of darkness and despair could be the presence of Satan himself. In that tract house on the hill, in a place that represented the realization of modest ambition for a man striving to feed and shelter his family—to provide for them a safe and simple life—my father saw a demon.
It is a story I’ve heard told only twice but remember with a child’s sense of horror, how he woke chilled by the sudden false movement of air, damp as wind across rotting snow. He turned his face slowly toward the bedroom door, the stench of decay filling his nostrils, and saw the dark body and hollow face. It offered no word or sound, peering from its place at the threshold as though gauging my fathers wariness, sucking from his night breath the secrets of his soul.
He had never felt such fear, such abject, mute helplessness. He could not scream or move his hand to touch his wife’s shoulder so that she might bear witness to the specter. Even the simple rote of exorcism—
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I command you to leave
—was more than he could utter. For a long moment the demon held its place, then vanished. My mother woke to the bed rattling, my father violently trembling. In the next room, I felt the house shudder,the mountain possessed by wind. I heard my fathers whispering. I thought,
prayer
. I snuggled deeper beneath my covers, nothing in this world to fear.
One afternoon in early fall, my mother picked Greg and me up at school before we could board the bus. Her eyes were red and she pinched her nose with a handkerchief. I peered intently out my window, fearing what she was going to say. She patted my hand.
“I’ve got some bad news, sweetie.”
I waited, my breath coming out shallow and quick. Greg was already crying in the backseat.
“Uncle Ed was killed today.”
I nodded without looking at her, not sure how I was supposed to respond now that I knew it was not my father, only a great-uncle I hardly knew—Aunt Edith’s husband, the red-haired Swede whose hands had built the bomb shelter in one day. He was known as an expert sawyer, a shy and gentle man comfortable only in the presence of timber. He had been struck by a felled tree, his shinbones driven through the soles of his boots and into the ground like marking stakes.
I felt around for grief or sadness to match my mothers, but all that came to me was a sense of something gone from the world. My mother took us to the Headquarters Cafe for ice cream, and I swirled the cone with my tongue, considering how easily death came: my friend Anita Kachelmier’s dad had died at this very counter, strangled on a piece of steak, still wearing his boots and red suspenders.
It was God’s will for Uncle Ed to die, just as it was God’s will for us to move from our house in town to Dogpatch and begin making payments to his widow. I knew I would miss my neighborhood friends, and I cried when we pulled awayand I saw Glenda waving from her bedroom window. But my parents had said we would
own
our new home, and something in the word sounded permanent to me, settled.
When we drove down the driveway and into the hollow, Aunt Edith was waiting. She showed us through the narrow house and led me to my bedroom, with its curtain for a door. The room had once belonged to her son Larry, but he had left home years before. Now it was empty except for a doll, rigid in high heels, her feet glued to a platform. She wore an odd little hat, round and pointed, and her eyes were the shape of almonds. When Aunt Edith handed her to me, I could hardly believe my luck. “Is she Chinese?” I asked, smoothing the silk tunic over her white leggings. “No,” she said. “Larry brought her back from Vietnam, but I can’t imagine what I’d do with her now.” She looked around the room sadly, then lifted the curtain and disappeared.
I sat down on the bare floor and contemplated my new possession. Her hair was thick and black, parted and gathered into two braids. Painted red
It is a story I’ve heard told only twice but remember with a child’s sense of horror, how he woke chilled by the sudden false movement of air, damp as wind across rotting snow. He turned his face slowly toward the bedroom door, the stench of decay filling his nostrils, and saw the dark body and hollow face. It offered no word or sound, peering from its place at the threshold as though gauging my fathers wariness, sucking from his night breath the secrets of his soul.
He had never felt such fear, such abject, mute helplessness. He could not scream or move his hand to touch his wife’s shoulder so that she might bear witness to the specter. Even the simple rote of exorcism—
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I command you to leave
—was more than he could utter. For a long moment the demon held its place, then vanished. My mother woke to the bed rattling, my father violently trembling. In the next room, I felt the house shudder,the mountain possessed by wind. I heard my fathers whispering. I thought,
prayer
. I snuggled deeper beneath my covers, nothing in this world to fear.
One afternoon in early fall, my mother picked Greg and me up at school before we could board the bus. Her eyes were red and she pinched her nose with a handkerchief. I peered intently out my window, fearing what she was going to say. She patted my hand.
“I’ve got some bad news, sweetie.”
I waited, my breath coming out shallow and quick. Greg was already crying in the backseat.
“Uncle Ed was killed today.”
I nodded without looking at her, not sure how I was supposed to respond now that I knew it was not my father, only a great-uncle I hardly knew—Aunt Edith’s husband, the red-haired Swede whose hands had built the bomb shelter in one day. He was known as an expert sawyer, a shy and gentle man comfortable only in the presence of timber. He had been struck by a felled tree, his shinbones driven through the soles of his boots and into the ground like marking stakes.
I felt around for grief or sadness to match my mothers, but all that came to me was a sense of something gone from the world. My mother took us to the Headquarters Cafe for ice cream, and I swirled the cone with my tongue, considering how easily death came: my friend Anita Kachelmier’s dad had died at this very counter, strangled on a piece of steak, still wearing his boots and red suspenders.
It was God’s will for Uncle Ed to die, just as it was God’s will for us to move from our house in town to Dogpatch and begin making payments to his widow. I knew I would miss my neighborhood friends, and I cried when we pulled awayand I saw Glenda waving from her bedroom window. But my parents had said we would
own
our new home, and something in the word sounded permanent to me, settled.
When we drove down the driveway and into the hollow, Aunt Edith was waiting. She showed us through the narrow house and led me to my bedroom, with its curtain for a door. The room had once belonged to her son Larry, but he had left home years before. Now it was empty except for a doll, rigid in high heels, her feet glued to a platform. She wore an odd little hat, round and pointed, and her eyes were the shape of almonds. When Aunt Edith handed her to me, I could hardly believe my luck. “Is she Chinese?” I asked, smoothing the silk tunic over her white leggings. “No,” she said. “Larry brought her back from Vietnam, but I can’t imagine what I’d do with her now.” She looked around the room sadly, then lifted the curtain and disappeared.
I sat down on the bare floor and contemplated my new possession. Her hair was thick and black, parted and gathered into two braids. Painted red
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