by CeeCee James
This was a dark period in my life, but the darkest time was fast approaching.
Chapter 12
~The Dark House~
Casa del Fuego never welcomed Adam and Mama. The locals talked fast and laughed whenever my parents passed by. I’d look back, wondering what the joke was, but their dark eyes only snapped with dirty humor and scorn.
It was two o’clock in the morning when we received a phone call that jolted us all awake. Adam cleared his throat thick with sleep, and answered, “Hello?”
My feet hit the cold floor as I scrambled out of bed and ran to the hallway to hear. A harsh male voice echoed through the receiver, “We will kill you and your family! We will grab your wife and your little girl, and drop them down the old mine shaft! No one will ever find them! Leave now, Gringo!”
My stepdad was stunned into silence, as the phone clicked off. He slowly returned the receiver to its cradle, his forehead wrinkling. He didn’t see me, standing like a ghost in my pale nightgown at the end of the dark hallway. He turned to answer Mama, who was calling from the bedroom.
I knew Mama and Adam were concerned, because their worried tones carried through the heater vent in the wall. But, it didn’t hinder me from continuing to explore the streets as I pleased. We lived there for two more years, despite receiving three or four more sleep jarring phone calls.
One morning we found our cat twisted in the barbed wire fence at the end of our property, dead. I held my hands over my wet eyes and pushed my palms against my eye sockets causing stars. Adam buried the cat while Mama sobbed, and then ran to her room to hide.
That week they decided it was time to leave.
Our adobe house sold a few days after it was put on the market. Adam and Mama went down to the court house and eloped. The next week, Adam took a U-Haul, packed with all of our belongings, and drove it to Montana to start his new job. Mama and I stayed behind in a little rental house in Casa del Fuego so that I could finish the last month of fourth grade.
Mama softened right after Adam left. She looked over at me sitting in the passenger seat on our way to the grocery store.
“I’m counting on you, CeeCee. I hate being here alone.” I shivered with happiness, because it reminded me of when I took care of her when I was five. We ran errands, and had dinner together every night.
A padded envelope arrived one day in the afternoon mail. Mama tore into it with giddy laughter and pulled out a tiny, velvet jewelry box that opened to reveal a late engagement ring. I gasped when she slid the sparkling ring down her finger; it was like a snip of the clearest icicle. Mama held it up to the sunlight, and we giggled at the tiny rainbows it made. She flashed her rainbows around the room while I chased after them to catch one in my hand. It was the first diamond I’d ever seen.
This peaceful time was the eye of the hurricane in my life.
We took an airplane out to Billings right after my tenth birthday. Mama gestured for me to look out the tiny airplane window she sat next to.
“Check out those lights,” she murmured, as we flew over the city.
“They’re beautiful,” I whispered in awe as I leaned over, mesmerized at what seemed like a million sparkling jewels spilt across black velvet. She nodded, satisfied, and I sat back in my chair. We didn’t talk for the rest of the flight.
Adam was waiting to pick us up at the Billings airport. As soon as Mama saw him, she disconnected from me, and ran into his arms for a long hug. Her eyes narrowed into slits when Adam greeted me by putting his arm around my shoulders.
We drove for about an hour down the highway, away from the city lights. I watched out the window, but there was nothing to see. The clouds in the sky hid the stars. Adam slowed the car and turned right.
I sat up, excited. “Are we there?”
He shook his head no, as the winding road continued to curve higher and higher. There were no street lights, no house lights, and no moon. Just blackness that threatened to swallow us. At the top of the mountain we turned left onto a gravel road and pulled down a dirt driveway. I saw my new home for the first time.
Adam had forgotten to leave any lights on. The lights from the car showed black windows that seemed unwelcoming and sinister. There was a strange lattice covering the windows that reminded me of prison bars.
Leaving the headlights on, Adam got out of the car and unlocked the front door. When we walked inside our shadows wobbled long and spooky across the floor. Adam clicked on the overhead light, and the dim light bulb barely ate up any of the darkness in the huge room. The bulb flickered then. I stared at it and shivered, wondering if the house was haunted.
The next morning, sunshine chased all the shadows back to the corners, and my spooky thoughts from the night before dissipated. What had appeared like a black cave when we first opened the front door turned out to be an enormous living room. The bedrooms were all upstairs, and the living room and kitchen were on the main floor. The house had stairs going down to the basement and more stairs going up to the attic.
My bedroom was right across the hall from my parents. It was thrilling to have a room close to theirs. I stood in the middle and spun with my arms open wide. It’s a fresh start! They are giving me a new chance! I spied Kewpie in the corner and grabbed her for a dancing partner. With my arms clutched around her, I spun and dipped her. My room was as bright and shiny as a soap bubble, as sunlight flooded in through the two windows, splashing against the fresh, white painted walls. The light called to me, so I propped Kewpie against the wall--first straightening her dress-- and ran over to the wooden window sill to gaze out at the lodge pole pine trees. I never dreamed life could be this good.
We had only lived there for a few weeks, when I came home from school to Mama holding a box.
