Reflections on the puddle of life

This was my entry to the Lit-net short story contest for 2009. The outline came out of a discussion I was having with my husband at the dinner table, which is where most of my story ideas come from. Family is pretty inspirational. Anyway, my story didn't win, which is okay, but it was incredibly fun to write. Especially Edie, Edie really came to life for me.

Posting it here for posterity.

The Button War

She’s sitting at the bottom of the stairs wearing only a nightie, though it’s zero degrees, a fag in her mouth and the phone at her ear and the brat at her feet chewing on a slipper. Her nightie is the colour of week-old luncheon meat, and through it I can see her nipples, crusted like fake jewellery to the thin strap of her body. Everything about her is cheap, except the voice which is worth the price of a Sherman tank as she uses it to batter the guy on the other end of the line into defeat.

“I want ma money!” she screams. The brat sicks a bit of pink wool onto the carpet.

I only want my post. I can see it, far behind enemy lines, dangling precariously from the dying hand of the letterbox. To get it I need to negotiate around the tyrannical land of Edie and her outlying territories without getting burned, bombed, shot or, worse, converted to her cause. My only hope it to creep so quietly down the stairs that she doesn’t see me. Timing is critical. I wait cautiously, half listening, knees weak with cold and trepidation, or is it fear? Like any battle-hardened soldier I can hardly tell the difference these days.

I seize my chance as she delivers the strident missiles to the poor sap at the benefits office, hesitating once near the bottom when brat-watch looks up and almost sees me. Then its attention is diverted by an ant which has invaded its encampment, careless of its life and apparently in need of a serious eating. Like a coward I abandon the ant to its fate and continue on my mission.

The letterbox discharges the post and expires quietly. I shuffle through it, just bills today. I was hoping for a letter from Graham; he hasn’t been in touch much since he joined the Red Cross on that assignment to the Ivory Coast. So romantic. He was certainly the hero type, and a bit nifty on matters of anatomy. I miss him, but I guess the postal service is a bit hit and miss out there, and there can’t be much time to write when you’re up to your armpits in body bits.

For a moment I lean against the wall, swishing the letters against my palm, contemplating another long weekend listening to the sound of Edie screaming at the tax man, the benefits office, the brat, the brat’s Dad, her Mum and whomsoever else happens to cross her path. That’s when I see it. The button. Wedged in between the brat’s dribbling lips like a designer dummy. My button, missing for 6 months now from my Dolce & Gabbana coat. The button that Edie claimed to know nothing about.

I can’t believe it. I’ve had every grimy bit of mildewed carpet up in this place searching for that button. I’ve pulled out every scrap of furniture, stuck my fingers into every greasy hole and scum-filled crevice. I’ve knocked on every door; I was polite, even to Edie. And she stood there, right in front of me, and said: “if I find it, I’ll pass it on,” before slamming the door in my face. I’ve put up with a lot from Edie but this, truly, is the final indignity. That’s my button. Mine. And I’m getting it back.

Still, it’s going to take stealth and wits to avoid a direct confrontation, and even though I’m angry I’m not sure I could take Edie alone. I do a quick reconnaissance of the area. Edie is on the stairs facing towards me, though her attention is, fortunately, concentrated on battle-axing. The brat is at her feet facing the stairs. The button is in its mouth. If I can entice it to drop the button then I could acquire it and fall back to my room before anyone notices. Now, in my experience there are only two things that the brat opens its mouth for: something funny or food. I scout around in my pockets but there’s nothing edible unless you count my fingers and, much as I want my button back, sacrificing one of my fingers is a step too far. So I guess I’ll have to do something funny.

I have an idea but it’s going to take everything I learned during that month in drama school to pull it off. I take a few nonchalant steps across the hallway, get within reach of the stairs and fall over landing right next to the brat. On cue it lets out an evil chuckle and spits the button to the floor. Now’s my chance! I grab it and, feigning embarrassment, quickly jump to my feet and retreat to the stairs. Edie and the brat’s laughter follow me but I don’t care; the button is in my hand, sticky with the brat’s drool but mine, all mine, and soon to be reattached to its rightful place on my coat.

I’ve nearly reached the top of the stairs when the air raid siren starts wailing. I hear Edie drop the phone and say, “there, there Bethany, what’s the matter baby?” I chuckle a little to myself. Bethany. Hardly a suitable name for that squawking drool-filled zeppelin. My hand is on my apartment door handle, I’m nearly on safe territory when I hear Edie say, “where’s that button gone? It must be here some…” I can sense her head turning towards me. I’m frozen in position but this is Edie not a T-Rex and whether I’m moving or not she can smell my guilt. “Jane,” she shouts. “Jane, wait there a minute.” No chance. I force my unwilling limbs to manoeuvre, open the door to my apartment and fall inside.

