Ready?

by Henry John Bewley

A light-green coloured truck stops outside an apartment building.

The driver, in a green shirt and white pants, steps from the truck. He opens the back doors and carries grocery bags over to the front door.

He presses the bell for number 16. There is no response. He presses number 16 again. Again, no response. He presses the button marked: Concierge.

The doors unlock with a buzz. The delivery man pushes the door open and sees inside that a man in a dark suit is waiting. The delivery man looks at a piece of paper and says: ‘I’ve eight ready meals, bread, waffles, shaving foam, razor blades and toothpaste for a Mr Jabri Naifa, apartment 16.’

‘Yes, I can take them,’ says the man in the dark suit.

*

On Wednesday afternoon before dusk, Jabri sits in his favourite armchair holding a red cup. Late autumn sunlight pours through the open window warming his face.

In his Ray-Ban Aviator shades, white dress-shirt open at the collar, khaki pants, bare feet and Armani tie loose, he feels relaxed. He carefully loosens the tie further: Syna bought me this tie as a birthday present. She was a beauty. The first time I saw her was in a bar in the Bronx; she was wearing cut-off jeans and a hoodie. She looked good in everything: silk blouse and skirt; pants suit and heels; or even, summer dress and trainers.

He enjoys basking in the light, occasionally sipping at his coffee. It has been eighteen months since we last ate together. He considers going to the kitchen for a cinnamon cookie: No, I’ll eat supper soon enough.

Jabri grips his hand around his cup. My fingers are becoming bony. My flesh so thin. He sets the cup aside beside a small brass Lord Vishnu statue, a present from his mother, on a small table next to him. He puts his hands in his pockets and keeps them there.

He continues to sit in the armchair as the day darkens but now he can’t seem to get comfortable. He is restless and shifts in his seat. There’s an ache in my left buttock. Could it be something serious? Maybe just a muscle knot? I’m worrying more nowadays. The passing of day into evening is less pleasant. I can’t figure it out. What is bothering me? Maybe it’s living alone? Maybe I still miss Syna?

She doesn’t want anything to do with me now. There was always an age difference. Her last contact was a scribble on a cheap postcard from Thousand Islands: Great you got the place – enjoy the apartment warming. S x. Jabri takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His heart beats evenly as he remembers the end of an early date: We were sitting on a bench in Central Park when I told her she was ‘special’. I watched her bend her head around to look at me as if for the first time. She said: ‘You’re special to me too, Jabri.’ I felt so happy. I tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t. It was funny how our declarations came out. We both laughed.

A breeze rustles the curtains. The sun is falling. It is getting too dark and Jabri stands up. Underfoot, the polished wooden floor is warm from the sun. He looks to the picture of his late Father and Mother on the wall. Father taught me: ‘Within seven?seconds?of meeting someone, they will make their?impression?of who you are. You never get a?second?chance to make a great?first impression.’ He straightens his tie and picks up the cup. The last bit of sun turns the cup’s red colour almost orange. He finishes his coffee in one.

Going to the kitchen, his feet make a soft sound on the wooden floor. He puts the cup in the sink. A single upside-down glass tumbler sits on the draining board. To calm himself, he picks it up, fills it with tap water and takes a sip. It is cool and reassuring going down his throat.

He saunters back to the living room to catch the dying of the late sunlight. He stands beside the window holding the tumbler in his left hand, takes his sunglasses off and rubs his eyes with his right.

I feel shivers. Both hands begin to shake violently. The tumbler falls to the ground and smashes. There is something to the side of him in the room. Its sudden appearance scares him. He does not know what it is. The apartment is empty. He turns. I see a dark shape. A visitor to my apartment? Don’t be stupid, keep calm, move away. It’s probably nothing. But he doesn’t move away. In reflex, he reaches out his hand into the darkness. I stretch towards the wall … whatever it is, it is on the stone and it feels cold.

Jabri hears a groaning sound. He withdraws his hand and the dark shape vanishes.

Reaching out to touch the darkness wasn’t sensible. It was no shadow. The visitor is alive, moving, but cold. Jabri’s heart seems to have stopped, his mouth is dry and his palms clammy. Its movements are different from mine. The dark shape is separate. A ghost? If it had a face, it would be serious with a determined expression. If it spoke it might say: ‘I know what I want and I will calmly and resolutely never stop until it is achieved.’ A wave of anxiety engulfs Jabri. My head is full of the sickness, pain and suffering.

Jabri has cramps in his guts as if he might lose control of his bowels. Am I touching death? Is my time up? Have I done enough for a happy afterlife? I have so much I want to do. I’m too young. Calm down! These are feelings – I'm alive.

