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by Aaron A. Polson
A man waits in the hallway outside my bedroom. He hasn't moved for
the past few minutes, just hovering, lingering - casting the jagged,
shadowy outline of his face on the wall. I build a cocoon of my thick
comforter and squirm inside, warm but shivering because of the man in
the hallway. I pull the blanket over my head, vanishing, making the
shadow of the man disappear.
I could sleep, but I don't know what the man will do, waiting there just
outside my door, standing in the hallway by the stairs. We play this
waiting game almost every night. I know Mom would laugh, turn on the
light and say, "See silly. No one here." But she works tonight, and I'm
alone in the house with Dad and the man in the hallway.
Dad moves around downstairs; I can hear his heavy-booted feet stomp
across the kitchen tile, the house quiet and dead save the sound of his
feet and the opening of the refrigerator and the fizzing sound of a beer
can popped open. I think about crying out, yelling for him, but the man in
the hallway waits patiently, unmoving - unflinching. I don't know what he
would do.
My covers, bulky and warm at first, stifle now, and I sweat under the
weight. Slowly, gradually, I slip the blanket from my hot face and breathe
in the fresh, cool air of my bedroom, delicious after the sticky humidity
inside the cocoon. I can now hear the muffled voices of the TV as they
float up the stairs and into the hallway. The man remains there, just on
the other side of the stairs. All I see is the crooked shadow, but I know.
Watching his shadow almost drives me to sleep - slow, plodding sleep
that creeps gradually into my room with soft feet and a gentle touch. I've
learned tricks though. I pinch my arms and legs, snatch a bit of extra
skin and squeeze hard between forefinger and thumb. This helps fight
the sleep. In the early morning light, I often study the purple blooms
where I pinched too hard. Sometimes I show bruises, but the man is
always gone by the morning.
Tonight the TV mumbles fade before I pinch or sleep, and I hear my
father tromp into the kitchen again. His boots move toward the stairs
now, just at the bottom, and the light snaps on, brightening the stairwell
and hallway. The man in the hallway is hidden, a dissolving shadow in
the light. The stairs groan under my father's weight, old wood rubbing
together, and I hear him stumble and curse. I can almost smell the stale
alcohol on his breath. I'm sweating still, even with my head out of the
cocoon small beads form on my forehead. I try to lift up, climb out of the
bed, but the heavy comforter resists, and I'm weak from waiting. The
creaking sound edges up the stairs, and the man in the hallway waits. I
have to warn my dad.
The sounds merge - my pounding blood, the heavy steps, and the breath
of the man in the hallway - and I close my eyes, squeezing them so tight I
feel it in my teeth; I break and yell, "Dad!"
I hear a quick sound, a muffled thumping on the stairs followed by the
heavy, dull crash at the bottom. I draw into the cocoon again before I
open my eyes and wait for my panting to subside. Slowly, cautiously, I
peer out again to see the light in the hallway and no hint of the man -
either hiding or gone.
When my mother comes home she struggles against Dad's body,
crooked and limp as it blocks the front door at the base of the stairs. I
don't see her because I am here, in my bed, but I can hear the door
unlock, and the soft pounding of wood against his body, her gasp and
sudden tears. Then the dialing of a phone, the quick sharp words, more
tears and the sound of the ambulance. I roll over, away from the open
doorway and the hall - still bright after Dad turned on the light - and wait.
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