One Last Time
By
S. T. Talbot
Time is different in The Hole.
Two Keepers escort Maria down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. They are tall and silent, as all Keepers are. A single brown door stands guard at the end of the hall. The Keepers open the heavy door, usher her inside the empty room, and shut it. Darkness permeates the small space. She puts her hands in front of her and takes timid steps until she touches something solid—a wall. She turns around and sits with her back against it.
Maria closes her eyes and imagines the sound of her son’s voice. It was on the cusp of cracking when life so unfairly ushered her away from him to this lifeless prison. Tears burn her eyes as she attempts to age up the snippets of his voice that she has clung onto through all this time. However, no matter how hard she tries, Rico’s voice remains high and childish. Maybe it’s for the best. Those fossilized samples of her only child’s voice are the only thing that get her through her time in The Hole; perhaps it's best not to bastardize them.
Maria yawns. It’s a tired place, The Hole.
The waiting is the hardest part.
She’s heard the sentiment from the few people who have managed to call someone from The Hole. The process of applying to make a phone call has become so tedious and draining, nobody bothers with it. Maria filled out form after form and handed it to The Keepers, who then passed it up the line until it got in the hands of The Watchers—and that was just the process for applying for the application. Once you get that in your hands, it is endless piles of paperwork to fill out and meetings to sit through.
Few people in The Hole have representation, but Maria’s old lawyer, Jeff, just so happened to be serving his sentence a few Hollows down from her, and he helped her navigate the application process for the small price of a set of sheets and a few pairs of undergarments. Jeff was planning to climb up and out of The Hole to freedom; or he was going to climb deeper into The Hole to freedom—he hadn’t decided yet.
Once word gets around that she has successfully landed a call, she is the talk around The Hole. Each day—or night, time is different in The Hole—when the hordes of residents walk in aimless circles around the cleared out garden everyone called The Pit, she is bombarded with questions about the application process. Her successful application convinces many previously hopeless souls that there might be a chance to call their loved ones one last time. She even attracts the attention of a few ancient souls who had made calls before the process to apply got so purposefully convoluted, and each had the same advice: the waiting is the hardest part.
Maria doesn’t mind. Life in The Hole is just a series of different flavors of waiting: waiting to wake up, even though you don't remember falling asleep; waiting to return from wandering The Pit, even though you don’t remember entering it; waiting on meals, only to be reminded that meals are not served in The Hole. Waiting to wait on waiting.
Maria closes her eyes and lets her mind drift, remembering the stoned, hospital-bright haze that was Rico’s birth. She remembers the rich taste of his first birthday cake and the bright yellow balloons she tied to his high chair. The way she overreacted over his first cold and his first day of school—both of which felt like a death blow to the very idea of her beloved baby boy. How his child-chubby face lit up at his first taste of rice pudding. So many firsts and so few lasts—the byproduct of leaving your child before you had the chance to give them the birds and bees talk.
A muffled ring bounces around the small, dark space. Maria’s eyes shoot open to complete darkness. She breathes slowly. She’s gone over these moments tirelessly in her Hollow every night (or day, time is different in The Hole), but it couldn’t have prepared her for the tremors that overtook her anatomy when the phone rang.
My baby. I get to hear my baby.
Maria reaches toward the sound and blindly explores the wall. Her hand brushes a small shelf that was not there previously. On top is a rotary phone, vibrating with each dampened ring. She lifts the phone from the cradle, puts the cold plastic to her ear, and says: “Operator.”
She’s practiced in her Hollow enough to know the interactions like a script. She knows what—and what not—to say. She also knows exactly what she will say to Rico when she gets him on the line. She can’t mess it up. Once Rico hangs up his phone, it’s a done deal. That was The Rule. She can talk to her son as long as she wants, but when the line went dead, she’d never hear his voice again.
“Resident number,” a feeble voice whispers into her ear.
“Maria Muñoz, Resident number 109 257 178 006.”
The voice repeats her name and number back to her. She confirms. It asks for a case number.
“Case number seven.”
A sound that might be a steel-toed boot crunching a large pile of small bones echoes through the line. The sound stops. Silence fills Maria’s ear. She knows not to talk. If she says one wrong prompt, she will be ushered out of the room and have to apply again. The silence rings eternally.
The creaky-door voice finally breaks it. “Please state the name of the party you wish to contact.”
