by Lori Roy
The house is dark except for the light that shines under Mama’s door, and the muffled sounds of voices from her television seep into the living room. She’ll have surely fallen asleep by now. Tomorrow, Mama will ask Imogene if the wire is gone and did it lead to the old house and what was your father up to. And while Imogene could have stripped out the wire and emptied the old house of any proof of Daddy and his women or his Klan cohorts, she won’t be able to hide a child.
Not able to face another set of stairs, Imogene lays the boy in her old bedroom instead of the guest room on the second story. She lowers him onto her bed, the frame creaking as it takes his weight, slides her hands out from under him, and then straightens and stretches her lower back. After she and Russell married, she boxed up all signs of her childhood—the trophies and medals from sports she’ll never play again, yearbooks she never looks at, notebooks, binders, and textbooks. Now the room is where Mama stores extra blankets and pillows, and her gardening magazines are stacked along the wall under the window. Mama also moved her reading chair in here so she could get some peace and quiet from Daddy, and he from her. Though they still call it Imogene’s room, it isn’t hers anymore.
With only the light from the hallway spilling into the room, Imogene can look at the boy now, really look at him. His hair is dark and too long, leaving the ends to curl. His face is slender, and where his cheeks should be soft and round, they’re instead sunken. His arms and legs are bony and pale, making them look longer than they are, and even in the dark room, she can see that thick black lashes line his eyes. Pushing aside his hair, she checks the cut on his forehead. There’s no swelling and she thinks that’s a good thing. She presses one hand to her chest, tries to catch her breathing as it starts to run away from her. Again, her mind is catching up with something her body knew straightaway.
This boy is the same age Vaughn would have been if he’d lived. Imogene sees them in town sometimes, children who are the age Vaughn should’ve been. They get older every year. She stares at the mothers too, wondering if she would have become as good at mothering as they have. Mama said in the early days after Vaughn was born that Imogene needed to remember he wouldn’t be a baby forever. The crying would eventually stop. He would eventually sleep through the night, and so would she. It was okay that Imogene disliked being a mama some days, that she hated being tired and never sleeping and not getting a shower or a decent meal. But what Imogene hated most was not knowing what to do or how to do it or if she’d done it right. She hated feeling like her life was over. Remember, Mama had said, he’ll grow up. It’ll get easier and everything you’re feeling is part of loving him.
And it did get easier. Imogene stopped being so tired. She figured out how to keep Vaughn awake during his feedings so he slept better, and he started to smile and squeeze their fingers. She studied for classes while he slept, and Russell began to help by getting up during the night. Later, Imogene hated that she wasted so much time missing her old life when she could have been loving her new one. Draping a blanket over the boy, Imogene backs out of her room, one slow step after another, and once outside pulls the door closed.
Out in the hallway, Imogene bends forward and rests her hands on her thighs. Her chest rises and lowers faster when it should be slowing down. It’s panic, first lighting on top of her skin, then slowly sinking in. It grows brighter as it does, and hotter. Letting her head hang loose, she forces herself to exhale through her mouth and inhale through her nose, and when that doesn’t slow the terror racing through her body and settling in her chest, she drops to her knees, closes her eyes, and tries to replay it in her head. The boy thrashing about, angry and frightened. Someone taught him the rules—never say the man’s name, never ever, the boy said—but in that moment, he forgot.
Still kneeling, the pine floors hard beneath her, Imogene lets her back round and her arms hang loose. An old house is somehow quieter and lonelier, both things amplified by its past. She didn’t know that until she moved out and got an apartment of her own after Russell and Vaughn died, and even though she hasn’t lived in this house for several years, she’s ready for the ache that comes with its history.
The giving in has worked, and her breathing has slowed. She’s coached Mama to do it so many times. It’s the only thing Imogene does well these days. She can comfort Mama like the others can’t, mostly because the beating of Mama’s heart—the ticking that never ever stops, that makes some bend over the nearest trash can—has never troubled her. It’s the one thing that’s special about Imogene, though Mama would scold her for thinking such a thing. But it’s true. Eddie is the son, and though Daddy never touted it, others may still defer to him now that Daddy’s gone, at least the ones who don’t know Eddie well. Jo Lynne has a husband and a career where she saves children’s lives. Imogene has nothing, except a stomach for Mama’s beating heart.
