The Widow

"John," Mother said, "are you going into town this morning?"

"I am."

"Would you be a saint and return the Widow's book to the library?"

"Will do," I said.

That's how it began. It was a simple, everyday task—

"Until?" the mynah bird asked, hopping from one perch to another in its cage, "Until, until?"

"Until I was prompted to remember not to forget," I said.

The Widow is ninety-two and as blind as a house brick. She moved in after her husband died, and she pays a lot of money to live with us. She's very frail, and I don't expect her to be here much longer. Until that day arrives, the Widow kills time by sitting alone in her room, wearing dark glasses, reading braille, drinking disgusting-smelling tea, and smoking cherry-scented tobacco in a pipe.

Of course, a scenic view would be wasted on a blind lodger, so when I say her room, I refer to a spacious cupboard under the stairs where she sleeps. Father guides her to a seat by the bed every day.

If the fug from her pipe becomes too much, the Widow asks Father to open a window, and he obliges by switching on an electric fan that stands on a table outside the cupboard. Occasionally, he will waft damp nori sheets in front of the fan and ask the Widow if she can smell the sea. She delights in telling him she can.

Father and I approached the Widow to retrieve the book. It was one of those magic eye affairs in braille. As she handed it to me, she said, "Tell the librarian that number seventeen is entirely inappropriate. I'm an old woman of refined sensibilities, and such images cause me distress. I couldn't sleep after reading it."

"I'll make sure he does," Father said, taking the book from me and leafing through it.

"Have a look," the Widow said, "number seventeen."

Father opened the book at a random page, and he tutted. "That's not nice," he said.

"Show it to John," the Widow said.

"I can never see them," I said, with a nervous laugh. "I've tried, but nothing appears."

"Don't be ridiculous," the Widow said, you need to take the time to focus."

I took the book and opened it. "Oh, that's disgusting," I said, feigning outrage, "it's bordering on obscene."

"I wouldn't go that far," the Widow said.

"I think John's sensibilities are even more refined than yours," Father said. He gave me a stern look, and he made a gesture with his arm that told me to leave.

As I reached for my jacket, which was hanging in the cupboard, I jumped in fright when the Widow suddenly grabbed my arm. "Don't forget to tell them about number seventeen," she said.

I left the house, and as I walked along the street, I repeated seventeen in my mind - a habit I developed as a kid running errands for my mother. But this time things were peculiarly different.

I could hear a genuine voice in my right ear, which sounded like a small boy with a cold. What kind of critter it was that accompanied me that day, I know not, but it felt alive, and its presence loomed as large as the Eiffel Tower.

It clung to the collar of my jacket on the right shoulder, like a rucksack holding two heavy books or a well-fed pug. It hid every time I turned my head to try to see it, and it had no reflection. It repeated seventeen directly into my ear without a break.

A woman walked ahead of me carrying a wicker basket full of fruit, and an avocado fell to the ground. I halted abruptly to avoid stepping on it, and when I looked down, it wasn't an avocado, but a bullfrog, so bloated none of its limbs touched the ground. It looked at me and said in a baritone voice, "Careful there, Daddy-o."

As I stared down at the frog, I felt the unseen beast on my back turn, and it yelled to a pet shop window, "Tell him to remember not to forget seventeen."

The creatures on display immediately became animated. A small monkey jumped up and down, a puppy reared up and stood with its front paws on the window, and two kittens linked 'arms', and danced a jig. Half a dozen hamsters formed a choir, and a guinea pig conducted, using a stick insect as a baton. Above all of that, an assortment of birds screeched and flapped about. "Se-ven-teen," the menagerie repeated in unison in the way American sports fans chant USA. I hurried past the window.

The alarming anthropomorphism continued at the next shop, a fishmonger's. A lobster, standing upright, put a cigar in its mouth, and as it puffed away, a large salmon stood erect on the very tips of its tail. It grabbed an eel and, using that creature as a whip, lashed the cigar from the lobster's mouth. The salmon winked at me, and the lobster scurried away and out of the shop. On the street, the lobster produced a fresh cigar, clipping the end off with its claw, Then, I ran in terror as hundreds of horseshoe crabs spilled onto the street. The beast on my back—still repeating its mantra—affected my balance, and I fell to the ground. The fleeing horseshoe crabs immediately engulfed me, and I lost consciousness.

I woke up in bed, not knowing how long I had been there. There was a bandage around my head, and Mother sat in a chair, keeping a vigil on her out-of-sorts son.

"How are you?" she said.

"I... I'm all right," I said, reflecting. "I'll tell you one thing though, Mother, While I would never dream of going against Father's wishes, I will not, under any circumstances, drink the Widow's hideous special tea again.