each one goingspungas I unhooked it, revealing red skin beneath it, pinched and sore-looking.
When I got to her bra, I had a moment’s pause. She was a modest person—I’d never even seen her legs without tan compression hose, but the smell was overwhelming, and I just held to that vision of her in a nightie and clean sheets and, you know,went for it.
Popped the hooks. Felt it give way as her breasts forced it off her back. Found myself staring at.
Two little wings.
The size of my thumbs. Bent and cramped. Broken. Folded. There, over her shoulder blades. I touched them, and they were cold and hard as a turkey neck I’d once found in the trash after she’d made soup with it.