“You’re moving down to the basement. Upstairs is our half, and the downstairs room is yours. Adam’s been working on making a room for you for your birthday present.” She followed me to my old room where I started to gather my things in the box. “No,” Mama stopped me, “that box is for your books. You can keep three out, but the rest are going up to the attic. I’m sick of you reading all the time.” She tapped a pack of cigarettes against her hand. “When I was your age I was always busy doing fun things. Of course, you’re nothing like me. You’re just like your Dad.”
It was hard choosing my books. My preschool principal had told me years ago that books were her friends, and my books were friends too. I used them to help fill the hours I spent alone outside.
Finally, I picked out three and stuffed the rest of my belongings into a bag that I carried to my new room. As I passed Mama on the couch, she raised her hand to stop me.
“Remember, I don’t want you upstairs unless you’re eating or doing your chores.”
I nodded, and left the room. There was a heavy, oak door at the top of the steps and Mama called to me, “Don’t forget to close the door!”
Every step I took down to the basement was a twist in my gut.
The new room was a tiny bit bigger than my bed, with gray striped wallpaper on the walls that matched the blue-gray bedspread. At some point while I had been at school, Adam had built a desk in what once had been the tiny closet. I gazed blankly at a nicotine yellow lamp hanging over the desk that cast an uncanny glow over my desk and walls.
There was a sliver of a window located a couple inches below the ceiling. I dragged my chair over to see if I could see out of it. But, I wasn’t tall enough, and slumped down to the seat, discouraged. The window was level with the ground outside, and the glass was grimy with brown splotches from the rain splashing up the dirt. The constant dim light kept every color monotone; there were no sharp shadows or contrasts, only darkness smudging in to darker things.
A few days had passed when Mama walked in my room with another box.
“You can’t keep your nice, new room clean. You’re being disrespectful to what we’ve done for you. Pick a few of your favorites and pack the rest up. They’re going to the attic.”
Lickin
g my lips, I quickly glanced at her from where I was sitting on the floor playing a board game by myself. My toys too? She tapped her foot and pointed to the box.
“You’ve got thirty seconds, or I’m doing it for you.”
I packed up Peter, and my Barbies, and one of the dolls Mama made. I left the game and the other doll. She watched me rushing around and then peered under my bed to make sure I hadn’t hidden anything.
Adam came downstairs to help Mama carry the box. She handed it to him, and then pointed her finger at me.
“I’ve booby-trapped the books, so I’ll know if you sneak up there and get some. Can’t out-smart me.” Adam laughed at Mama’s words as she turned to him with a smile. “She’s sneaky, but I showed her.” She looked back and continued, “Better keep your room clean, or I’ll take the rest.”
Mama left for the upstairs. I sat on my bed with my arms tight around me as my body shook. My chest felt tight, and I wanted to scream. I didn’t pull my hair anymore when I was stressed. Instead, I bit my nails past the quick, something Mama slapped me for if she caught me. I chewed on my nails as the echo boomed inside of me.
It was about this time that Mama began calling me the fifth wheel of the family. She said to me in a matter-of-fact tone, “You know what a fifth wheel is? They’re useless. They’re not wanted. The other wheels are better off without it. Do you like being called Fifth wheel?”
I shook my head no. My nose was stuffy all of a sudden.
“I think you do. Otherwise you’d change. Now come here, Fifth Wheel, and clean the kitchen. You think you can do it right this time?”
I nodded and went over to fill the sink with soapy water.
Over the next few days, I worked hard at being good. She never saw me, I tiptoed into the kitchen to do my chores and shut the stairway door behind me when I was done. Things were going okay, until one night I hesitated in front of an open bag of cookies on my way down stairs. I reached in carefully, trying not to crinkle the paper, and slowly pulled one out. I looked at my prize with a smile and started for the door.
Mama was there, staring at me.
“What do you think you are doing?”
Cold chills trembled in my core. I wanted to throw the cookie away from me and cover my face. She walked over and furiously whipped the package off of the counter.
“How dare you eat one of my cookies. You don’t touch any food unless I give you permission.”
I hid the cookie down by my side and mumbled, “I’m sorry Mama.”
“I’ll show you,” she snapped. She stomped out of the room, returning with a laundry basket. Throwing the cupboards open, she swept cookies, chips, and other food off the shelves and into the basket. When it was full she lugged it to her bedroom.
My stepdad walked behind her shaking his head. He drove down to the hardware store and returned soon after with a new doorknob. There was metallic clicking while he installed the lock on their bedroom door. From that day on, she kept the food locked in her room, checking the door every time she left by rattling the doorknob.
“I’ve hidden the key. If you weren’t such a sneak, I wouldn’t have to do that.” She shook her head as she walked away. “You really are a Fifth Wheel.”
I was obsessed with guilt, and couldn’t sleep that night. The next morning I went up to her, “Mama, I messed up. I’m so sorry. I’m turning over a new leaf! I’m going to do it right this time. Please give me another chance.”
She responded with a bored sigh, “I’ve heard this so many times before. Your words don’t have any meaning anymore.”
There was nothing I could do. I went downstairs, seeing only failure in every part of my life. Every morning I was just going wake and do the whole nightmare all over again.