As air moves freely through her lungs again, she starts to think more clearly. Daddy was seventy-five years old, and old men don’t keep boys and their mothers locked in a basement. Edison Coulter had plenty to be ashamed of, though he’d never suffered a moment’s shame his entire life, but not this. She has time and the room to think like she didn’t when panic was crowding out every clear thought, but time enough to think also means time enough for the things she saw to continue to take form in a way they hadn’t before, not even when she was looking right at them.
It’s as if in the quiet, the whisper of all the evil that’s passed through this house can almost be heard. If Daddy wasn’t the person keeping the boy down in that basement, then it’s someone who’s still out there, maybe right now, watching the house. Maybe someone who’s hiding among the pecan trees, someone who saw Imogene bring the boy inside. As quickly as she thinks it, she imagines a shadowy figure slipping across the drive and up onto the porch. She can feel eyes peeking in at her through the blinds and fingers landing gently on a doorknob, turning, pushing.
Keeping low to the ground, she scrambles toward the back door and, once there, looks out the sidelight. The porch is lit up, but the yard beyond is too black even for shadows. The simple square columns are not thick enough to hide a person, and she’d hear if someone had walked onto the porch. Whoever was living there in the basement had dug in. It’s a horrible thought, and yet it’s true. Someone had made a home down there—embroidered tea towels, books stacked smallest to tallest, chairs pushed under the table, squarely, evenly. Whoever loved enough to do those things had been there a long time. And there were locks on the outside of the basement door. The outside. That’s the sight more than any other that makes Imogene’s throat tighten. She’s spinning, stumbling, doesn’t know how to find her footing. The only thing she knows is that a strange boy is asleep in her bedroom, his mama is missing, and Imogene can’t be the one to know what to do next.
The whiskey has burned off entirely, and Imogene is left with a headache. Over in the kitchen, she opens the freezer and pulls out the bottle of vodka Mama hides behind the frozen vegetables. She drinks two quick swallows, just enough to fend off the rest of a hangover, slides the bottle back in place, closes the door, and leans there until the burn fades. The counters have all been cleared and cleaned and the silver serving trays they borrowed from the church are stacked near the door, a slip of tissue paper tucked between each one and the next. Even the old cabinets, which should have long ago been replaced, shine from having been scrubbed down. The entire house smells of pine cleaner. All of it is Jo Lynne’s doing. Sadness never slows her down. Neither does anger or fear. They ignite her, set her to work with her carefully drawn face, smooth hair, and dresses cinched tightly at her perfectly narrow waist. She likes having people depend on her, because that means she is making the decisions, charting the course. It means she is in control, and it’s why she’s so good at her job.
If Imogene calls Eddie and tells him what’s happened, he’ll pace in the kitchen and shout about the state of the world, and he’ll use words like “repercussion” and “oppression.” He’ll st
ring them together in ways that make no sense and he’ll want to ask Daddy what to do and then he’ll remember Daddy is dead. But not Jo Lynne. She’ll tuck away whatever shock she may feel and know exactly what to do. Grabbing her phone from the basket on the counter, the only phone remaining after everyone left the house, Imogene sends Eddie and Jo Lynne each a text. It’s too late for a phone call. COME TO THE HOUSE ASAP. MAMA’S FINE. EMERGENCY.
Chapter 17
BETH
Before
The light that hangs from the ceiling at the bottom of the stairs never goes out. It’s on when I close my eyes and on when I open them. I have a small clock. The bright orange numbers tell me the time, but I only know day from night because a sliver of sunlight slips around one of the boards in the shadowy part of the basement. In the beginning, it was the only thing I knew, but now I know more. I know he comes on Sundays and Wednesdays, but I don’t know how long since he left me or when he’ll come again. I watch the sliver of light come and go so I can keep track of the days, but I sleep and wake and sometimes I don’t know if it’s the next day or the same day. It’s daytime now. Tuesday. I think it’s Tuesday. I hope. And the clock reads 3:22. It’s 3:22 on a Tuesday afternoon when I walk to the bottom of the stairs.
