The Door to Dawn

I am covered by bloody scratches and mud by the time I reach home. I slam through the screen door into the kitchen. Heaving deep breathes, I call out, “Mom! Mom!” The house is silent and dark with the setting sun. My voice echoes. A sinking reality seeps in. The pressure cooker pot—split open—soaks in a froth of bubbles in the sink. The plates on the dining table are gone. They lay shattered below a wall across the room. The mystery meat is a lump on the floor. Above it a blood red splatter of sauce trails down the wall. Dad’s home.

The woman doesn’t matter now. I shut down. I am preprogramed for this. Broom and dustpan. Windex and paper towels. Mop and bucket.

When the mess is gone, I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pour a glass of milk. I stare at a dull stain left by the splatter on the wall. I eat my meal.

I can’t eat. I need to check on mom, but I have to slip past dad. I creep down the hall past the living room.

“Eric?”

I had been so afraid to enter the house in the woods, but I foolishly forget that monsters don’t have to hide in spooky houses or under beds. They can sit in plain sight, waiting to attack.

I turn. From behind I see the corner of dad’s face. A cigarette hangs from his lips. A trail of smoke drifts above his head. Thick reading eyeglasses are perched on the edge of his nose. He reads a paperback novel, probably Zane Gray. Listens on the stereo to Tijuana Brass. His gnarled hand reaches down to a Lay-Z-Boy armrest and grasps a half empty lowball glass, amber with scotch. White cubes of half-melted ice clink against each other. The hand rises and disappears. Rises again. I cover my ears. The next sound is a sound I don’t want to hear, but I can’t prevent it. A slurp, a smack, and a clattering tumble of the ice. The glass is empty. I make my move down the hall, not answering.

I knock softly on my parents’ door. No answer. Opening the door barely a crack, a shaft of light from the hallway reveals Mom lying on the bed in the dark room, curled up in a fetal position. Tangled hair covers her face.

“Mom, are you all right?”

“Not now,” she says, muffled by her pillow. I crawl into the bed next to her and brush the hairs from her face.

“I’m sorry,” I say, fighting back tears. There’s no point. There is no comfort I can provide, but I stay.