The Startle Response

by Edna C. Horning

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

Neve spent a busy morning culling every dresser and closet in the house of no-longer-worn garments and other items destined for Goodwill donations, and afterwards was about to stretch out for a needed nap when the doorbell camera revealed a FedEx employee.

All fatigue fled because Neve knew immediately from the size of the boxes that they contained a Christmas-themed dinnerware setting for twelve, an impulse order she had placed two weeks earlier and had been eagerly awaiting. In a rush of pleasure and newfound energy, Neve tipped the delivery guy generously for hefting the two boxes into the kitchen and immediately set about unpacking the contents and stacking them on the counter.

She decided to bypass the dishwasher in favor of careful hand washing before putting everything away. While waiting for soapy water to fill the sink, Neve swept her gaze around the large room which, thanks to a remodeling the previous year, now sported several overhead, rimmed shelves. She had commissioned their construction to display her prized collection of stoneware crocks, many found during summer vacations in rural, off-the-beaten-path shops.

The most recently acquired item, a birthday gift from Clo, was not only her favorite but apparently the most valuable to boot because it boasted a moderately famous potter’s mark, a hitherto unknown fact pointed out by a sharp-eyed friend who had admired it and suggested that the seller had missed it as well. In putting it back, a cautious Neve had carefully positioned it against the wall, well away from the edge, and had not touched it since.

Returning her attention to the new dishes, she first washed the smaller pieces, cups and saucers and salad plates, before the larger items. It was only September, but the snowy white porcelain decorated with exquisitely detailed holly and ivy wreaths festooned with red bows and berries boosted her into a Yuletide mood, and mentally she began drafting an extravagant holiday menu worthy of the new place settings.

“Bacon-wrapped scallops for starters followed by sherried ambrosia and a Smithfield ham with a maple glaze. Or a New England lamb bake. Or both. Asparagus with Hollandaise, bourbon sweet potato casserole with pecans, and homemade mashed potatoes. And the oyster dressing that everyone, Camille notwithstanding, raved over last Thanksgiving, I’ll make that too.”

Lost in happy thought, Neve reached for the top plate when she heard a scraping sound above and to her left. She lifted her eyes to see Clo’s crock slowly inching towards her across the wide, deep shelf.

Neve’s beguiled, disbelieving gaze followed the jar’s path until it abruptly changed course and headed for the edge. For perhaps five seconds it remained stationary before it tipped over the rim and exploded on the unforgiving ceramic tile below. The impact flung shattered fragments against her ankles.

Frozen to the spot, Neve stood looking at the shards, then up again at the shelf, then back at the shards. She was seconds short of bending down to touch them when she was seized by an overwhelming panic, and breakaway thoughts, usurping all control, flew to her sister-in-law.

“You can’t take her!” she protested to a God who didn’t exist. “You can’t! Her family needs her too much. The kids are only half-grown, and Mason worships the ground under her feet. What’ll they do without her?”

Her knees buckled, and after half-sliding, half-collapsing onto the floor, she leaned her body into the L-crook of the cabinets and wept into her apron until it was wet.

* * *

Neve lay on the sofa wrapped in a blanket. How long the freakish crying jag had lasted she could not say with certainty, but it had ended with surprising abruptness and, also surprising, had left her shivering. She vaguely remembered that at one point, before rising from the kitchen floor, she had glanced at the clock through red-veined eyes. It showed straight-up noon.

Mason had assured the relatives he would call, but it was one and no word yet. One became two. Ordinarily, Neve would have taken the initiative, but residual angst had restrained her hand.

Finally, a few minutes past two, the phone jangled. Neve grabbed it on the first ring.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hey.”

Mason sighed audibly. “Clo’s done with surgery. They’ve moved her to a regular room. She’s awake, but barely.”

After this brief report, Mason fell quiet. Ordinarily he was a chatty sort tending to provide too many rather than too few details, even regarding distressing events. This tired-sounding reticence was unlike him, and initially Neve was content to let the silence continue, convinced that all would be revealed in good time. But when it stretched on, she chanced a subtle prod.

“You sound a bit hoarse,” she observed, “as though you’ve strained your throat or caught a cold.” It was this remark, seemingly neutral enough, that breached his defenses, and Mason began to cry.

“We came close to losing her,” he sobbed. “She seemed okay at the beginning of recovery,” he said in words so strangled Neve could barely make them out, “but then her blood pressure began to drop and drop, and it had to be internal bleeding. And this sounds incredible, but they didn’t have any of her blood type available! It’s uncommon, and what they had on hand had gone to an accident victim earlier.

“They called the highway patrol to bring units from another location, and it was near pandemonium until a student nurse with the same type came forward. She lay down on a gurney next to Clo for a person-to-person transfusion. That was the only thing that saved her. The highway patrol arrived too late. They would not have made it soon enough. She... she...”

Mason broke down a second time, stopping only to catch his breath, and Neve interrupted. “I know. It was about nine-thirty there, eleven-thirty here.”

“That’s exactly right,” he responded after a prolonged pause. Then, in a more normal, almost accusatory voice, he asked, “Who told you?”

“No one.”

“What do you mean, ‘no one’? Last I heard, you didn’t have God’s unlisted phone number.”

Neve shut her eyes. “I cannot tell you how I knew, Mason, except that I did know. Maybe the reason is not as important as the fact.”

The conversation continued, covering related and unrelated topics for perhaps another ten minutes, when Mason tersely ended it.

“I’ve got to go. The surgeon’s back, and I have much to ask. We’ll talk more later. Goodbye.”

“For sure. Bye.”

With her feet tucked beneath her, Neve remained bundled on the sofa long after the shivering ceased. Was the fact more important than the reason, or could it be the other way around?

In any case, she was beginning to regret what she impulsively blurted to Mason, scanty though it might be, because she had no desire to possibly be pelted with future inquiries regarding the matter which, no doubt, was some geophysical anomaly randomly paired with a bizarre waking dream. Solar flares and not enough sleep? Earth tremors and low potassium? Who knew? Even the jar’s descent had appeared aberrant, a dreamy, slow-motion drop defying all natural laws before hitting bottom.

Since leaving the kitchen Neve had not directed so much as a fleeting glance towards it, but now, in the cold light of day and the return of reason, she dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, the prized crock with its streaky, iridescent blue and green glaze was still on its appointed shelf in its appointed place, as perfectly intact as ever.

She rose and made her way towards the door and, peering around the corner, she saw it. She knelt and gingerly fingered the semi-sharp pieces, not as stinging as glass but able to cut nonetheless, and she sucked her skin where the tiny droplet of red began to ooze.

No, it was ruined for all ages, ruined beyond all help, exactly where she had left it. Or, more likely, where Clo had left it.

“Show-off,” she sniffed.