“Rico, Esteban, Muñoz.” She enunciates each word just like she practiced.
“Connecting. Enjoy your chat, Ms. Muñoz.” The voice disappears with a click.
The line rings.
Maria perks up.
It rings again.
Maria takes a deep breath.
It rings once more.
Maria lets out her breath.
A man’s frail voice interrupts the last ring: “Hello?”
Maria’s practiced script leaves her in a puff. The voice in her ear is so fragile, she can hear the frown lines and liver spots in it. It is her son’s voice, though. She knows in the way only a mother would. It sounds closer to her Abuelo’s voice than the sweet, innocent voice of her child.. There is sadness and regret in the greeting, a far cry from the chipper, childish lilt she’s clung onto for so long.
She attempts to say his name, but only a squeak finds its way through her lips.
“Hello? Anyone there?” The lack of an accent is the most jarring change to his voice. She hears shuffling and small voices in the background. Rico speaks away from the receiver to the surrounding commotion. “Maribel, listen to your mother. Pa-pop doesn’t make the rules.” He aims his voice back into the receiver. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”
“Rico,” Maria whispers.
“Speaking?”
Maria white-knuckles the phone. “My baby.” The last word comes out in a soggy croak.
A touch of annoyance borders his voice. “Excuse me? Who is this?”
“It’s me, muñeco. It’s mommy.”
The commotion in the background fades away. Rico sighs into her ear. “I warned you last time that I’d call the police if you ever called here again. I don’t appreciate you interrupting my dinner for your sick joke. The police will be involved from here on out.’
Maria sits in stunned silence. “No—Rico. You don’t understand. It’s me. I’ve been trying to call you for so long. I need to tell you the things I never—”
“You need help,” the old man blurts. “Long term, professional help. Every time a few months go by, and I think I’ve heard the last of you, the phone rings in the middle of dinner and starts it all again. I’m done. I’m calling the police.”
“No niño, it's me! You don't under—”
“No, I understand! You are a very sick woman. A very sick woman who has made my family feel unsafe in their home. My granddaughter is terrified to answer the phone because of you. We have changed numbers. We have moved. And you still call. Leave. Us. Alone.”
Maria’s head swims. She tries to digest what is being said, but the sentences unravel, losing their strung together meaning, only small chunks registering.
My family.
Their home.
My granddaughter.
Terrified.
You.
“What are their names? What did you name my grandchildren? And what did they name their children? Who is your wife?” Her words get closer together the more she talks. “Please, just give me that. What are their names?!”
“I’m calling the police.”
“Wait, Rico no! Don’t hang up! Please don’t hang up the—”
The dull click of Rico hanging up his phone enters her ear and ricochets around the inside of her head, severing the parts of her that control speech and thought. The phone slips from her hand and clatters on the floor. She wants to scream, but can’t process the steps involved to produce such a sound. If the door didn’t open and fill the room with gray light, she might have held that position forever.
Two Keepers enter the room, quiet and looming. One places the phone back on the cradle, and the other helps Maria stand. She lets herself be led down the forever hallway back to her Hollow, thinking of Rico as she walks between the Keepers. She thinks of the face that might have belonged to that elderly voice. She imagines the names and voices of his wife, their children, the children’s children.
Her eyelids grow leaden the closer to her Hollow she gets. It's a tired place, The Hole. She passes the Hollows of other residents. Some sleep on their cots, others stare blankly at walls. A few talk to themselves in soft voices. The hushed voices remind her of the way Rico used to read to himself under his breath as a young boy. The comfort of his small, shy voice fills her head. She closes her eyes and smiles as The Keepers lead her past the unending quiet of residents in Hollows.
She remembers the way Rico had kicked so relentlessly during the final trimester. She reflects on his first bully and his first black eye. She thinks of his favorite foods and least favorite teachers, of days he faked being sick to get out of school, of the science fair he won. The memory of his smile and smell and voice embrace her. He’s got such a sweet voice. Maria vaguely wonders what it might sound like now. She’s unsure how long has passed since she came to this forsaken place, but she imagines his voice would have dropped by now. It was just starting to crack when she was forced to leave.
The Keepers stop—so does Maria. She stands in the middle of her Hollow, swaying with her eyes closed, imagining what style of facial hair her son might wear when he gets old enough. Attempting to picture what type of clothing Rico would wear as an adult, she comes up blank, but she is sure he would dress smartly. She wonders if Rico might ever start a family, and what stories he would tell them of his mother.
