Photograph entitled Haunted © by John D. Stanton 2006    www.3AMBlue.com

 

This Old House
by Yvette Managan ©2006

I stick my hand through the hole in the ash flooring and feel a breeze swirl around my fingers. That hole wasn’t here the last time I looked at the floor, but then again I don’t look down often. Usually I turn my head away from the dust bunnies that gather under the chest of drawers, or dance slowly with the draft, under the bed. I looked at them last month and had to do something about it. And that’s not good. I haven’t got time to tend to this old house anymore. The rooms are large and cold. The furniture’s mostly gone. We closed off the second floor after we buried Albert out by the oak tree. The house had gotten too quiet. What is it, twenty years ago? It doesn’t seem that long, but it is.

For two decades, Bob and I sat besides each other at the dinner table, not looking, not seeing, not talking, each waiting for the apology. For twenty years he’s laid out my dinner and I’ve grumbled tersely. It didn’t matter what I said, just that some sounds came out of my mouth. He didn’t want to hear my words any more than I wanted to share them.

Now those years of angry silence weigh on my shoulders and I pull my hand away from the hole. I examine it closely. It’s almost a circle, maybe four inches across. The ash is splintered. What could have made it? Mice? Jeez I hope not. The last time I laid out the bait traps, Ginger got into them. I didn’t even notice that she was gone until I smelled her. Had to go into the second floor bathroom and there she was, an orange ball of fur, not moving, blood seeping out of her mouth and asshole, scarlet against the white porcelain of the toilet bowl. I wrapped her in a tall-kitchen garbage bag. Bob dug a hole behind the well and I put her in it. I looked at the lump that was once our cat. Maybe now that the cat was gone, things would get easier around here.

We’d gotten Ginger’s mother for Albert when he was ten, thinking that the responsibility would be good for him. A week later, Albert’s body lay cooling by the side of the road when we found it. A gust of wind tousled his golden curls and Cotton Ball, teased into action, attacked his crumpled body. Bob held Albert’s body close against his chest while he carried our son to the couch. I called the ambulance and Cotton Ball chased my shoelaces. I wanted to give the kitten away, but Bob thought it would be a gentle reminder of our boy. We argued about it, taking our minds off our loss. We argued like children and we argued for weeks.

Albert was buried, the kitten became a cat and we still argued. We said things we didn’t mean, our words expressing pain and loss and soon the words expressed blame. If I hadn’t been working, I could have driven the boy to school. The hit and run was all my fault, but I’d answer, “If you hadn’t been drinking all the time, I wouldn’t have had to get a job.” The fighting got us nowhere. The arguments became grunts and the grunts became years. I don’t know how the cat survived, but she did. She must have survived on field mice. Maybe Bob fed her. She lived and bred and died and Ginger stuck around, rubbing up on the door frames, calling out to be stroked. I pretty much ignored her, but Bob didn’t. She’d curl on his lap when he watched Jeopardy on television. His hand would trace her whole body, from her head down to the end of her thigh, and back to the top of her head. I’d watch, mesmerized by the solemn repetition.

I know he’s on the front porch, just where I left him last night. He’d gone out to watch the sunset, just like he’d done every night since we were married. I read my book, waiting to hear the door creak open and slam shut. I waited for a long time, and then fell asleep. This morning, I peeked into his bedroom. The sheets and blankets were un-rumpled. The stark white morning light played over the bookcase, the mirror and the bedposts. His grandfather clock ticked out the seconds, loud and hollow. I closed the door. The temperature had dropped fast and it had gotten so cold last night. As I slowly walked down the hallway, moving towards the back door, something caught my eye next to the baseboard. I bent to find this hole.

I look out the window and see that the lawn’s died. The grass is straw, but still needs clipping. I’ll have to pull the rose bushes out. They gave up the ghost three months ago. I thought they’d come back, but nothing comes back anymore. I’ll have to call someone for help. I know I’m not strong enough to move his body.