Sophie Konde
The house I wake up in is differentiated from the one next door only by the rusty door knocker, a muted silver, instead of the brassy handle of the neighbors. The driveway has cracks in ever so slightly different places from the unceasing freezing rain, which batters at the ceiling during the nights I can’t find easy sleep. In the primped yard, a tree that litters acorns in the fall and flower petals in the spring has grown too tall and must be cut down. There is a prescribed stillness in the air when the sky dims to a dark orange and allows a sampling of stars to create pinpoints of light. Orion’s belt is a safe sight, making his shoulders, taut from the weight of the bow, superfluous. As the dawn breaks upon these cell blocks of houses, contained shouts of play can be heard from the streets, where children on bikes show off to each other in little acts of rebellion.
I leave the bed tousled and unmade in my own little act of rebellion. If I skip breakfast quickly, the mother may not notice. I shrug a backpack onto one shoulder; at this age it is uncool to carry the burden with your whole body. I walk out the door.
Time passes and I am back, a hint more disheveled, with the beginnings of purple bruised eye bags. I have the proverbial homework to keep me busy until the mother yells out for dinner. She condemns the family for our weakness, our isolation. Naked chicken and steamed peas, unsalted special for us, appear. Did you know the scientists found that family dinners extend your lifespan? No one ever helps her around the house. No one appreciates her and all she does for us. She works all day, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat. At night she plugs herself into the wall, in the hallway outside the bedroom so that the blinking light doesn’t keep anyone from sleep. Her only respite from the ache of her family is when she is standing in line at the supermarket, gossipping with her friend while passing looks at the older couple moving too slowly in front of her. She buys health foods no one will eat and checks out.
The father drives a car that is nice enough that the wife next door whispers snidely to her husband about it but not nice enough that he doesn’t want to kill himself. The rifle he says he will hunt with someday is not locked up with the brand new fishing rod and sparkling clean grill. Sometimes late at night when he thinks no one else is awake, he creeps down to the garage, past the mountain bike he swears he needs. He takes out the rifle, a designer beer, and a lawn chair, and sits in wait. He doesn’t know I watch from the kitchen, high on a midnight snack, as he dozes off pointing the rifle at some invisible enemy on the street. On nights I’m feeling adventurous, I take his half-finished beer and dispose of it in the outside can, so that the mother won’t be mad. I haul his body over my shoulder, and like a reverse grave robber, take him back to bed. His warmth is an unusual sensation for me.
Other nights I leave him there to rot down to compost.
In the morning I leave for school again. The house is silent, afraid. The neighborhood block is a mouse race to quiet neatness. A clock somewhere ticks down needless minutes. At noon the chatter of a soap opera turns on. A phone rings. A wife picks it up gingerly. Heavy whispers greet her on the other end. “No thank you, I don’t need a new one.” A piercing screech echoes through the landline, shattering the wife’s glass of rosé. “I’d appreciate if you could take us off your list, please.” She hangs up and goes to clean up the mess. Glass shards poke her skin, and soon pretty blood mixes with the pink wine as she wipes her hands on her frilly white apron. Ladies don’t curse, so she bites her tongue until her mouth tastes of sweet iron.
I’m walking up the driveway when I hear the faint wail of an ice cream truck. For a moment, I am too old for ice cream. I am mature, grown-up. In the next, I am speed walking down the street towards the siren. I take three turns more than I ever have before, suddenly in unknown territory. I still recognize the houses, though. Eventually I find the ice cream man standing in the middle of the street. He is bald and wearing dark sunglasses with a puffy green vest. His mouth is open, unhinged like a snake’s jaw, and the recognizable tornado siren of an ice cream jingle comes blaring out of it. I look both ways before I step into the road. All of a sudden, I realize I don’t remember if I have cash on me. I dig through my backpack and find a handful of gold coins. I place one on the ice cream man’s tongue and wait. Maybe an hour or two passes, and then he closes his mouth and swallows the coin. The color drains from his face until he is gray and ashy. He hands me a dripping waffle cone with vanilla ice cream covered in walnuts. When I look up to thank him, he has disappeared, and I am alone in the middle of the street.
