I BARELY BREATHED

I BARELY BREATHED

my breath made too much noise

**

My husband and I bought the little ranch house in the late 1960s. With three bedrooms, a decent sized living room, a kitchen that could fit one person, and a small dining room, I thought it was perfect, especially since it had a large, fenced in yard. Yes, it was perfect – a perfect place where my little boys and their dog, Soldier could play.

There were a few instances that puzzled me, but I always attributed them to my young sons. Ken was five and Jim was four and while they were good boys, they were also full of mischief. For instance, for some reason, Ken loved my hairbrush. All too often, I’d find him sneaking into my room and running out with my brush in his little hand and a “oops, caught me” look on his face.

Many times, one of them, after using the bathroom, would leave the faucet running – or so I thought. I always admonished them for it only to have them just as quickly deny doing it. After a while, it stopped. I just thought they got tired of that little antic.

They knew my bedroom was off limits unless I was in there. Yet, things would go missing. Just small things, nothing of value, but whatever it was, would be gone: things like, one earring (costume jewelry, no value), a scarf, a winter hat, a pen that I usually kept with a notepad on my nightstand. Just weird and silly things, yet they went missing.

Again, in the beginning, to my shame and embarrassment, I would accuse my sons.

Fast forward three years: someone planted a little seed in my husband’s brain that made him decide he wanted to be free. That is, free from me, our sons, the responsibility of the house – the entire family scene. I didn’t argue; I let him go.

Being on my own, the years seemed to fly by. My boys were growing up too fast for my liking but at the same time, they were much more helpful around the house.

Odd things still happened but we just thought that one of us became distracted and we let it go.

Then one day ….

I knew the laundry had to be done. Yet, as usual, I hesitated. Just the thought of walking down those cellar steps had the hairs on my arms standing up on edge. Well, I thought to myself, the clothes won’t wash themselves and the boys needed clean clothes for school.

Picking up the laundry basket, I quietly opened the door that led to those awful wooden steps.

Two steps down, I stopped, held my breath, and listened. So far, so good. Fearful the next few steps might begin to creak, I stepped off to the side, as close to the wall as possible. Another two down. Four to go!

Why were the washing machines located in the cellars? I vowed in my next life, if I had one, that my washer would be on the first floor, maybe – hopefully in its own laundry room with a dryer! Okay, so I wished big. But I still had four steps to go.

I pushed my back so hard against the wall, I was surprised the cement blocks didn’t crack but, I finally reached the floor.

Still having my back hug the wall, I side-stepped the ten feet until I reached the small room where my washer sat. I peeked inside. My heart pounded as I reached in to turn on the switch for the overhead light.

Again, so far, so good.

Three feet inside the room, I placed the laundry basket on the small table and began placing the soiled closed in the machine.

A chill filled the room that wasn’t normal. It was so unnormal that I saw my breath as I exhaled. Doing my best not to shiver with the cold, I kept my breath as shallow as possible.

After I turned on the washing machine, turning and making my way back up those hideous steps was almost mind-numbing.

Placing my hands on the washing machine, slightly bending, I took in a deep breath, and tried to decide, “Do I back out? Do I turn and run?”

I knew if I walked backwards that I’d probably trip as soon as my foot met the bottom step. However, turning and facing what I felt might be behind me caused me to hesitate.

Having made my decision, I was about to turn and run when I felt something extremely cold pressing on my back.

Who was there? Or maybe the more accurate question was, WHAT was there?

I felt the color drain from my face even though I knew sweat was pouring out of me.

Not knowing what else to do, I spoke, but in a whisper that was barely audible. “The laundry needed to be done. The boys needed clean clothes. I need to get back upstairs and give them breakfast.” I tried to hide the fear that had me almost paralyzed.

Without thinking about myself, thinking only of my boys, I quickly turned and ran the few steps to the stairs, and practically flew up that old, scary staircase. With my body shaking, I closed the door and leaning against it, slumped to the floor, where I stayed until my body relaxed.

As soon as I was more composed, I walked to my son’s bedrooms and told them that breakfast would be on the table in twenty minutes.

When my boys walked through the kitchen to the small dining room, they asked one question:

“Mom, why is Soldier growling at the cellar door?”