Standing in the center of the light that hangs from the ceiling, I count twelve steps leading to the door at the top. I’ve made it halfway up three other times, but no farther. Upstairs is where he goes when he leaves. It has to be because there is no place else. I’m breathing fast like I’ve been running except I haven’t. Here in the basement, there’s no room for running. And I wear nothing on my feet, so they’re always dirty. Even when I wash them in the sink and dry them, they’re never clean. I curl my toes because the stone is cold. Mama always says, no running in bare feet. She would fuss at me too because the shirt I’m wearing hangs too long, so I stuff the shirttail into the elastic band of my pants. They’re not mine. He must have brought them to me, but I don’t remember.
Squeezing my hands into fists, I hold my arms stiff at my sides and force one foot to lift off the ground. My foot shouldn’t feel so heavy as I try to hold it there, just above the wooden step, but it does. It feels like I’m lifting someone else’s foot, a bigger foot, a heavier foot, and I’m waiting for something bad to happen. Mama says someone is forever watching. I always thought it was God or Jesus or maybe even Mama, but I don’t think that anymore. I think it’s him. He told me so once, said he’s always watching. He also said I might hear voices sometimes and that they’re the voices of bad people and I’d better not cry for help. He said I damn sure didn’t want those people knowing I’m down here. He promised to keep me safe, he said, but only if I followed every rule. One of the rules . . . I’m never allowed on the stairs.
I don’t know how long since he brought me here. I’m better now, but for a long time, I don’t know how long, I would wake and sleep and wake again, and always I’d be lying on the sofa and always the light at the bottom of the stairs was shining. I’d stare into it until black spots danced across my eyes. Sometimes, I would wake and a blanket was laid over me. Other times, I’d have socks on my feet and someone had clipped my fingernails and cleaned under them so the narrow tips were shiny and white. Sometimes I’d hear Mama’s voice, a sweet voice telling me to drink up and take a small bite and I would wonder if it was real. I wanted her to come closer so I could see her, and just as I wished it, a soft hand would cup my chin, brush the hair from my eyes. I cried because this world was muddy and I couldn’t see through it. I couldn’t see Mama. And sometimes it was him again. He would shake me, tell me to wake up, get myself going. He’d pour cold water into my mouth. It would dribble down my chin and onto my neck.
I couldn’t tell him then, but I know now. I had been living underwater. The light didn’t reach me, and what I could see was wobbly like waves were passing through it, ripples of water that went on and on. And sound didn’t reach me either, no matter how hard I listened, and the weight of the water pressed down and every breath was hard to take. I was wrong about thinking Mama had been here with me. She was only a part of a dream, and no matter how hard I fought against it, I was sinking. I think I was sinking for missing Mama so bad and wanting so bad to go home.
I began to float back to the surface the day I opened my eyes and saw a stack of books on the floor next to the sofa. I rolled onto one side, stretched out a hand, and rested it on top of the stack. I stared at it until the ripples cleared and I was certain the books were real, and then I pushed myself up, reached down, and gathered them. There were six, all different colors, and all had hard covers. They were warm in my hands and smelled like another place, not like here. They were dusty, and when I opened the cover of the top book, it creaked. I counted them twice, hugged them to my chest, slid back down on the sofa, and when I woke again, still holding the books, I walked across the cold stone floor to the shadowy side of the basement and reached into the cooler for the first time.
