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PORTER'S HOUSE

 

The night is black, starless. Staring straight above me I realize it is not starless at all. It's full of twinkling, magical stars, planets, asteroids, maybe even Aliens. Clouds have gathered, hunched over each other and are ready to burst, let loose a deluge before morning. I'm chilly, feel a draft and follow it to the cellar door, turn the cold knob. The back door is open, barely open, but the cold air hits my ankles like a snowstorm. Before I even think how this could have happened, I slam the door so hard the window rattles. Loudly I call out, 'Who's in here? Who? Come out!' I add, 'You can't hide long. I'll find you.'

 

Cartons of junk are piled in corners, on the side of the wash tubs. Most are filled with memories, memories I've tried and tried to leave outside for the trashmen, but renege as I hear the truck coming down the alley. I can't move them. They feel cemented to the floor–to my heart. And they remain in their own private graveyard.

 

The 100 watt light bulb over the stairway blinks, fizzles and goes dark. I have no matches or flashlight handy. Barely enough kitchen light seeps under the cellar door. I step warily, hold onto the railing, and sense someone behind me. Like a bolt of lightning I push the door wide open, turn the cheap, cheeesy  key in the lock. There is silence. No footsteps retreat to the cellar. There's no tap on the door.

 

But there is a mild baffling smell. It creeps towards me, envelopes me, goes under my finger nails. I open the fridge and all is normal I check to be sure I have taken the garbage out, put the lid on tight. Casey, my next door neighbor, a growling pit bull who hates me, leaves his bone on the grass and comes yowling at me. As usual he is stopped by his owner's electric fence and slinks back to his house.

 

As the odor gets stronger I have to admit to myself that I am  frightened, and reluctantly go downstairs and slug down a semi-hefty shot of Jack Daniels, straight. It takes affect quickly. Returning to my bedroom, I hum a silly, childish song,  'Mary had a little lamb, etc. etc.–and I hear her little lamb–or something soft- a whirling gray diaphanous something gives me chills as it wraps around me, speaks.

 

'Mr. Marcus. I am the soul of this house, this house that I built. It was called Porter's House way back in 1950. I and my wife were so happy here.' His voice reeks with emotion. 'You, have not taken good care of it. Your memories fill the basement and have made no room for mine.
The angels finally let me come down to beg you to finally do what you have wanted to do for 40 years. MOVE. Take your memories with you.

 

You and I won't meet again, unless, unless? And he disappears.

 

First thing in the morning I check the basement, find the cellar door closed tightly. My memory cartons are stacked high near the exit door. In the distance the banging of trash cans being emptied into the big green truck push me, force me to start giving Mr. Porterhouse his house back.

 

Surely, we both have found closure.