I didn’t find any relief in school. Fifth grade was awful, and I wanted to quit. The boys pestered me and made fun of my name. I always hated my name, CeeCee, a blunt staccato that caused people to ask what it stood for, and didn’t roll off the tongue in cute curls like Jennifer, or Elizabeth. Mama once told me that she couldn’t think of one, so she picked it out of a celebrity magazine when I was a couple days old.
The kids also teased me about my hair, which was cut as high as my ears and uneven. Mama had told me, “Your hair looks ugly and stringy when it’s long,” and hacked my blonde hair even shorter with her scissors.
On picture day, I rolled my hair with a set of pink sponge curlers I had bought with my birthday money. I was hoping for a head of soft curls, like my old preschool principal. But instead, my hair curled into lumps. Why can’t I do anything right? I viciously brushed my hair, before looking for my pink flower plastic barrettes and clipped them in. Better.
Mama laughed when she saw me at breakfast.
“Your hair looks ridiculous.”
My hands flew to my hair, and I tried to pull the curls straight. I need water. She tapped the ash off of her cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table and said, “If you were a good girl, I’d fix your hair for you and make it look nice.” She shrugged her shoulders and walked to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
My clothing didn’t help. Everything Mama had purchased for me was from her once a year trip to the Salvation Army, even though she didn’t shop there for herself. Mama always said, “I would never waste money buying you nice things. You don’t know how to take care of your stuff.”
I struggled to keep my out-grown pants tugged down to cover my ankles. When I stood up in front of the class to read a book report, a boy from the back row called out, “Hey, where’s the flood?”
My classmates all laughed, and the heat covered my face. I stuttered and lost my place on my paper. Sniffing, my finger ran down the paper trying to sort out the blurry words. My pants rose even higher when I sat down, so I pulled my feet cross legged in my chair.
That afternoon, I threw my books on the floor and flung myself on my bed and cried. Pounding came through the ceiling, Mama wanted me outside. I wiped the back of my hand over my eyes, and searched my drawers for an extra layer of socks, pants, and jacket. I pulled them on and ran out the door. The bitter cold of a Montana winter was still a shock to me after living in the desert.
Sometimes I’d unroll my plastic sled mat and slide down the driveway, just waiting until Mama would let me back in. On this day I was cold and lonely, so I dug myself a little fort in the snowbank left by the plow with my mittened hands. When it was big enough, I climbed and sat with my back against the icy wall. I closed my eyes. Laughing faces from the day flashed in my mind. No! No! No! Instead, I forced a daydream about being a famous singer, until my imagination went willingly, making me smile in the chilly shelter from the applause, and the flowers thrown at my feet. Outside, the wind howled and whipped the fallen snow. I stayed there until it was dusk, and I could come back inside.
The next afternoon it was below zero, and I shivered in my igloo. Pulling myself into a ball, I pressed my cold nose on my knees to warm it. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. My toes tingled when I climbed out, and tapped on the front door to ask Mama if I could come in.
“Thirty more minutes! The fresh air is good for you.”
I didn’t have a watch, so I went back to my snow fort to count the seconds.
The temperature was twenty-seven below zero when the television broadcasted weather alerts warning the public to stay inside because of the extreme cold. My neighbor drove by just as I climbed out of my snow fort. He rolled down his window and asked, his breath puffing in white clouds. “Hey! What are you doing out here?”
I didn’t know how to answer him, so I shrugged and said, “Playing.” I peeked up at the house and my stomach rolled when I saw Mama standing at the window, watching me.
When I came home from school the next day, Adam was waiting for me. He beckoned me over to the basement’s woodstove. I could see my breath in the open room and was surprised to see there wasn’t a fire going in the stove like there normally was.
“It’s time you learn how to start the
stove yourself,” he said.
Adam taught me how to twist the paper and load the wood stove with paper and kindling. My hands were black with ink by the time I finished the tight twists. He showed me how to keep an eye on the fire, and where the most seasoned part of the wood pile was to get wood. Every day I brought in armloads of wood, bits of bark sticking to my jacket. I always scooped up a few twigs along the way. There was a fascination in feeding the skinny pieces into the flames. I watched the fire carefully to make sure the iron monster was fed to make the best heat.
I never turned on the electric heater in my room. Mama said that electric heat cost too much money, although she used it upstairs. There was a constant chill from the concrete that rose through the thin carpeting so I usually wore two pairs of socks. I had the fire roaring and held my hands before the flames for a few minutes to soak in the heat. Mama said the basement was part of her house too, so I had to go back to my room.
The next morning I woke up shivering. The fire had gone out in the middle of the night. Reaching down to the floor, I pulled my school clothes under the bed covers to warm them, and dressed under the blankets.
Mama stopped me on my way to the table with my cereal bowl.
“You didn’t fill the woodstove very well last night. It went out. Did you sneak your heat on this morning? I’ll know if you did.”
I shook my head, no.
A few days later while I was doing homework, she tiptoed down the basement stairs and flung my bedroom door open with a bang. It scared me, and I jumped. She took my surprise as an admission of guilt.
“You sneaking your heater on, Fifth Wheel?” She bent down to touch the heater with her fingers to see if it felt warm.