Sunday is chores day. This is the mother’s new idea to foist responsibility upon the family. I have the choice between vacuuming the floor or cleaning out the attic. I choose the attic. Climbing the dusty ladder up through the ceiling, I notice a tickling feeling at the back of my neck, but brush it away. The attic has no light source, so I hold up a twinkling flashlight. Cobwebs smother boxes of old junk. I cough at the stench, so claustrophobic. The far dark corner calls to me and so I start there, sorting through the nest of objects. I make piles. Most of the boxes are overflowing cardboard monstrosities. Except one. It’s a wooden crate, nailed shut, with splinters spiking out the sides. I try to shine the flashlight into the cracks, but it appears sealed shut. I take a hammer from an abandoned toolkit and bring it down on the lid. The box is unharmed. I smash the hammer on the box a few more times until a sweat forms on my brow. Not even a single splinter has broken off. I brush my fingers along the seams looking for any fissure in the wood. It is unpainted and old enough to rot away, but entirely unblemished. I step on the box, jump around a little. The floorboards of the attic shiver, but the box is as unfazed as ever. I take a switchblade from my pocket and attempt to jam it into a joint. The steel bends and shatters before gaining entry. I switch tactics. Ignoring the box, I take up my work once more cleaning out the rest of the attic. I delicately file through the contents of every other box. I lovingly organize and reorganize. I don’t pay any mind to the stubborn wooden box. When the attic is no less dusty but far cleaner, the box is left standing in the center, exposed. I turn to face it. I drop to my knees and crawl over to it, never breaking eye contact. In seconds I am close enough to lay my head on it. Prostrated, with my forehead kissing the lid, I close my eyes and feed it. I give it my thoughts, my meditations. When sleep finally overtakes me, I feed it my dreams. I make a delectable plate of memories, foolish hopes, secrets, and I offer it in veneration. I awake in my bed with no recollection of ever leaving the attic. Peeking outside the window, the sun has yet to rise fully, although tiny strands of sunlight are beginning to turn the sky a rosy pink. I trek back to the attic, pulling down the decrepit ladder and journeying back to the small room. The box is no longer closed. Its lid leans haphazardly against the side, and a small glow emanates from within. I turn off my flashlight and shut the door behind me. The room shines a faint underwater blue. Hesitantly, I peek inside.
Down the street, a wife and husband no longer share a bed. No one knows but the pet dog, who can’t smell the wife’s essence in the bedroom anymore. She keeps her clothes in the same armoire, and her picture frames up on the same vanity. But the purposefully mussed up blankets are fake, along with everything else in her life. After dinner and vicarious college football, the husband retreats back to the bedroom alone. The children know not to come to the bedroom door anymore, as the mother is no longer there to nurture them through sniffles. They know if they stay in their room, tucked safely into the bunk bed sheets, then the wrong cannot reach them. No one knows where the mother, the wife, goes at night. By the time her family wakes up, she is in the kitchen flipping pancakes and pouring orange juice. However, those who are not where they are supposed to be late at night and peer out the window at the exact right time might catch a glimpse of her. They will see her wandering, hiking the open road, traveling in the direction of nowhere, testing how far she can make it before it is too late.
The old man from next door has trouble sleeping, due to the war. His brain likes to be vigilant, and so he often lays in wake for hours upon hours. He will sometimes screw his eyes closed and call it rest. The cat that was a gift from children he never hears from doesn’t sleep either. She likes to pounce at his feet as though they were her avian prey. Her sharp claws tear his skin and scramble his flesh, but he lays still in his false slumber. It will grow back in the morning, anyway. But this night, he cannot even pretend to sleep, for his mind is so loud. He makes himself a pot of coffee, untouched by cream or sugar, the way true men must take it. Before letting it cool down, he sips it while staring solemnly out the window. The lonely lamppost on the street corner stares back at him. Just before the dregs are drained from his cup, he spots a figure out in the dark. With a crown of curlers in her hair and stilettos on her feet, the wife trudges past the old man’s house. Her makeup is smudged from the humidity, mascara creeping down her cheeks. From behind the window, the old man cannot tell if her eyes are opened or closed. When she cracks her neck to turn and face him, he sees seeping black holes where her eyes would be. The old man slowly places the mug on a table and walks outside. As he opens the door, the cat darts out, lost to the wilderness. The old man curses, making the wife flinch. Harsh words for a most proper woman. Damn cat. “Sorry ma’am, but my cat happened to run out just now. Did you see where the old thing went?” The wife’s empty eye sockets bore holes into his skull. He lifts a hand to the back of his head to keep anything from falling out. “Did you see my cat, ma’am?” She does not answer, and continues her pilgrimage. Because of this delay, she will not make it as far this night before she is back in her own home. What a waste.
I am sleeping soundly for once. In dreamless slumber I softly clutch a small stuffed bear. It is old and ragged, its button nose ripped halfway out. During the daylight, it is so embarrassing, I must hide it under the bed in shame. But now it watches over me, unoffended, protecting me. Unconsciously, I squeeze the bear closer to me, needing its serenity. A door slams somewhere in the house. I wake abruptly, and the bear is brushed off the bed. I follow my restless father at a distance to his regular spot in the driveway. He is angry tonight, more than usual. His boots shake the ground beneath. In this dim moonlight, his face is red and grimy with refused tears. It scares me a little. His drunken swagger as he grabs the rifle is new, chilling. He plants himself in the lawn chair and waits, growling into the night. I don’t want to see this. I head back to sleep, my face turned firmly away from the moonlit window. The father stays out there for hours. Just before the dawn cracks, he spots movement and shoots. He’s never pulled the trigger before. He wasn’t even sure the gun worked at all. The blast from the shot wakes a neighbor or two, unfamiliar with the noise. Somewhere an old cat cries out one last time.
Sophie Konde is a senior majoring in Anthropology and Legal Studies with a minor in History from the suburbs of DC (well technically Virginia, but she doesn’t claim that). When she’s not freaking out her friends with Neat Bone Facts she learned in anthropology classes, she’s catching everyone up on the latest Bachelor Nation drama. You can find her on the football field waving a flag in hurricane-force winds with the marching band or otherwise spending all her money at Coffee Lab.
