chapter 1 | house no. 13

May 15, 2008

Buddy is barking.

The heat of the day has changed to cold rain, and Buddy is barking at the door.

There is a man at the door.

I won’t see him. He won’t be there if I don’t look.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t.

Oh, God! Don’t look at him!

The doorbell is ringing. I can see a shadow waiting outside the door. Buddy is barking, and I see the man standing there in the dark, cold rain. I know the man. I know that I don’t want that man to come in. There are more men behind him, looking from behind and yet not looking—not wanting to see me standing here. The man looks at me and then looks down. His face is drawn and wet. I see the look on his face.

Don’t look.

I see that he doesn’t want to be here. The rain is hitting the kitchen window and the man is standing there, wet, asking to come in. I know he doesn’t want to come in. Somewhere, within me the ache is beginning. The ache that I don’t want to feel.

“No.”

I will not open that door. Buddy barks again.

“Mrs. Michaels?” The wind tries to steal his voice away, like it tries to steal his hat. I hear it even though I don’t want to.

“No.” I whisper to the wind.

“Mrs. Michaels, may I come in?” He is trying to speak kindly. What that man has to say is not kind. I will not let him in.

Buddy barks once more and then whines expectantly. The man has a kind voice.

The man has a uniform on. His medals shine in the rain. There are other uniformed men behind him. The man is John’s boss.

“Mrs. Michaels?”

My feet are walking toward the door. Each step is like stepping on broken glass. Slowly and painfully I walk toward the man at the door. My mind whispers—don’t let him in! I reach for the lock as Buddy whines beside me. I won’t look at this man . . . but my eyes see without wanting to look. I can see a war on his face. I can see his face fighting for control. I know he is looking for the words to say what he doesn’t want to say. I know that he is there to tell me what I don’t want to hear. A hand that can’t be mine reaches for the handle. My face is wooden. I won’t let them in.

But I do.

The man comes in, and three more behind him. The wind, spiteful and wicked, pushes them through the door. They are dripping and dark. Their uniforms smell of wet wool, and their shiny shoes are flecked with mud. Buddy wags his tail but stays beside me. He knows that something is not right. The men are not dangerous, but neither are they safe as they stand there, dripping on the tiles, looking at me with pain and compassion. I don’t want them to be here. Please go away!

“Mrs. Michaels, may we come in and sit down?” Says John’s dripping boss.

I look at him. I feel the war he feels. I do not want you to come in and sit down, I think. Go away. Scram! Leave!

I hear my voice say yes.

The man takes off his wet hat and wet coat. We stand there awkwardly as he looks for somewhere to put it, and the wet wool drips on the floor. “May I put my coat in the closet?” He asks.

I hear my voice say yes again. My mind screams No!

Somehow the men get their wet, dripping clothes into my quiet, dry closet. They slip their shoes off and leave them on the mat. The hot, accusing sun from this morning has gone, and now rain pelts the window, fighting to get in. Buddy stays by my side. My hand reaches down to touch his warm golden fur. A protective growl vibrates deep within the warmth. I walk into our living room. A magazine sits on the couch. My hand woodenly picks it up and places it on the coffee table. I sit without thinking, and the man sits across from me. The other men look around and, finding nowhere to sit, they stand.

John’s Boss clears his throat. “Mrs. Michaels . . . Ellen . . . May I call you Ellen?”

No you may not call me Ellen. Please don’t call me Ellen. Go away!

The voice that is not mine says yes.

“Ellen, I’m afraid I am the bearer of some bad news.”

Don’t say it. Don’t.

I will my eyes to look at him. I will them to harden. I will not let this man take away my dignity. I will not let my eyes betray me. I look into his eyes, and I can see his eyes begging to make this easy. His eyes are asking me to do what I cannot. I know what he is going to say; it will not be easy. Go away, John’s boss.

“Ellen, do you remember who I am?” He asks awkwardly. “My name is Evan Connors. I work with John.”

You don’t work with John, I think. John works for you. John does what you tell him to do. This will not be easy for you, John’s boss. My hard eyes stare back at him.

“This is Colonel Joe McMann, Reverend Don Lawrence, and Major Bob Saunders. Col McMann is the Base Commander, Reverend Lawrence is the Base Chaplain, and Major Saunders works with John . . . with me.” More awkwardness. Bob Saunders is one of John’s best friends. Of course I know him. I look briefly at Bob. His eyes are strained and red. I look away from his eyes. The ache threatens to take me away. No!

“Ellen . . . there’s been an accident.”

No! No, no, NO!

Go away, John’s boss!

I look at the carpet, away from his eyes. Don’t say it. Don’t! The rain hits the windows. Bob’s feet are across from me. His socks are wet on the toes. I see him shift his weight on the carpet—left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

My lips press together in a fight for control. Oh, God. I know what John’s boss is going to say, and I won’t let him say it. I want this man to hurt for what he is going to say. My mind searches for a way to get away from this man’s words.

“Is . . . he . . . alive?” My voice is dead, robotic. “Is John alive?” I look at this man’s face, forcing him to say it.

“Ellen . . .” I can see how uncomfortable he is. His ears are red, and a bead of sweat—or is it rain?—sits on his forehead. Let him be uncomfortable. Every muscle in my body is fighting for control. My hands are clenched, the fingernails biting into my palms.

“Is . . . ” The rain is pounding on the window behind me. “He . . .” This cannot possibly be happening. “. . . Alive?” I will not let this man win.

I look up at his face and the question dissolves. I know.

“I’m sorry.”

The ache swallows me. My life is gone.