The Hollow door slams shut. Maria twitches awake. She’s exhausted. The most exhausted she’s been since the previous day—or night. It’s a tired place, The Hole, and time is different here. Her cot has doubled in size from when she left her Hollow earlier to walk The Pit—or had she left for some sort of meeting? There have been so many meetings lately. She stares forward, eyes drooping, trying to process her cot’s discrepancy. She idly notices the cot hasn’t grown, but is rather covered in mountains of thick stacks of paperwork.
Paperwork?
Maria sits on the edge of her cot and flips through one of the packets.
Relation to the party wished to be contacted.
Last known physical address.
License plate number.
Maria is nodding off when it clicks--Rico!!
She is halfway through the process of applying to call her son! This addition to her mattress is simply the next round of paperwork to be filled out, which will put her one step closer to hearing his voice. A fountain pen and jar of black ink rest on the stacks of paper. She grabs the pen, uncaps it, dips the nib in ink, and starts jotting down information. The paper is fresh-from-the-printer warm. She gets through two packets before she feels she is making progress. It goes much faster after that. By the fourth packet, Maria is in a chipper mood. She’s determined to hear Rico’s voice one last time.
She tries to recreate his voice as a teenager, then a young adult, and finally an adult adult, but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t imagine her son’s voice as anything but the sweet summer song she remembers it as. She gives up after a few attempts—perhaps it's for the best. Her son’s voice was the only thing keeping her going in The Hole. No need to adulterate it into adulthood. Maria signs a line and initials another, flips the page, and continues writing. If she is quick enough with the paperwork, she can talk to Rico before he gets too old. At least she hopes, but you can never be sure down here. Time is different in The Hole.
S. T. Talbot has been writing since he was a boy, but took up writing fiction to process living in an unfamiliar environment following his move from his hometown in the San Bernardino mountains to Florida. If he’s not at work staring blankly at clipboards or in his office conjuring up ghost stories, he’s most likely listening to spine-chilling old-time radio shows or gorging on cheap, foggy horror films with his cat, Casper. You can find him on Instagram @s.talbot.writes
By
S. T. Talbot
Time is different in The Hole.
Two Keepers escort Maria down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. They are tall and silent, as all Keepers are. A single brown door stands guard at the end of the hall. The Keepers open the heavy door, usher her inside the empty room, and shut it. Darkness permeates the small space. She puts her hands in front of her and takes timid steps until she touches something solid—a wall. She turns around and sits with her back against it.
Maria closes her eyes and imagines the sound of her son’s voice. It was on the cusp of cracking when life so unfairly ushered her away from him to this lifeless prison. Tears burn her eyes as she attempts to age up the snippets of his voice that she has clung onto through all this time. However, no matter how hard she tries, Rico’s voice remains high and childish. Maybe it’s for the best. Those fossilized samples of her only child’s voice are the only thing that get her through her time in The Hole; perhaps it's best not to bastardize them.
Maria yawns. It’s a tired place, The Hole.
The waiting is the hardest part.
She’s heard the sentiment from the few people who have managed to call someone from The Hole. The process of applying to make a phone call has become so tedious and draining, nobody bothers with it. Maria filled out form after form and handed it to The Keepers, who then passed it up the line until it got in the hands of The Watchers—and that was just the process for applying for the application. Once you get that in your hands, it is endless piles of paperwork to fill out and meetings to sit through.
Few people in The Hole have representation, but Maria’s old lawyer, Jeff, just so happened to be serving his sentence a few Hollows down from her, and he helped her navigate the application process for the small price of a set of sheets and a few pairs of undergarments. Jeff was planning to climb up and out of The Hole to freedom; or he was going to climb deeper into The Hole to freedom—he hadn’t decided yet.
Once word gets around that she has successfully landed a call, she is the talk around The Hole. Each day—or night, time is different in The Hole—when the hordes of residents walk in aimless circles around the cleared out garden everyone called The Pit, she is bombarded with questions about the application process. Her successful application convinces many previously hopeless souls that there might be a chance to call their loved ones one last time. She even attracts the attention of a few ancient souls who had made calls before the process to apply got so purposefully convoluted, and each had the same advice: the waiting is the hardest part.