As I ate and drank that day—two cheese sticks and a box of apple juice but not the milk because I like chocolate not plain—I first saw the orange slice of light around one of the windows and cried because that slice brought the outside in. I kept the books next to me so they wouldn’t slip away and be lost like everything else. The next day he came, and I knew it was a day later because the sliver came and went and came again, and he smiled to see my eyes open. He smelled of spicy cologne and wore a white shirt and shiny shoes. Church clothes, he said. I hugged my books, nodded when he asked if I wanted more. But when I asked if I could show them to Mama, he said no and that I’d better damn sure quit asking for Mama and be happy for what I had. You should be thanking me, he said as he jammed more juice boxes down into the cooler and poured in more ice. You understand? He stared at me until I nodded and then said he’d be back on Wednesday. That’s when I learned one more thing. He comes on Sundays and Wednesdays. And today, I think, is Tuesday. He doesn’t come on Tuesday, so I lower my foot onto the stair and lift the other to meet it.
I have to move off the first step because I have eleven more to go, and this time, I’m going to make it all the way to the top. I’ve been too scared the other times I stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the dark door above me. I didn’t know what he’d do if he opened that door and found me breaking a rule. But today is Tuesday. He isn’t coming, and I want to make it to the top, where I’ll see farther than I’ve ever seen, so I imagine I’m a mountain climber. Twice, Mama and me went to Stone Mountain. It isn’t a real mountain, but it’s tall, and we puffed and panted our way toward the top even though we never got close. And that’s what I’m doing as I walk my hands up the railing to help my feet along. I’ve reached the tenth stair. The fronts of my legs don’t have much push left in them, and my throat aches because I’m sucking in too much air too fast.
In two more steps, I’ll be to the top. I’m dizzy like when we climbed toward the top of Stone Mountain. Mama said the air was thinner and we Georgians didn’t take to thin air. I imagine the sun is shining, but really it’s just the light that hangs from the ceiling, and I imagine Mama is there behind me. Taking up the rear, she called it. And I pretend I’m seeing tiny yellow daisies like we saw on the mountain and gray squirrels and a red fox like the one that scared Mama and then made her laugh. Just wait until you see the view, Mama had said. It’ll stretch on forever, farther than you’ve ever seen. And I think it’ll be like that when I reach the top step. I’ll see everything then, farther than I’ve ever seen. Maybe I’ll even see a way out.
I have to sit down. Just for a minute, and then I’ll be able to make it. Mama and me never made it to the top before, but I’m going to make it now. Still holding the railing with one hand because I feel dizzy like the air is too thin, I sit on the edge of a step and lean against the wall. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, I don’t know how long it’s been. Maybe I fell asleep. My neck hurts because my head was bent off to one side. I remember Mama was taking up the rear, fol
lowing me up Stone Mountain. I can hear her footsteps, the creaking as she steps on a fallen branch. Yes, those are footsteps. I push myself up, grab on to the railing again, and straight ahead, the door opens.
He is a shadow at first that doesn’t move. I don’t move either, can’t move. I’m holding the railing with both hands so I don’t fall because the stairs seem to tilt and sway. The height’ll make you dizzy. Careful there, Mama had said. I hang on. His hands are full of something. He drops it, whatever it is, and grabs for my arm. I’m only two steps away. The outside is only two steps away. I have to let go of the railing so he won’t get hold of me, but when I do, I fall. At the bottom of the stairs, he stands over me again just like that night when he opened the silver box.
“Can you move?” He’s squatting next to me, close enough I could touch his face.
I close my eyes, and when I open them again, he’s still there, looking down on me. He doesn’t look angry; he looks afraid, like when Mama drank too many whiskeys, fell down the porch steps, and pulled me down with her. When the doctor was wrapping a hard cast around my wrist, Mama looked scared like he looks scared. Slipping his hands under my knees and around my shoulders, he lifts. My body feels long in his arms. I’ve grown since I’ve been here. All of me is bigger, taller anyway. And I wonder again how long I’ve been in the basement. I rest my head against his chest. Together we look down at my left ankle. It’s too big and it throbs like it has a heartbeat.
“I just wanted to see the outside,” I say as he lowers me back onto the sofa. “Can’t you take me? Just for a look?”
He grabs the pillow from the small bed I’ve never slept on and rests my ankle on it. And still without answering, he climbs back up the stairs, limping as he goes, as if one of his knees is hurting him. It takes him two trips to bring down what he dropped. He empties the bags and fills one of them with ice.