In the First Early Days of My Death Read Free

with the stocking in my hand, alarmed by its sheerness, its silky texture and unmistakable lavender scent. I considered the possibility that it had lain unnoticed in our laundry hamper for twelve months, found its way accidentally into a recent load of wash and, in the dryer, become stuck by static electricity to this pillow case. It didn’t seem likely. Not in this humidity. When Alika finished his pancakes and came upstairs, I presented him with the stocking.
    â€œWhat’s this?” he asked.
    â€œWhat do you think it is? It’s a woman’s stocking. Evelyn’s stocking. Do you want to tell me how it got under your pillow?”
    Alika looked at me. He picked up the pillow and looked underneath, then fluffed it and tossed it aside. “Under there?”
    â€œUnder there. And I changed the sheets yesterday morning, so how did it get there?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he said.
    â€œAlika,” I said. “Has Evelyn been here? Was she here yesterday? Just tell me.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHow could you not know?”
    â€œI didn’t see her,” he offered.
    I sighed. “Did you forget to lock the door yesterday?”
    â€œYou know I always lock the door,” he said.
    â€œHow could she get in without you seeing her, then, if the door was locked?”
    He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “Maybe she unlocked it?”
    â€œAlika! She has a key to the house?”
    â€œWell, of course she has a key,” he said. “She practically lived here last summer.”
    â€œFor God’s sake,” I said. But I knew there was no point explaining to him how foolish he was, so I just said, “I’m getting the locks changed. Today.”
    Alika lay down on top of the bedspread and rested his cheek on the sheet where Evelyn’s stocking had been lying less than ten minutes ago. I shuddered.
    â€œIt was in our bed ,” I groaned.
    Alika turned and looked at me studiously, as if he’d finally decided to take this issue seriously.
    â€œBut how did it get there?” he asked.
    I scrutinized his expression. Nothing but the same blank density he offered to the water pipes. He seemed genuinely, maddeningly, nonplussed.
    That was when Mrs. Kowalski called and invited me to the protest rally. I talked to her on the phone for a while, listening to her concerns about the city and giving her excuses why I couldn’t go. When I hung up, I felt a little guilty about not helping her out. So I suggested to Alika that he go downtown and shoot some pictures of the event. Sometimes he made a little extra money by selling local photos to Uptown Magazine .
    I also wanted him out of the way so I could phone his sister Noni. I needed to talk to someone who could think clearly.
    Noni wore a pink plastic prosthesis which she strapped to her thigh with a complicated leather harness. It was uncomfortable, and she frequently removed it in the privacy of her own home, or in ours. That last afternoon, as she listened to my tale of Evelyn’s stocking, Noni sat on my back porch, her chin in her hands, shaking her head in disbelief. I was pulling beets and swatting at mosquitoes. It was hot, and my bare legs were streaked with sweat and dirt. Noni lifted up her cotton skirt and untangled the harness. She leaned the leg, with its little pink foot in its pink running shoe, against the wooden steps.
    â€œAre you all right?” I asked her. Noni’s amputated leg still hurt her sometimes, even though it wasn’t there. Her doctor claimed this was perfectly normal. The nerves were gone, but the receptors in the brain were still alive and waiting, like telephone receivers, for messages. Sometimes they became confused and thought they were hearing from that long-lost leg. The doctor called this “phantom pain.” It wasn’t dangerous, he said. He recommended Aspirin, and Noni took two, extra-strength, when the invisible leg