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Janet Marie
Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554


0 posted 2000-05-13 12:03 PM


I knew it was a mistake to come here.

I knew it on Sunday when I drove by 3 times, each time slower than the time before.
The fact that my hands were shaking as I wrote down the real estate agents number off the For Rent sign ...
should have been my clue, my cue, to let it alone, and drive on.
But why start listening to my gut now, never have before.
The real estate agent was not interested enough to bother showing up.
After all she gets no commission on a rental. Instead her teenage son shows up, in a Vette no less, with music blaring, convertible top down. He hands me a key and in a totally disinterested voice says "just leave it in the mailbox when your done".
He then not so politely peels off showing off for the way too cute and way too young blonde in the car with him. Leaving me standing on the curb, shaking my head and smiling at the rememberance of being young and impulsive once. And then thinking how stupidly impulsive this that I was doing was.
But at least not having the agent show up spared me having to put on an act for her. I wouldn't have to pretend to be a possible tenant. Instead I could concentrate on being the witness returning to the scene of a crime.(of sorts)

The yard out front is bare. No flowers or shrubs. The thorny barberry bushes that use to be on each side of the porch, long since ripped out.
The only thing still there was the big old Maple tree in the edge of the yard.
Now twice as tall as when we use to climb it with the neighbor kids.
Hand shaking again...another sign to quit while Im ahead,ignored. I walk up to the porch of the tiny cracker box house. It's painted white now with green shutters.
How ironic, or poectic, as it use to be green with white shutters.

Key in and door open, I pretend I don't notice I'm holding my breath. Or that I can feel my heart beating way too fast.
Why the hell am I here anyway. I lived in this same damn town for my whole life and never even drove past here, till Sunday. 3 days later I'm standing in the vacant living room. How small and smothering the room's size is.
But when your a kid everything seems bigger than you. Right?
He always did, his 6 foot of anger use to loom over everything this tiny room.
Looking around...neutral colors, new paint, new carpet.
I wonder how many times the carpet has been replaced in the 22 years since we were carried out of here never to return. (till now)
I wonder what all the different carpet installers thought when they saw the holes in the hardwood floor. Wondered if they knew they were bullet holes.
How would one explain that night. Better off not to even try.

Off white walls, new paint smell still in the air.  They use to have wallpaper on them. Gold and white leaves. Why do they stuck in my mind still.
The wierd things a mind stores. My mind anyway. Little sister, she blocks it all.
If she was here, none of the little details would stick. She learned along time ago how to put them away, somewhere deep. I use to sometimes wish I had her gift of denial, but it's all a trade off...one demon for another.
"Pick your poison," and all that.
He always had one of those stupid cliches. One for every occasion.
For every lecture...for every one of your damn failures that disappointed him so.
I use to wonder if he had a book of them somewhere.

Standing at the top of the hallway was the biggest shock... it was only several steps to the last door. Our old room. Back then it seemed like 10 miles long when you were hauling scared butt for its sanctuary of beds and stuffed animals.
To the left of the hall was the kitchen. My God how could such a tiny room hold 4 people and so much shouting. Seemed impossible now.
Bright yellow painted walls, they were green then.
Amazing what paint and plaster can do to hide the holes punched in.
Or the dents that a miss thrown beer can make when its full.
Staring at the basement door, I decide to let that dog lie. Too many ghosts there.
Well, not real ghosts, cause no body actually died here.
Unless you can count a child's spirit, or perhaps trust.
Does innocence leave behind an apparition when it dies?

How long have I been here. The sun is almost going down.
I don't need to be here with all these shadows.
The quiet in here is astounding. I guess I expected to hear all the shouting, all the voices and threats. But then I realize they moved out when we did...they've been in my head taking up space for years. I should charge them rent.
Standing in the middle of this little square living room...so many hours spent here.
The black and white TV use to sit against the wall by the front door...made it convenient to throw the ripped off channel selector knobs or the broke off rabbit ears antennas out into the front yard.
All the tantrums when the worn out old hand-me-down set would static up during a football game. Someone replaced the ripped screen in the door. The thin screen mesh no match for a fist aiming at a wife coming home later than she should have from her night waitress shift at one of her 2 jobs.

So do walls talk? If these could they'd shout, or scream, or just sob.
Wonder if they remember all they've seen. If they can close their eyes and still see the look on those 2 little girls faces as the police walked in.
Wonder if they remember the fear in the room. If they felt that defining moment.
The point of no return arriving in 4 peoples lives.

It probably only lasted for minutes, but even now it feels like a life time.
I can still taste the smells, hear the sounds, but I cant remember if I realized - right then, as it was happening.
Did I know that at that moment nothing would ever be the same.
Did I know in my wisdom of 13, that everything happening in that room right then,
would effect every decision I would make for the rest of my life.
No, she couldn't have known, she was too scared. She was too distracted by the sound of her mother and sister crying. By the look on her mothers face, the black mascara running down her cheeks...still in that ugly damn red waitress uniform with those white nurses shoes.She never took her eyes off the cop, the one who was trying to talk all of our ways out of this one.
I only looked at him once, I was watching dads hand and the gun. His hand shaking so hard. The other hand in a death grip on moms neck. I don't remember the policeman's words, just his calm voice, so soft spoken and reassuring. I didn't know a man could talk so slow and soft.
And when the gun hand finally dropped and handed it over to the calm man,
there was rush of blue uniforms scooping up the two girls and the lady in the red uniform, whisking them out the door and into the police cruiser.
Seems like we sat there for hours, until they brought him out.  Even handcuffed he was huge and in control. Never broke eye contact with her as he was walked past, even under arrest he could threaten her with only his look.

I stepped out on the porch into the late afternoon air.
Locked the door and placed the key in the mailbox.
Standing by my car, just staring at the house, at those black numbers by the door, 822. Still remember the phone number from here too. Again why? Why does my mind store this kind of useless info? Why ask why.
As I go to leave the real estate agent pulls up. She has young couple with her. Says something about having to hurry before it gets dark as the power is off.
She never even acknowledged I was there before ushering them in.
They seemed excited...talking about it was a perfect starter home.
I guess to some it could be that.  All I know is more ended here than was ever started.
As I drove off I smiled to myself and wished them luck. And I wondered if they would mind all the skeletons in the closets. I should have charged them rent too.

Janet Marie

thanks for reading this.
please feel free to offer any and all suggestions that come to mind.Tell me what you both love and hate about it  
I have just discovered that I very much enjoy writing in this form and wish to do it right and hopefully in time ... to do it well.
thanks much to BSQ for inspiring me to try this...
and for your help and advice.




[This message has been edited by Janet Marie (edited 05-13-2000).]

© Copyright 2000 Janet Marie - All Rights Reserved
jbouder
Member Elite
since 1999-09-18
Posts 2534
Whole Sort Of Genl Mish Mash
1 posted 2000-05-13 12:17 PM


Janet:

I'm moving this to the prose forum.

Jim

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navwin » Archives » Critical Analysis #1 » my first attempt at prose... advice and suggestions wanted

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