Maria doesn’t mind. Life in The Hole is just a series of different flavors of waiting: waiting to wake up, even though you don't remember falling asleep; waiting to return from wandering The Pit, even though you don’t remember entering it; waiting on meals, only to be reminded that meals are not served in The Hole. Waiting to wait on waiting.
Maria closes her eyes and lets her mind drift, remembering the stoned, hospital-bright haze that was Rico’s birth. She remembers the rich taste of his first birthday cake and the bright yellow balloons she tied to his high chair. The way she overreacted over his first cold and his first day of school—both of which felt like a death blow to the very idea of her beloved baby boy. How his child-chubby face lit up at his first taste of rice pudding. So many firsts and so few lasts—the byproduct of leaving your child before you had the chance to give them the birds and bees talk.
A muffled ring bounces around the small, dark space. Maria’s eyes shoot open to complete darkness. She breathes slowly. She’s gone over these moments tirelessly in her Hollow every night (or day, time is different in The Hole), but it couldn’t have prepared her for the tremors that overtook her anatomy when the phone rang.
My baby. I get to hear my baby.
Maria reaches toward the sound and blindly explores the wall. Her hand brushes a small shelf that was not there previously. On top is a rotary phone, vibrating with each dampened ring. She lifts the phone from the cradle, puts the cold plastic to her ear, and says: “Operator.”
She’s practiced in her Hollow enough to know the interactions like a script. She knows what—and what not—to say. She also knows exactly what she will say to Rico when she gets him on the line. She can’t mess it up. Once Rico hangs up his phone, it’s a done deal. That was The Rule. She can talk to her son as long as she wants, but when the line went dead, she’d never hear his voice again.
“Resident number,” a feeble voice whispers into her ear.
“Maria Muñoz, Resident number 109 257 178 006.”
The voice repeats her name and number back to her. She confirms. It asks for a case number.
“Case number seven.”
A sound that might be a steel-toed boot crunching a large pile of small bones echoes through the line. The sound stops. Silence fills Maria’s ear. She knows not to talk. If she says one wrong prompt, she will be ushered out of the room and have to apply again. The silence rings eternally.
The creaky-door voice finally breaks it. “Please state the name of the party you wish to contact.”
“Rico, Esteban, Muñoz.” She enunciates each word just like she practiced.
“Connecting. Enjoy your chat, Ms. Muñoz.” The voice disappears with a click.
The line rings.
Maria perks up.
It rings again.
Maria takes a deep breath.
It rings once more.
Maria lets out her breath.
A man’s frail voice interrupts the last ring: “Hello?”
Maria’s practiced script leaves her in a puff. The voice in her ear is so fragile, she can hear the frown lines and liver spots in it. It is her son’s voice, though. She knows in the way only a mother would. It sounds closer to her Abuelo’s voice than the sweet, innocent voice of her child.. There is sadness and regret in the greeting, a far cry from the chipper, childish lilt she’s clung onto for so long.
She attempts to say his name, but only a squeak finds its way through her lips.
“Hello? Anyone there?” The lack of an accent is the most jarring change to his voice. She hears shuffling and small voices in the background. Rico speaks away from the receiver to the surrounding commotion. “Maribel, listen to your mother. Pa-pop doesn’t make the rules.” He aims his voice back into the receiver. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”
“Rico,” Maria whispers.
“Speaking?”
Maria white-knuckles the phone. “My baby.” The last word comes out in a soggy croak.
A touch of annoyance borders his voice. “Excuse me? Who is this?”
“It’s me, muñeco. It’s mommy.”
The commotion in the background fades away. Rico sighs into her ear. “I warned you last time that I’d call the police if you ever called here again. I don’t appreciate you interrupting my dinner for your sick joke. The police will be involved from here on out.’
Maria sits in stunned silence. “No—Rico. You don’t understand. It’s me. I’ve been trying to call you for so long. I need to tell you the things I never—”
“You need help,” the old man blurts. “Long term, professional help. Every time a few months go by, and I think I’ve heard the last of you, the phone rings in the middle of dinner and starts it all again. I’m done. I’m calling the police.”
“No niño, it's me! You don't under—”
“No, I understand! You are a very sick woman. A very sick woman who has made my family feel unsafe in their home. My granddaughter is terrified to answer the phone because of you. We have changed numbers. We have moved. And you still call. Leave. Us. Alone.”
