I stood there, just frozen to the spot for the first second or two, watchin her lurch along and wonderin what she'd seen that was terrible enough to get her to do what she was doin, to walk after her days of walkin should have been over what that thing was that she could only think to call the dust bunnies.
But I seen where she was headed-right for the front stairs.
“Vera!” I yelled at her. “Vera, you just stop this foolishness! You're going to fall! Stop!”
Then I ran just as fast as I could. That feelin that all this was happenin for the second time rolled over me again, only this time it felt like I was Joe, that I was the one tryin to catch up n catch hold.
I don't know if she didn't hear me, or if she did n thought in her poor addled brain that I was in front of her instead of behind. All I know for sure is that she went on screamin-'Dolores, help! Help me, Dolores! The dust bunnies!'-and lurched on a little faster.
She'd just about used the hallway up. I raced past the door to her room n clipped my ankie a goddam good one on one of the wheelchair's footrests-here, you can see the bruise. I ran as fast's I could, shoutin, “Stop, Vera! Stop!” until my throat was raw.
She crossed the landin and stuck one foot out into space. I couldn't've saved her then, no matter what-all I coulda done was pull myself over with her-but in a situation like that, you don't have time to think or count the cost. I jumped for her just as that foot of hers come down on thin air and she started to tilt forward. I had one last little glimpse of her face. I don't think she knew she was goin over; there wasn't nothing there but bug-eyed panic. I'd seen the look before, although never that deep, and I can tell you it didn't have nothing to do with fear of fallin. She was thinkin about what was behind her, not what was ahead.
I snatched at the air and didn't get nothing but the littlest fold of her nightie between the second n third fingers of my left hand. It slipped through em like a whisper.
“Duh-lorrrrr-” she screamed, and then there was a solid, meaty thud. It turns my blood cold to remember that sound; it was just like the one Joe made when he hit the bottom of the well. I seen her do a cartwheel n then heard somethin snap. The sound was as clear n harsh as a stick of kindlin when you break it over your knee. I saw blood squirt out of the side of her head n that was all I wanted to see. I turned away so fast my feet tangled in each other and I went to my knees. I was starin back down the hallway toward her room, and what I saw made me scream. It was Joe. For a few seconds I saw him as clear as I see you now, Andy; I saw his dusty, grinnin face peekin out at me from under her wheelchair, lookin through the wire spokes of the wheel that had got caught in the door.
Then it was gone, and I heard her moanin and cryin.
I couldn't believe she'd lived through that fall; can't believe it still. Joe hadn't been killed outright either, accourse, but he'd been a man in the prime of life, and she was a flabby old woman who'd had half a dozen small strokes n at least three big ones. Also, there wasn't no mud n squelch to cushion her landin like there had been to cushion his.
I didn't want to go down to her, didn't want to see where she was broken and bleedin, but there wa'ant no question, accourse; I was the only one there, and that meant I was elected. When I got up (I had to haul on the newel post at the top of the bannister to do it, my knees were so watery-feelin), I stepped one foot on the hem of my own slip. The other strap popped, n I raised up my dress a little so I could pull it off… and that was just like before, too. I remember lookin down at my legs to see if they were scratched and bleedin from the thorns in the blackberry tangle, but accourse there wasn't nothing like that.
I felt feverish. If you've ever been really sick n your temperature's gone way, way up, you know what I mean; you don't feel out of the world, exactly, but you sure as hell don't feel in it, either. It's like everythin was turned to glass, and there isn't anything you can get a solid grip on anymore; everythin's slippery. That's how I felt as I stood there on the landin, holdin the top of the bannister in a death-grip and lookin at where she'd finished up.
She was layin a little over halfway down the staircase with both legs twisted so far under her you couldn't hardly see em. Blood was runnin down one side of her poor old face. When I stumbled down to where she lay, still clingin onto the bannister for dear life as I went, one of her eyes rolled up in its socket to mark me. It was the look of an animal caught in a trap.
“Dolores,” she whispered. “That son of a bitch has been after me all these years.”
“Shh,” I said. “Don't try to talk.”
“Yes he has,” she said, as if I'd contradicted her. “Oh, the bastard. The randy bastard.”
“I'm going downstairs,” I says. “I got to call the doctor.”
