The Door to Dawn

My heart leaps at the thought of the woman at the house waiting for me. I check my alarm clock: 7:00 am. I press my ear up against my bedroom door and listen. I am waiting for the monster in the hall to pass. It’s not Frankenstein’s monster. Not the Wolf Man. Not the Creature from the Black Lagoon. This is my monster. Not of my making, but the monster of dreams. It’s black and dead with fangs and tentacles. It lives off of scared little boys like me. It grunts and groans. The hall shakes and rattles as if from a supernatural force. The doorframe vibrates. I hold the doorknob tight—there is a chance it may try to slip in. A hysterical voice chants in my head. “Whatever you do, don’t open the door!” It passes, and I wait for the muffled sounds of the monster greeting my mother.

“What’s for breakfast?” my dad says.

After so many lessons are learned it’s possible for a ritual to come to life, to find its way into the mundanity of everyday living. Mom begins her wifely duties. I hear her cycle through the motions of making breakfast. She is robot mom. Bacon sizzles—crunchy, not soft. Eggs cracks—over easy, not sunny up. Crisp toast—do not burn. A splash of orange juice in a glass—no pulp. I’ve seen this cycle repeated to perfection. These are tiny wars my mother has lost. I was there in the trenches when they were fought. Am I an innocent bystander? I accept every action, as my father does—as normal. Does she do this out of love? When she hands me my lunch bag and licks the tips of her fingers to wipe the hair back from my eyes? Does she do this out of love when she kisses my cheek and whispers she loves me?

I slip across the hall and open the door to their bedroom. This is an R-rated room. Children under the age of 18 must be accompanied by an adult. I am never allowed in this room alone. But, little do they know, I know all its mysteries. I know what’s in the dresser drawers. I know what’s under the bed. I know what’s in the closet. I know where the rubbers are: a cigar box buried in my dad’s underwear drawer. I know where he keeps his girly magazine stash: an old leather briefcase in the back of the closet. And most secret of all, I know where the gun is. Hidden in an old shoebox, wrapped in a white cloth, it is black and shiny and loaded. My hands shake when I touch it. In the dresser mirror I am a gunslinger, a soldier, a cop. Mostly, I just hold the gun and think.

I put it away. I feel guilty.

She’s waiting for me.

I open the door to my mom’s closet and enter a department store. Every dress that hangs is a pain and misery for me. I remember every one of those trips well, but one stands out more than the others.

“Can we go now!” I had stomped.

“Not just yet. Mommy’s looking for something special.”

And look she did. On and on, aisle after aisle. And the worst humiliation of all—holding her purse while she went into the dressing room. Boys should be given painkillers at the doors of department stores.

Eventually mom found her special dress. She picked it knowing Dad would never allow it.

“It’s beautiful. Don’t you agree?”

I did. Too beautiful for him.

The dress changed mom. A rainbow of colors, it made her laugh at herself reflected in the three-way mirror.

“He must never know. I’ll wear it when he’s out of town. It’ll be just you and me going out to dinner. You’ll dress up too.”

In each of the three mirrors, I watched her smile three different smiles.

Trusting instinct or luck, Mom and I prepare for unforeseen consequences. I pick this dress because I know she will never say anything if it disappears. Maybe he found it, threw it away, and he let her off the hook this time.

I wrap the dress up into a ball and stuff it in my school bag. I am left holding the wire hanger. Guilt explodes like a firecracker in my brain. I imagine myself back in the woods, back at the house, and my mother, not the woman, is lying on the floor. I’m standing in the doorway. Dad stands over her gripping a wire coat hanger. Mom’s bare back is streaked red. He turns and slams the door in my face.

“I’m sorry,” I say to no one.