11
Carlie dropped the last two crates on the living room floor and bent over in sheer exhaustion. With both hands on her knees, she stood in the crowded room panting and wheezing like an old dog.
The chili cooking in the kitchen smelled delicious, but she couldn’t stop to eat—not yet.
The thought of moving the heavy crates one more time was daunting to the point where she almost started crying.
Her arms were weak and her legs were still quivering from carrying them up the stairs, across the yard, and into the house—and now she had to move them again. But where? she wondered. Where the hell could she possibly hide all these boxes so Jon wouldn’t find them?
Walking across the living room, she stopped in front of the grandfather clock. She couldn’t believe her eyes; the clock showed that it was only 12:45. Jon wouldn’t be home for at least another two hours. Looking at the crates scattered across the living room floor, she wondered how she had accomplished as much as she had in just a little over an hour.
She had a few extra minutes now; she had to take a break. Settling into Jon’s overstuffed chair, Carlie lifted her sore and swollen feet onto the ottoman and rested her head against the back. Closing her eyes, she fell asleep almost immediately.
She opened her eyes in the darkness of the dank, foul-smelling cellar. She could barely breathe from the beating inflicted upon her. The tip of his massive work boot crashing repeatedly into her side had broken at least two ribs just below her left breast. She had a deep gash in the back of her head and a mind-numbing concussion.
The pain in her head and side was excruciating, but she was no longer crying. Her feelings of abandonment and desolation gave way to anger. Her anger—as with any pre-adolescent child—manifested as threats. They’ll be sorry. When I’m old enough and big enough, I’ll kill them all for what they’ve done to me.
When Carlie did finally open her eyes, she was back in her own living room, safe in Jon’s chair. The grandfather clock had just finished its four smaller chimes and was beginning its deep, resonant bongs. Carlie sat and listened to the clock’s striker as it reverberated three times against the walls of the room.
The sound of Jon’s car on the gravel drive brought her straight up in the chair. In a panic, she looked around at the mess that she had left on the living room floor. But it wasn’t there.
Looking at the empty floor, her immediate fear was that she had dreamed it all. There was no cellar. There were no crates. Then she saw them, in the far corner against the staircasing wall, neatly stacked in rows of five boxes wide and three boxes high.
The back door to the kitchen opened, and Jon shouted into the empty room. “Carlie, I’m home.”
“I’m in here, Jon.”
Jon laid his briefcase on the counter and crossed the kitchen toward the sound of Carlie’s voice. He was halfway across the kitchen when Carlie entered from the living room. With a warm smile, she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a huge, powerful hug.
She had no alternative now; she had to show him the crates—and hope for the best. “I’m so glad to see you. I’m really happy that you’re home.”
“Uh … I am too?”
“I have so much to show you.”
“Does it by chance have anything to do with that gaping hole in our backyard?”
Taking him by the arm, she pulled Jon into the living room and pointed toward the stack of boxes against the far wall. Leaving him in the center of the room, Carlie walked over and pulled a leather-bound book out of one of the crates. Opening it, she turned toward her husband.
“Look, Jon. See what I found today?”
His eyes widened, and in a soft whisper he said, “Wow! What the hell is all of this?”
“They’re journals—and there are hundreds of them.”
“What exactly do you mean by journals?”
“You know—journals—they’re like diaries. This is what people did before the advent of cable television.”
“Okay. … Where did all these journals come from?”
“The storm cellar.”
“I didn’t know we had a storm cellar.”
The events of Carlie’s dreams from that afternoon and the night before passed through her mind just long enough to make her feel guilty when she answered, “I didn’t either. I found it marked on the plot maps Paul Jacobson gave us.”
“Then am I correct in assuming that the gaping hole in our yard is the entrance to this cellar?”
“Yep.”
“Great. Is there any possible way to cover it up, or do I have to worry about breaking my neck?”