Excerpt: “The House Had Many Small Doorways”

(Excerpt from The House Had Many Small Doorways [working title])

The house had many small doorways, hidden in closets and behind furniture, sealed shut with yellowing paint and dust. On idle, rainy weekends when the door to the backyard was barred and the prerecorded children’s shows had grown dull, Angie would crawl to the back of her father’s closet, behind the paisley ties and dark suits, and would quietly shift the shoe rack out of her way, careful not to leave fingerprints on the shiny black leather, evidence of her trespass. Nestled there, between wall and rack, she would pick at the soft paint, peering into the dark cracks her probing fingers revealed. Occasionally her parents caught her and scolded her for playing with her father’s belongings (though she had only shifted them out of her way), telling her that the only thing behind the doors were plumbing and wires, and would she please stop peeling the paint?

Angie knew there must be more to the doors, though — she had seen the plumber and the electrician, and both were too large to fit their arms into such a small space, much less their shoulders and great bellies. She had smelled the damp musk rising from the dark cracks of one door, warm spice from another, and had mapped out in her mind the many captive universes. Behind one might lie a strange other-house similar to her own but more sinister, where her other-parents might have claws instead of hands and the television might deliver news of giants and faeries warring in distant fantastic countries rather than house fires or terrorist threats. She imagined another door might conceal a dripping stone passageway lined with guttering torches, winding down and around through the walls of the house to an ancient forgotten torture chamber where living skeletons still rattled and shrieked on their racks. After all, the house was at least a hundred years old, perhaps even a hundred and twenty, and that was very old indeed.

The house had many doors, each with its own characteristic curiosities. Angie even had one in her bedroom closet, but of all the doors it seemed the most ordinary, and it was no struggle to believe that behind it were only pipes and wires. She suspected that was why her parents always sent her to her room when she misbehaved rather than to the guest bedroom or their own room, both of which were generally less interesting than her own room with all of her toys and books. She had thought of running away many times when she was grounded and feeling unloved and persecuted, but the only places she could think of were those other-worlds behind the doors, and somehow she could never bring herself to leave her house and abandon the possibility that one day she might open them.

Angie had not tried to open the doors, not really, though she had ample opportunity. Sitting in her father’s closet, surrounded by the smell of dust and leather, she had often considered it, but at the last moment she was always struck with a sudden terror, and contented herself with peeling just a little more paint, pressing her eye to the crack and squinting just a little more intently, hoping to divine where she might end up should she pull the little button handle.

One day I’ll open it, she would tell herself as she replaced the shoe rack and slipped quietly out of her parents’ room into the hall. Some day, when I’m braver. Because who would build such small doors except to invite small, brave girls to explore them?

~*~*~*~

Sometimes, “some day” never comes, and those who are denied the day they most desired tend to grow old and bitter.

Sometimes, “some day” comes and goes, and those who are too frightened to take their chance regret it their whole life.

And sometimes, “some day” arrives and bowls us over and sweeps us up and forces us into terrible and wonderful situations we could have never imagined, that we would never have wished upon our worst enemy or dearest friend.

For people like this, “some day” will seem like the longest day of their life.

~*~*~*~

But days as important as “some day” rarely arrive without premonition. Often there is a trigger for their arrival, and in Angie’s case, her “some day” was brought on by the arrival of an uncle.

He appeared on their doorstep on a sultry Sunday afternoon in June. Angie and her parents had just finished cleaning up after a late brunch; her mother was listening to her headphones and singing off-key as she gathered her gloves and hand shovel from the laundry room in preparation for some gardening; her father was in the kitchen, watching the news and sneaking bits of bacon and the leftover crusts of French toast to their two Labrador retrievers while his wife was distracted; and Angie was stretched out on the couch, luxuriating in her full belly and watching a bad kung fu movie on TV.

The doorbell rang. After a good long minute, having received no response, it rang again.

The dogs did not know how to react, as the family and their visitors always came in through the kitchen door, which had no doorbell, and as such they had never heard that particular noise — besides, there were more important considerations, such as the rich scent of grease and sticky syrup from the dishes on the sink. So they wagged and whined and lifted their paws in supplication, content to ignore the bell.

Angie’s father had the habit of arguing with the TV, and when the bell rang a third time, he was too involved with the eloquent point he was making to hear anything but his own voice, interrupting himself only to shush the dogs and feed them another treat whenever they whined.

Meanwhile, Angie’s mother had reached the really good part of Bohemian Rhapsody and was bobbing her head and wailing like a cat, trying to sing along with all five voices in the chorus at once; she was in no state to notice any doorbells, even when it rang for the fourth time.

And so, when the doorbell chimed the fifth time, it was Angie who groaned and rolled to her feet and went to answer it with a good deal of trepidation — after all, the only people who came to the front door were salesmen and people with religious pamphlets, and someone who was so persistent about bothering a household clearly intent on pretending not to be home was not likely to be welcome.