Maria’s head swims. She tries to digest what is being said, but the sentences unravel, losing their strung together meaning, only small chunks registering.
My family.
Their home.
My granddaughter.
Terrified.
You.
“What are their names? What did you name my grandchildren? And what did they name their children? Who is your wife?” Her words get closer together the more she talks. “Please, just give me that. What are their names?!”
“I’m calling the police.”
“Wait, Rico no! Don’t hang up! Please don’t hang up the—”
The dull click of Rico hanging up his phone enters her ear and ricochets around the inside of her head, severing the parts of her that control speech and thought. The phone slips from her hand and clatters on the floor. She wants to scream, but can’t process the steps involved to produce such a sound. If the door didn’t open and fill the room with gray light, she might have held that position forever.
Two Keepers enter the room, quiet and looming. One places the phone back on the cradle, and the other helps Maria stand. She lets herself be led down the forever hallway back to her Hollow, thinking of Rico as she walks between the Keepers. She thinks of the face that might have belonged to that elderly voice. She imagines the names and voices of his wife, their children, the children’s children.
Her eyelids grow leaden the closer to her Hollow she gets. It's a tired place, The Hole. She passes the Hollows of other residents. Some sleep on their cots, others stare blankly at walls. A few talk to themselves in soft voices. The hushed voices remind her of the way Rico used to read to himself under his breath as a young boy. The comfort of his small, shy voice fills her head. She closes her eyes and smiles as The Keepers lead her past the unending quiet of residents in Hollows.
She remembers the way Rico had kicked so relentlessly during the final trimester. She reflects on his first bully and his first black eye. She thinks of his favorite foods and least favorite teachers, of days he faked being sick to get out of school, of the science fair he won. The memory of his smile and smell and voice embrace her. He’s got such a sweet voice. Maria vaguely wonders what it might sound like now. She’s unsure how long has passed since she came to this forsaken place, but she imagines his voice would have dropped by now. It was just starting to crack when she was forced to leave.
The Keepers stop—so does Maria. She stands in the middle of her Hollow, swaying with her eyes closed, imagining what style of facial hair her son might wear when he gets old enough. Attempting to picture what type of clothing Rico would wear as an adult, she comes up blank, but she is sure he would dress smartly. She wonders if Rico might ever start a family, and what stories he would tell them of his mother.
The Hollow door slams shut. Maria twitches awake. She’s exhausted. The most exhausted she’s been since the previous day—or night. It’s a tired place, The Hole, and time is different here. Her cot has doubled in size from when she left her Hollow earlier to walk The Pit—or had she left for some sort of meeting? There have been so many meetings lately. She stares forward, eyes drooping, trying to process her cot’s discrepancy. She idly notices the cot hasn’t grown, but is rather covered in mountains of thick stacks of paperwork.
Paperwork?
Maria sits on the edge of her cot and flips through one of the packets.
Relation to the party wished to be contacted.
Last known physical address.
License plate number.
Maria is nodding off when it clicks--Rico!!
She is halfway through the process of applying to call her son! This addition to her mattress is simply the next round of paperwork to be filled out, which will put her one step closer to hearing his voice. A fountain pen and jar of black ink rest on the stacks of paper. She grabs the pen, uncaps it, dips the nib in ink, and starts jotting down information. The paper is fresh-from-the-printer warm. She gets through two packets before she feels she is making progress. It goes much faster after that. By the fourth packet, Maria is in a chipper mood. She’s determined to hear Rico’s voice one last time.
She tries to recreate his voice as a teenager, then a young adult, and finally an adult adult, but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t imagine her son’s voice as anything but the sweet summer song she remembers it as. She gives up after a few attempts—perhaps it's for the best. Her son’s voice was the only thing keeping her going in The Hole. No need to adulterate it into adulthood. Maria signs a line and initials another, flips the page, and continues writing. If she is quick enough with the paperwork, she can talk to Rico before he gets too old. At least she hopes, but you can never be sure down here. Time is different in The Hole.
S. T. Talbot has been writing since he was a boy, but took up writing fiction to process living in an unfamiliar environment following his move from his hometown in the San Bernardino mountains to Florida. If he’s not at work staring blankly at clipboards or in his office conjuring up ghost stories, he’s most likely listening to spine-chilling old-time radio shows or gorging on cheap, foggy horror films with his cat, Casper. You can find him on Instagram @s.talbot.writes