Jabri feels a little better. Perhaps I’m stressed. Perhaps I’m mistaken and it was nothing more than shadows in the changing of the light? He looks around his living room; at first, he takes nothing in. There is water and broken glass near his feet; he imagines walking on a razor-sharp sliver that would pierce?the skin of his foot with ease. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. If it was something, could it stalk me? Silently follow me? That thought unnerves him. Scares him.

He scans the room: The television looks normal. The two armchairs – one for the window, one for the TV – are unchanged, the cushions of the one facing the window still dented by his shape. Each chair with its own side table. And, in the corner, his desk with computer, printer, chair and trash can. Normal too.

Night is coming. Shadows move on the walls as the daylight fades. It’s getting dark. I need to put on the lights. Jabri presses the living room light switch, but nothing happens. He tries again – it still doesn’t come on.

He tries a table light. No! Nothing is working!

Jabri goes into his kitchen for a roll of paper towel and a dustpan and brush. He tries the light switch there. Nothing. Everything is against me!

It is getting darker back in the living room. He places the biggest pieces of glass very carefully in the dustpan. He soaks up the water with three paper towels. He sweeps smaller glass shards into the dustpan. It’s too dark for this. Trying to pick up one of the final splinters he nips himself. Fuck! He wraps the finger in a fresh paper towel. He takes everything back to the kitchen. He tries the light switch again. No light comes on. But there is something else – a presence in the kitchen. It groans – it is a helpless groan. I see the dark shape again. Jabri can feel panic returning as the visitor becomes clearer. It wears only black. Black the colour of the weary.

He can now see the visitor does have a face, discoloured to grey. In the gaunt cheeks, Jabri finds so much of his own face – it is serious and determined. I feel the cold touch of my disapproving ancestors. And then he recognises his mother’s face – as she was when she tore the dead heads off wilted flowers. I should have flown to her as soon as I heard she was ill. I could have supported her. Is this her ghost wanting to say goodbye?

Jabri hears a disconnected voice from the vicinity of the dark shape: ‘You can’t ever divide blood.’ It doesn’t sound like Mother.

Jabri replies: ‘I hear you ...’ This thing, whatever it is, didn’t do me any physical harm earlier but it seems to be closer to me. Why can I see more of it now? ‘… What do you want?’

‘How are you?’ asks the voice.

‘Busy … as ever.’ Jabri can see the microwave clock. It reads 20:36; its electricity is working. Perhaps the fridge was working too. The fridge has a light. He opens the fridge: No light!

Ready meals fill the top shelf. They are still cold to the touch. He takes out a meal for two.

‘Pray to the Lord, son.’ Could it be?

‘Yeah. Sure.’ Jabri lays the table for two, clattering knives and forks on purpose; it makes the situation feel a bit more normal.

‘Will you be ready, Jabri?’

‘I hope so, but that’s hard to tell, nobody judges themselves.’ Have I done enough with my life? Father was a doctor, he saved lives. We could have made life: if Syna hadn’t had that miscarriage our child would be almost three.

‘Pray for His forgiveness for past sins!’ says the voice. It is louder this time. That’s the sort of thing she’d say after temple.

‘Of course!’ Jabri sets the timer on the microwave then takes a sharp knife from a drawer and uses it to stab five times at the plastic film lid of the ready meal. He likes the ‘pop’ sounds it makes. Maybe I have pent-up anger?

‘In following His path, you will find peace,’ says the voice.

‘I bought this chicken curry from the Stop and Shop. It’s good. I’ve had it before.’ Jabri places the ready meal into the microwave, shuts the door and presses the start button. The machine gives off a reassuring hum as the food rotates.

‘In following His path, you can find contentment ... Are you ready?’

The sound of the microwave pinging followed directly on from the disconcerted voice.

‘It’s nearly ready …’ Jabra takes the meal out and pulls back the plastic film lid from the two compartments. He stirs rice then stirs chicken curry. Returning the meal to the microwave, he resets the timer and presses start again. The machine’s reassuring hum returns.

The visitor groans. It is a pained noise like disapproval of the appliance humming.

‘It was just like how I remembered a curry should be,’ Jabri says. ‘Yellow chilli paste, with big cut onions. It is absolutely marvellous.’ Behind him, he hears the scraping of a chair across the kitchen floor.

‘In time, Jabri. God willing, you shall have a healthy …’

End.

This story Ready? is published in ‘The Penitent’s Rose: A collection of short stories on guilt‘ (Spring 2024).