The person waiting on the porch was a small man, only a few inches over five feet and not much taller than Angie herself, but his confident bearing made him seem a bit larger than he actually was. He held himself like a man of consequence, and though his black suit was a bit frayed and far too heavy for the season, and his black leather suitcase was just the slightest bit scuffed, it was not hard to believe that he once was someone important. His aristocratic features were sharp and delicate, with prominent cheekbones and a small pointed nose, and beneath a fine mop of straw colored hair were the most fantastic eyes she had ever seen, a warm shade of green moss that reminded her of deep hidden glens, of secret forest hideaways. Angie guessed that he was somewhere in his forties, maybe ten or fifteen years older than her mother, though she wasn’t much good at judging an adult’s age.

“Sandy!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide and beaming. “Darling! Why, you haven’t changed a bit!”

Angie blinked at him, her mouth half open. Sandra was her mother’s name, and while Angie looked a good deal like her mother had at thirteen — a full head of wavy auburn hair, small pointed nose, and just a tiny bit round with a layer of baby fat, at least compared to some of her beanpole classmates — she couldn’t believe someone would actually confuse them.

The shout had gotten the attention of the dogs, however, and before she could respond they rushed from the kitchen, barking and howling. The man’s green eyes widened in alarm and he retreated with such haste that he tumbled off the porch steps to land in a small bush. The labs tried to shoot past Angie, but she grabbed their collars just in time, digging her heels into the doorframe with all her might to keep them from dragging her out. The man continued to sit in the bush motionless and terrified until Angie’s father appeared and decided the futile tug-of-war by grabbing the collars himself and hauling the dogs back with a grunt. By the time he had sequestered them in his office and returned, the man had managed to right himself and rid his hair and suit of some of the leaves, though the deep shade of red he had turned remained as a scale of his embarrassment. He coughed, lightly; Angie’s father stared at him, one eyebrow raised, as if suggesting that the man better have a good excuse to have caused so much commotion.

“Ah, I am… I am Sandy’s cousin,” he nodded at Angie. “Alzara Getz. And I’ve come for, ah, a visit.” He stared at his feet, looking positively miserable. Clearly this was not the grandiose introduction he’d envisioned.

“Alzara, you say?” Angie’s father repeated, turning the name slowly in his mouth as if he had just swallowed something a bit unpleasant and was trying to scrub the aftertaste off his tongue. He stared at the man for another few moments, clenching and unclenching his jaw, before turning away to shout. “SANDRA! SOMEONE’S AT THE DOOR FOR YOU! SAYS HE’S YOUR COUSIN!”

“Cousin?” Angie’s mother popped her head into the foyer, her headphones now dangling around her neck; clearly the dogs had disturbed her music too. She, too, stared at the man, squinting her eyes. “Al? Is that you?”

A smile broke over the man’s face as he lifted his head. He moved inside past Angie and her father, a bit rough in his enthusiasm, and repeated the same gesture he had greeted Angie with, opening his arms wide and roaring, “Sandy!” as if he expected Angie’s mother to drop the hand shovel and shears in her arms and run to him. Instead, she remained in the dining room, an uncertain smile on her face. The dogs resumed their howling, and for the second time the moment of reunion proved a bit anticlimactic.

“Al, how are you? I haven’t seen you since… well, I suppose it’s been about thirty years now, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, I saw you last at dear Aunt May’s funeral, I believe,” he beamed, lowering his arms.

Angie saw her mother’s cheek twitch in a strange way that she couldn’t quite interpret. She had heard of Aunt May before, her mother’s favorite aunt as a child, but she had never seen her with such a cold expression when mentioning her. With a shake, Angie’s mother seemed to remember herself and stepped forward, shifting her gardening tools to one arm so that she could rest a hand on Al’s shoulder and turn him to face Angie. “Al, this is my husband Mike and my daughter. Angie, this is my cousin Al. He’s my second cousin by marriage, so that would make him your third–”

“Oh, call me Uncle Al, my dear!” Al boomed, seeming to have completely forgotten his earlier confusion. “It’s so much easier than that third cousin nonsense. A pleasure to meet you both, truly a pleasure!”

Angie returned his enthusiasm with a polite nod, but was still too baffled to be very friendly. She saw the strange expression cross her mother’s face again as she stared at Al and murmured, “Yes. Uncle. That’s good enough, I suppose…”

Angie’s father shook the hand Al offered before leaning into her mother to say, “He said he’s here for a ‘visit.’”

Angie’s mother looked startled for a moment. It seemed to Angie that she was about to snarl something rude, but instead she pursed her lips and said. “Well, it’s such a beautiful day! Mike, why don’t you make us some drinks, and we’ll go out on the patio and talk.”

While Angie’s father was asking Al what he would take, her mother turned to her and said, “Angie, would you please take the dogs upstairs and keep them entertained while we talk to your uncle Al? It won’t take too long… I hope.”

Angie wanted to argue, but her mother gave her “the look” and there was nothing she could say. So once the adults had gotten their drinks and gone outside, she took two rawhide bones from the kitchen and used them to tempt the dogs up to her room, a slow process as they kept turning towards the unknown voice out back and she had to call their names and say the enticing word “chewies!” several times before they reached the second floor…

.

.

.

.

“The House Had Many Small Doorways” and other works (c) 2006-8, Barbara Steele. All rights reserved.