“It’s sort of spooky, don’t you think?”
Valerie rudely
blew air between her lips. “You’re the one that wanted to live
here.” Her brusque tone wasn’t lost on my mom.
She stared at
her daughter from the corner of her eye, obviously contemplating
whether or not she should give her a good
tongue-lashing.
The silence
droned.
Elijah frowned,
and then brightened like a Roman candle in the night sky. “I think
the house is awesome!”
Valerie reached
out to muss his hair, which he easily avoided by blocking her
offensive hand with one of his own. “You would think that, you
weirdo.”
“ I’m not a
weirdo. You are,” shot back Elijah, wrinkling his face at
her.
Above them, I
couldn’t help but notice the look of concern on my mother’s face.
These odd happenings had got her thinking.
Three days
later, the day before Halloween, was when the dishes began to
rattle in the sink. Anything we didn’t get around to washing the
night before, rattle periodically throughout the night.
I think it was a
message. Hey, clean up over
here, will ya? But I was never
completely certain and this is no more than pure speculation on my
part. And yet, it sure as hell felt that way when I’d being lying
in bed, on the cusp of a dream, and I’d hear the damned cookware
clinking and clanking against one another all the way down the
hall, around the corner, down the stairs, through the back
porch, from the
kitchen . Someone had to be
saying, “Yo, get your shit together and clean this shit
up.”
Then, the lights
would come on.
And I’m not
talking they’d turn on abruptly like you’d see in the movies as if
some magical electricity had “crossed-over” and was now capable of
turning on the lights. No, this was different. One by one, every
wall-switch was thrown, every nob upon each lamp was twisted. The
lights came to life as if someone were walking about the front room
brightening the way as they went.
Invariably,
either my Mom or Valerie would have to climb from the warmth of
their covers and undo what seemed to be occurring all on its’
own.
I would
sometimes hear their disgruntled mutterings and heavy feet as they
shuffled about, darkening the downstairs once again.
After a while,
it was apparent to us that washing everything before we went
to bed was easier than getting up, time after time, to turn off the
lights. It was simple, if the kitchen was clean – nothing
happened.
You
see?
“… clean this
shit up!”
*****
In the middle of
November, Myra and I finally went there.
Well,
almost.
We had, over the
course of our relationship, reached the point where making out
wasn’t enough. We’d petted heavily, satisfied one another every
which way possible without intercourse and had hit a sexual wall we
wanted to batter down like there was no tomorrow.
Not really sure
who’s idea it was first, we’d come to the conclusion it was finally
time we had sex.
So, we picked a
day where neither of us had much to do at school, waited until
after Homeroom and ditched during nutrition. We walked the mile and
a half to my house, excited, antsy, the world sparkling like living
crystal everywhere we looked. We were in love. We were ecstatic.
And, we were going to lose our virginity, together!
As it turned
out, though we had plenty of time, were never rushed or
interrupted, we didn’t quite finish the act. Simply, Myra had been
too small. Not that I’m some Mandingo straight from the wilds or
anything remotely like that. I’m saying she was small for a woman.
I really didn’t understand what had happened at the time. I only
had a notion it would take a few more times before we’d get things
working well in that department.
We weren’t put
off or embarrassed. Myra and I were never that way with one
another. For the most part, all of these years later, we’re still
fairly honest with our feelings. Yes, if you haven’t guessed by
now, though we began our sexual exploits when we were teenagers, we
did
Valerie rudely
blew air between her lips. “You’re the one that wanted to live
here.” Her brusque tone wasn’t lost on my mom.
She stared at
her daughter from the corner of her eye, obviously contemplating
whether or not she should give her a good
tongue-lashing.
The silence
droned.
Elijah frowned,
and then brightened like a Roman candle in the night sky. “I think
the house is awesome!”
Valerie reached
out to muss his hair, which he easily avoided by blocking her
offensive hand with one of his own. “You would think that, you
weirdo.”
“ I’m not a
weirdo. You are,” shot back Elijah, wrinkling his face at
her.
Above them, I
couldn’t help but notice the look of concern on my mother’s face.
These odd happenings had got her thinking.
Three days
later, the day before Halloween, was when the dishes began to
rattle in the sink. Anything we didn’t get around to washing the
night before, rattle periodically throughout the night.
I think it was a
message. Hey, clean up over
here, will ya? But I was never
completely certain and this is no more than pure speculation on my
part. And yet, it sure as hell felt that way when I’d being lying
in bed, on the cusp of a dream, and I’d hear the damned cookware
clinking and clanking against one another all the way down the
hall, around the corner, down the stairs, through the back
porch, from the
kitchen . Someone had to be
saying, “Yo, get your shit together and clean this shit
up.”
Then, the lights
would come on.
And I’m not
talking they’d turn on abruptly like you’d see in the movies as if
some magical electricity had “crossed-over” and was now capable of
turning on the lights. No, this was different. One by one, every
wall-switch was thrown, every nob upon each lamp was twisted. The
lights came to life as if someone were walking about the front room
brightening the way as they went.
Invariably,
either my Mom or Valerie would have to climb from the warmth of
their covers and undo what seemed to be occurring all on its’
own.
I would
sometimes hear their disgruntled mutterings and heavy feet as they
shuffled about, darkening the downstairs once again.
After a while,
it was apparent to us that washing everything before we went
to bed was easier than getting up, time after time, to turn off the
lights. It was simple, if the kitchen was clean – nothing
happened.
You
see?
“… clean this
shit up!”
*****
In the middle of
November, Myra and I finally went there.
Well,
almost.
We had, over the
course of our relationship, reached the point where making out
wasn’t enough. We’d petted heavily, satisfied one another every
which way possible without intercourse and had hit a sexual wall we
wanted to batter down like there was no tomorrow.
Not really sure
who’s idea it was first, we’d come to the conclusion it was finally
time we had sex.
So, we picked a
day where neither of us had much to do at school, waited until
after Homeroom and ditched during nutrition. We walked the mile and
a half to my house, excited, antsy, the world sparkling like living
crystal everywhere we looked. We were in love. We were ecstatic.
And, we were going to lose our virginity, together!
As it turned
out, though we had plenty of time, were never rushed or
interrupted, we didn’t quite finish the act. Simply, Myra had been
too small. Not that I’m some Mandingo straight from the wilds or
anything remotely like that. I’m saying she was small for a woman.
I really didn’t understand what had happened at the time. I only
had a notion it would take a few more times before we’d get things
working well in that department.
We weren’t put
off or embarrassed. Myra and I were never that way with one
another. For the most part, all of these years later, we’re still
fairly honest with our feelings. Yes, if you haven’t guessed by
now, though we began our sexual exploits when we were teenagers, we
did
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