Scott Cheshire - High as the Horses' Bridles

There was a shallow pool of browning water in the tub and a floating, speckled mass of bug. Dead flecks of fly and mosquito and gnat made a dark freckling shadow on the surface. A gauzy light came in through the clouded glass. No shower curtain or door, and a mass of moist towels lay on the floor. I opened the window, pulled away the drain stopper, and the water gurgled in a spinning fall. I turned on the light.

In the linen closet, I found sheets and pillowcases, washcloths and bath towels squarely folded and placed in flush columns on the wallpapered shelves. I was afraid to look at the toilet, but it was actually in pretty good shape. I turned on the shower and twisted the spray nozzle toward the wall so I wouldn’t make too much of a mess. I gathered all the towels into one damp sop, stuffed them into a yellow pillowcase. The shower ran rivery lines along the grout between the tiles, and washed away what bug waste it could. The shower still running, I stepped back into the hall.

The second door was mine, or used to be mine, and this seemed way too easy, entering the room that used to be my room. I opened the door and saw light sluicing in ribbons through the louvered blinds and painting the wall with pale stripes. I saw the bedspread neatly tucked under the mattress, and I was sure this had to be my handiwork from twenty years prior. Impossible. I saw the empty closet. Clear tape in ripped fragments stuck to the walls and to the ghosts of Star Wars posters. Water bugs lay flat on their backs at the foot of a bed leg. A sticky mix of dust and oils skimmed the carpet like a hairpiece. I went back into the hall.

The next room was a large walk-in closet. And I often imagined, as a kid, that a demon lived among the board games on the highest shelf, and it could fit a small child in its mouth. This probably came from secretly watching Poltergeist, a definite no-no in the Laudermilk home, and from the subsequent nightmares of sinister closets opening up like demonic maws. I remembered telling my mother about the closet and she scolded me, said that was what I got for watching devil movies. She left me in the closet until I cried out for her. Then she came in, and we stood there in the dark holding hands. She said anytime you’re scared call on me, or your Heavenly Father, and nothing bad can happen.

My parents’ room was next, and I half expected to find my mother in pajamas stretched out on the comforter. The door was sticking. The trick was to lift slightly, turn the knob, and push.

The room was dark, and a hot smother of air came pouring out. The bed was made, and a thin webbing of dust crawled the walls like ivy. The curtains were drawn. I saw the closet was full of clothing, mostly my mother’s. There were also garbage bags on the floor, stuffed with what appeared to be her things. I bent down and found a yellow jacket. I put the jacket on a hanger, and hung it from the back of the door. I tried to imagine my mother, her arms filling the sleeves, her head. I took the jacket from the hanger, smelled it, and my stomach reeled. Stale and oppressive, it stank of age, of years and days and minutes of sloughing skin.

I flipped the light switch.

The quilted surface was scattered with short stacks of papers and more spiral notebooks. Barely noticeable at first, but they were in a sort of order, separate and organized. A pile of handwritten pages, scrawlings, and drawings. There were dated pages, like journal entries, and I recognized the uncanny logic and language of dreams. These were my father’s dreams. He was writing out his nightly visions. Flying, teeth falling out, being swept from a hilltop by God’s great palm, and taking heavenly tours. There were birth certificates and death certificates. Photo albums, and a pile of loose photos. I quickly flipped through the pictures. They were mostly old, ancient even, brown-and-whites, black-and-whites. There was the family photo album, but also albums I’d never seen before, pictures of people I didn’t recognize. I saw one of two men standing in front of a Spanish-style house, I figured southern California. They stood beside a long and beautiful car, like a Rolls-Royce, their feet on the running board. They hooked their thumbs back, making like two lucky hitchhikers. On the back was a handwritten note, “C. Russell and O. Laudermilk, Beth Sarim, San Diego, 1930.” The wooden cross in the kitchen. Beth Sarim. It seemed O. Laudermilk was the man at right in the photo, a youngish man about my age, his features partly blocked by the slanted brim of a dapper hat. Was this my grandfather? I’d never seen the photo before in my life.

I took the family album and the strange Laudermilk photo into the hall and set them on the floor by the bathroom door. I washed the wall and the tub. Stepping into the shower, I put my face in the cold rush of water. The spray and the water needling on my skin, I thought of rain, how different and dirty a falling rain on my body would feel. A barbed gray headache was starting.

Amad answered in just two rings.

“A big hello, my Josie! You did not call me yesterday. You forgot. What happened?”

“I miss you,” I said. “Believe it or not.”

“Where are you? You are in New York?”

“I’m standing here completely naked in my father’s bathroom, right out of the shower.”

Amad bit into what sounded like an apple. “The open-air lingam.”

“You’re eating an apple.”

“I am.”

“What’s an open-air what?”

“You right now are an open-air lingam.”

“My skinny business in the open air.”

“Exactly. Like a stalagmite.” Another bite. “Or stalactite, depending on your good mood, or bad mood. How long will you be staying?”

“Very nice,” I said.

“So short-tempered.”

“What’s the weather like out there?” I poked through the linen closet and picked a clean white towel.

“Perfect. Like every day in California. My least favorite thing about this place, no bad days.”

“How’s business?” I said.

“What business?”

“Very funny.”

“Very bad.”

“I’ll be back soon, and we’ll have that dinner. I promise.”

“My wife is not so impatient, but she wants to know what are we doing now. And I’m not sure what to tell her.”

“Tell her the storeroom is glorious.”

“How is your father?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean? He says he’s fine, and he’s clearly not. I’m not sure of my role here. The man looks like he’s been hiding away in the hills.”

“It can be very nice in the hills.”

“Not what I mean.” I wiped at the mirror, clearing away the steam. “He says he’s fine.”

“I spent summers as a boy in the Zamuri hills, took my bath in the river. Wore only a light wrap at the waist. Turban. It was very pleasant.”

I dried myself with the towel, cell phone wedged at my bent neck. “Anyway. He’s fine, and he’s not fine. I’m fine. Are you fine without me?”

“Tip-top.” I heard something downstairs, Dad walking around; it made me think of a ghost and I wondered if people who believed in ghosts always believed in ghosts, or was it just something you felt one day and so you started believing.

I asked him, “What are you looking at right now, exactly?”

“A completely empty store.”

“Numbskull. Go outside. What do you see?”

“Hold on. Wait. I’m walking. I’m going outside as we speak and, like I said, it’s a beautiful day. Big deal. The pretty blond girl on her skateboard. Seagulls on the bench picking at a muffin.”

“You need anything at all, you call me. I gotta go and dry my godly member. I’ll call you.”

“Be praiseworthy, Josie.”