ranch house glimmered through the trees. A cleaning crew showed up once a month to throw open the windows and dust, but the house had remained empty since Mama left it. I can’t say I was all that thrilled about walking intoit alone after the events of the last twenty-four hours, not knowing what hid in the dark beyond the reach of the security lights and a moon that flitted in and out of smoky night clouds.
Stepping out of the pickup, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, gripped the .45 in my right hand and the suitcase in the other, and moved toward the veranda. I groped under the cracked pot near the porch swing for the key. The family ghost, propelled by a gentle breeze, rode the swing back and forth. The air smelled wet and fresh, like a storm was coming. The door gave a familiar whine as I opened it, and I punched in the security code.
Sadie and I had yet to go through Mama’s things. Neither of us wanted to admit she would never return.
But I was thinking the time had come to admit a lot of things.
The house felt hollow, empty, a shell of what it used to be. I quickly flipped on lights to dispel the shadows, dropping my suitcase and backpack at the staircase, heading down the hall, not to Mama’s room in the newest addition, but toward the kitchen and the centerpiece of my childhood—a long oak farm table where we ate and laughed and learned algebraic equations that left their permanent imprint in the wood. Where Mama and Daddy had their fight.
I opened the louvered doors of the cozy utility room off the kitchen. This was Mama’s favorite space. Her small antique desk still faced the big window Daddy had cut out for her, once a view of lazy cows and inquisitive wildlife and little girls thinking up games that occasionally resulted in stitches.
Here, I had curled up in a slice of sun on the pine floor, listening to the steady vibration of the dryer, watching Mama pay bills or write letters.
It had always been my safe room. If there was anything to discover, I was certain it would be here.
I set the gun on the top ledge of the desk, moving aside aHummel figurine of a girl playing piano, a bowl of seashells, and a small blue-velvet-covered book of Emily Dickinson poetry.
The gun looked ugly beside them, its character changed forever today, the first time I fired out of fear.
Mama’s window loomed, a big black hole into the night. The security lights shone only on the front of the house and tonight’s schizophrenic moon was in hiding.
I imagined a face emerging in the glass like a floater rising to the top of a lake.
A man, an attacker, could be standing on the other side and I wouldn’t know until the shards shattered and rained all over me.
Stop it
, I told myself.
Stop it!
I yanked at the cord of the blinds, slamming them down.
The desktop rolled up easily. Inside, the desk was riddled with cubbyholes and rows of tiny drawers.
The middle drawer in the top row always held the most fascination for Sadie and me, with its miniature keyhole and a crudely carved monkey gargoyle, its hands over its eyes.
The irony was not lost on me today. I pulled on the drawer, but it didn’t open. I closed and opened ten other drawers, but they revealed only the usual debris: paper clips, old car keys, a bundle of rubber bands, a handful of buttons that weren’t related.
I saved the large right-hand drawer for last, giving it a solid yank. I knew what was inside: a plain white business envelope grimly labeled “Read After My Death.” As one of her last lucid acts, Mama made a specific point of showing me exactly where it was. Funeral arrangements, she said. I flipped over the envelope, tempted to break the seal. Instead, I slid it deliberately back into the drawer. There were other things to discover first.
I heard a scratching sound. A rat running along the woodwork?
No. At the window. Something outside.
It’s nothing
, I told myself. Just like all those times as teenagers when Sadie and I lay in our beds
Stepping out of the pickup, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, gripped the .45 in my right hand and the suitcase in the other, and moved toward the veranda. I groped under the cracked pot near the porch swing for the key. The family ghost, propelled by a gentle breeze, rode the swing back and forth. The air smelled wet and fresh, like a storm was coming. The door gave a familiar whine as I opened it, and I punched in the security code.
Sadie and I had yet to go through Mama’s things. Neither of us wanted to admit she would never return.
But I was thinking the time had come to admit a lot of things.
The house felt hollow, empty, a shell of what it used to be. I quickly flipped on lights to dispel the shadows, dropping my suitcase and backpack at the staircase, heading down the hall, not to Mama’s room in the newest addition, but toward the kitchen and the centerpiece of my childhood—a long oak farm table where we ate and laughed and learned algebraic equations that left their permanent imprint in the wood. Where Mama and Daddy had their fight.
I opened the louvered doors of the cozy utility room off the kitchen. This was Mama’s favorite space. Her small antique desk still faced the big window Daddy had cut out for her, once a view of lazy cows and inquisitive wildlife and little girls thinking up games that occasionally resulted in stitches.
Here, I had curled up in a slice of sun on the pine floor, listening to the steady vibration of the dryer, watching Mama pay bills or write letters.
It had always been my safe room. If there was anything to discover, I was certain it would be here.
I set the gun on the top ledge of the desk, moving aside aHummel figurine of a girl playing piano, a bowl of seashells, and a small blue-velvet-covered book of Emily Dickinson poetry.
The gun looked ugly beside them, its character changed forever today, the first time I fired out of fear.
Mama’s window loomed, a big black hole into the night. The security lights shone only on the front of the house and tonight’s schizophrenic moon was in hiding.
I imagined a face emerging in the glass like a floater rising to the top of a lake.
A man, an attacker, could be standing on the other side and I wouldn’t know until the shards shattered and rained all over me.
Stop it
, I told myself.
Stop it!
I yanked at the cord of the blinds, slamming them down.
The desktop rolled up easily. Inside, the desk was riddled with cubbyholes and rows of tiny drawers.
The middle drawer in the top row always held the most fascination for Sadie and me, with its miniature keyhole and a crudely carved monkey gargoyle, its hands over its eyes.
The irony was not lost on me today. I pulled on the drawer, but it didn’t open. I closed and opened ten other drawers, but they revealed only the usual debris: paper clips, old car keys, a bundle of rubber bands, a handful of buttons that weren’t related.
I saved the large right-hand drawer for last, giving it a solid yank. I knew what was inside: a plain white business envelope grimly labeled “Read After My Death.” As one of her last lucid acts, Mama made a specific point of showing me exactly where it was. Funeral arrangements, she said. I flipped over the envelope, tempted to break the seal. Instead, I slid it deliberately back into the drawer. There were other things to discover first.
I heard a scratching sound. A rat running along the woodwork?
No. At the window. Something outside.
It’s nothing
, I told myself. Just like all those times as teenagers when Sadie and I lay in our beds
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