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! The heavy artillery is advancing; groaning up the stairs, crushing everything in its path. I’m leaning breathlessly against the door when BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! the assault begins. The door shakes but, with my body weight against it, remains secure. “Jane,” Edie shouts. “Jane, I know you’re in there. I want to talk to you.” I’m pale with fear and gripping my fists so tightly that the button imprints to my hand. The button. I look at it. I look at my coat hanging on the rack, a gaping hole in its middle. Suddenly I wonder: what am I frightened of? It’s my button. Not hers: mine. Garnering all my courage I rise to my feet, the dogged soldier with righteousness on my side, and open the door.

Edie is standing on the other side, her fist raised about to strike. Bethany is on her hip, quiet now, cowed, perhaps, by her mother’s anger. She’s nestles her head against Edie’s shoulder and sucks on her thumb, and for a moment I feel a little sorry for her. Not sorry enough to give the button back though. Edie’s face is purple and twisted into an ugly snarl but I’m not going to let her get to me. “Yes Edie,” I say. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Bethany’s button?”

“What button?”

“You know what I mean. The button Bethany’s been playing with.”

“You mean this button?” I upturn my hand, the button proud in the centre.

“That’s it. Give it back.” Edie demands and reaches out to grab it. Too fast, I pull it behind my back.

“My button you mean? The one from my Dolce and Gabanna coat? The one I asked you about a few weeks ago and you said you hadn’t seen? That button?”

“It’s not your button it’s Bethany’s button. Give it back.”

“It’s my button and I’m keeping it. Why don’t you go pull a button off something of yours and give it to Bethany to play with?”

“Because she likes that one. She found it and it’s hers. Now GIVE IT TO ME!” Edie’s shouting now but for once I don’t care. Like a shell-shocked veteran I’ve become numb to it.

“I don’t think so Edie. Now if there’s nothing else I really need to get ready to go out, I’ve got friends to meet you know.”

“As if.”

I ignore her slight and start to close the door but Edie’s too quick for me. She pushes the door open with the weight of an advancing army and the surprise of it knocks me to the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?” I shout, scrabbling quickly to my feet.

“Give me that button.”

“No!”

Edie places Bethany carefully on my sofa then turns to me like the firing squad, hand outstretched. “I said give it to me. This is your last chance.”

“Get lost. Get out!”

“You really have sunk to a new low haven’t you? Taking things off a baby. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Me? What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The noises I hear coming from your apartment. Ever since that Mark came along, and then Bethany, all I hear is you guys shouting, arguing, fighting and…and all sorts of noises.”

“Oh, so that’s it.”

“What?”

Edie coughs up a mean laugh, “you’re jealous.”

“I am not.”

“Oh, you so are.”

“I AM NOT!” By now I’m stiff with rage, without thinking I reach out my button-free hand and slap Edie hard across the face.

There’s a moments silence. The sound of the slap echoes around the room.

Then Edie’s on me, grabbing me by the hair. We fall to the ground pulling and ripping and scratching at each other. The button flies out of my hand across the room. I try to reach it but Edie pulls me back. I kick her away and crawl along the floor. I’m almost there but Edie is on top of me. We roll about, knocking into a table, and a vase comes crashing to the floor and shatters. I try to push her off but she’s too wiry, she’s got me pinned to the ground. I see her hand reaching for the button and quickly hook my arm around hers, holding her back. With a massive effort I manage to arch my back and toss her off. By now I’m covered in scratches and bruises, and my back is aching terribly. Edie is sprawled on the floor, blood leaking from a gash in her leg. The button is at my feet. I bend to grab the spoils but as I do I notice Bethany dangling dangerously on the edge of the sofa. So does Edie.

“BETHANY!” she shouts. Bethany wobbles: she’s going to fall. I forget about the button, leap over the sofa and throw myself onto the floor. Bethany tumbles into the safety of my lap.

Rain splatters against the window as we lie there, breathing heavily. Bethany is warm against my breast. It’s kind of pleasant. “What happened to us, Edie?” I say.

“You tell me? We were good friends.”

“Yeah, until Mark and Bethany. Then you were either busy or grumpy.”

“Well, you stopped coming round.”

“You didn’t want me.”

“I did.” Edie says quietly. “More than you know.” She struggles up from the floor and holds out a hand. I take it. She pulls us up then holds out her hands again: “come to Mummy Bethany Jane,” she says looking me in the eye. I hesitate for a moment then hand Bethany back, the soft baby smell still warming the air. Edie shifts her weight awkwardly.

“I’ll get something for that cut,” I say, and wander into the kitchen.

When I come back with the TCP Edie is already gone, and so is the button. I survey the chaos: typical Edie, never a dull moment. The rain’s really coming down now; I look out of the window and there she is: soaked to the skin in the middle of the street, still in her nightie with Bethany on her hip, doing a victory dance.