History

Author’s Note: A friend asked me to write a story about industrial buildings-turned-condos… one that paid attention to people and history. This was the result.

“See what I found!”

The words consistently made Ellen Dreyfus jumpy. Junior suffered the same curiosity as his father. Jim senior had channelled that curiosity into engineering, a job in the city, and a brand-new high-end condo in a converted industrial building by the train station. The future of his four year old spawn, however, had yet to be written. He could be bringing a magnetic letter from the refrigerator door, a grasshopper, or a bit of moldy pasta from under the stove—again.

“What’s that, baby?” She squinted at the thing in his hand as she hugged baby Ashley to her bosom. Junior seemed to be holding a piece of hotdog. Or a caterpillar. Or—

A finger.

Ellen knocked it from his hand with a shout. It bounced off the hardwood floor with a light thud and landed on the area rug. Both children erupted into tears.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” She cradled her children, one in each arm as she stared at the digit. It was wrinkled, ash-grey, and the nail had been split down the middle. Despite her observations, she counted Junior’s much smaller fingers. He took off his socks while she checked Ashley’s hands and feet. Then she counted Junior’s toes. Against all rational thought, she inspected her own hands and feet, worried about leprosy or diabetes or some other illness that could cause digits to drop off—none of which she suffered from.

“You sit here, ok? Don’t move.” Junior nodded, still wiping tears, as Ellen tossed Ashley’s spit-up towel over the dismembered part. Then she called Jim, questioning Junior as she thumbed her cell.

“What’s going on, babe?”

“There’s a finger on the floor.”

“Say again?”

“Junior found a finger under the dining room table. Is… is it yours?”

“No.” She guessed—correctly—that Jim was checking his hands as well.

“It’s none of ours. I check their hands and feet—”

“Why’d you check their feet if it was a finger?”

His penchant for analysis grated at her, never more so than now. “I—just come home, alright? I don’t know. Maybe it was a toe. Do you have all your toes? We have all of ours and I’m not looking at it again—”

“Call 9-1-1, babe. I’m on my way.”

After calling the police, Ellen and her children hunkered on the sofa. Junior and Ashley watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Ellen held her children close and watched the towel, half expecting the thing underneath to start moving.

While Jim Dreyfus raced home, Gloria Hatchett, first floor resident of one of the accessible-friendly units, puzzled over a bowl of wet cat food. The electric can opener always brought the cats running, but today, they didn’t answer. Missy would have been first, inky blackness dropping from the kitchen window to press against her legs. Alexander would prance in, light on his orange tabby toes from his late namesake’s easy chair. Mr. Pickles would slink in from whatever furniture he had chosen to hide under that day. And Queen Anne would come last, skittish as always, ducking in from the guest room, the warm dent and long hairs in the center of the bed evidence of her royal place.

Gloria set the bowl on the floor. 

Nothing. 

Missy wasn’t in her windowsill.

She crossed the living room. No Alexander. No Mr. Pickles.

Queen Anne was not on the bed, but Mr. Pickles’s gray tail swished back and forth, the rest of his body hidden by the bedskirt. 

Gloria attempted to extract him, but he fought, the telltale sound of ripping carpet indicating that he had dug in.

“Spoiled, all of you.” 

A growl from underneath, almost as if in reply. 

“So spoiled.” She retrieved the broom from the cupboard and slowly dropped to her knees. The crackling made her grimace.

“The nerve of you. All of you. Especially you, Alexander.” She swept the broom underneath and flushed them out. Queen Anne jumped out first, with Mr. Pickles close behind. Her broom met with unexpected resistance.

“Really, Missy?” She swept again. Missy popped out and raced away, a streak of black.

Gloria tried again She stuck the broom under, gave it a firm sweep, and a severed hand bounced out at her, flesh torn away in morsel-sized tatters. She screamed. Dropped her broom. Screamed some more. Alexander jumped up on to the bed and watched her, blinking and licking his chops.

The scene repeated throughout the building. Gary Breen had bounced a red rubber ball down the hall, and instead of returning with it, his schnauzer returned with a desiccated set of three fingers—pinky, ring, and middle—joined by a bit of sinew and tendon. Dana Lowry concussed herself in the shower when she pulled back the curtain and rolled her ankle on a partial hand and forearm left on the bathmat. Jim Dreyfus returned home to find their building cordoned off, blue lights flashing, paramedics and mental health counselors treating the residents.

“What is it?” he asked a young officer who shrugged and urged him away. Ellen’s mom had picked up her daughter and grandchildren. Jim was there just to get answers.

Across the street, an old-timer took in the spectacle from his seat on a low wall. He wore a blue suit too long in the sleeves and leaned on his cane. When Jim waved, he waved the cane back.

“Sit down.” The rumpled man rapped his cane on the concrete wall.

“Nobody seems to know what’s going on.” Jim huffed and sagged.

“Lemme guess. They finding parts?”

“How’d you know that?” Jim asked.

“Oh, it’s history.” The old-timer tapped his cane on the ground. “Used to be they brought the cattle down by rail.” He pointed to the station. “Run ‘em right down the road to the slaughterhouse. Gone now.” He motioned to the condo parking lot. “And they’d get processed right there.” He pointed at the building. “Ain’t been in there in a long time.”

“So what are you telling me?” Jim asked.

The old-timer watched police officers come and go through the front doors. “Tellin’ you there’s a good reason we have unions.” He pulled back his sleeve to reveal a naked stump where his wrist had been.

“I don’t believe in unions.” Jim abruptly stood up. “Sorry about your hand.” He had no time for politics, and he wanted answers, not stories.

“If you see it in there, tell ‘em I’d like it back.” The old-timer chuckled. “Been tryin’ for years.”

Jim paled and hurried away. He pressed the matter with the police, who offered him little time and no answers. He pointed out the old-timer, but no one would listen. After every rejection he turned back, as if expecting the old man to disappear. He never did though. He just smiled and waved with his cane until the last of the emergency services departed, leaving yellow tape across the doorway to warn anyone against entering.

But when Jim tried to speak to the old-timer again, all he got in response were shrugs.

“Come on, man,” Jim pressed.

“What do I know?” The old-timer finally stood up, creaking and cracking, and adjusted his suit coat. “You made it big enough to live there. Do your homework, man. Read The Jungle or somethin’. Attend to your history.”

As he strolled away, the old-timer felt it happen. Body never forgets a missing limb. At the medical examiner’s office, the bag containing all those severed parts had gone flat, the contents vanished.