wooden steps in the faint shaft of light from the mudroom above.
She reached the floor, found the string, pulled it. No light: the bulb was long since burned out.
Once her eyes got used to it, the combination of the glowing firebox and the mudroom light made it possible for her to see a little. She glanced around, ducking beneath the fat tentacles that issued from the top of the furnace, the ducts carrying their heat to the reaches of the house. This was the way she had come on the most secret missions of pubescent love, a willowy, confident little girl, her nervous chosen boy in tow.
Opposite the furnace was a door set in a roughly made wall of cheap pine paneling, the builder’s fifty-dollar “wine cellar,” and the scene of those early experiments, one or two of which had left indelibly torrid impressions, the first, confused genital contact and the exploding pillow of pleasure that came with it. She had held his shaft in that room, too afraid and excited to move, listening with half an ear to General Hospital on the TV in the family room above.
On the door now was a rude sign painted in red ink:
“Kitten Kate Club. Keep Out!”
The sight of the rough letters pierced Mandy’s heart: this must have also been George’s kid’s secret room.
More evidence of lives departed. Did those kids also remember their little room, even now whisper about it?
It was not easy for Mandy to open the door, but she did it. When she saw what was on the other side, she could not even scream.
She just stood, gasping, disbelieving, staring. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, were painted and scratched and clawed with images of cats. Panthers crouched, wildcats leaped, toms and pussies lounged and crawled and spat, and here and there was a photograph of a dismembered cat. Spiked to the wall were bits of cats, fur, and shattered bones, and in one comer a gape-jawed feline skull.
There was a dirty sheet wadded on the floor. The place stank of something like rancid grease. A votive candle stood in the center of the mess.
There was hatred here that seemed beyond the capacity of a human being. She realized that this was no children’s place.
Only an adult mind had the patience to create this. A tortured, confused mind. Profoundly insane.
No wonder Kate had taken her children and run.
Mandy shrank back, closed the door to the ugly secret, then returned quickly to the mudroom. Her cat wasn’t in the basement. She wished she did not know what was. She dropped the trapdoor, went back to the kitchen, turned on a light. She sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, feeling the secret of the house like a festering, rotting sore on her own body.
How odd the Girl’s life looks—
Behind this soft Eclipse—
She whispered the words into the yellow Formica tabletop. Emily Dickinson knew secrets of women. So perfect to call me predicament a soft eclipse. Emily… you knew so much, wise Emily. And you hid on your little farmstead, far from life, far from the madness of men. I wish I were there with you right now.
Behind this soft eclipse…
To George, womankind, it seemed, was a cat. Kitten Kate.
So sick. So sad. So dangerous. She must leave here at once.
She stood up, thinking to go and gather her things. But there was movement outside. As footsteps ran up the front walk, her flesh crawled.
“Mandy!” The voice was high, shredded like that of a desperate woman.
“Mandy, let me in!”
“George?”
“Yes!” He howled out the word, rattling the knob as he did so. His voice was literally squeaking with rage: Miserably frightened, feeling trapped, Mandy unbolted the door.
He swarmed past her, muttering, stalking as dangerously as a spider through the shadowy house.
“Sonofabitch! Son of a fucking bitch!”
He disappeared into the bedroom. At once thuds and crashes started. “George!” She found him hunting through the bottom drawer of the dresser. Scattered around him on the floor were shirts and belts and
She reached the floor, found the string, pulled it. No light: the bulb was long since burned out.
Once her eyes got used to it, the combination of the glowing firebox and the mudroom light made it possible for her to see a little. She glanced around, ducking beneath the fat tentacles that issued from the top of the furnace, the ducts carrying their heat to the reaches of the house. This was the way she had come on the most secret missions of pubescent love, a willowy, confident little girl, her nervous chosen boy in tow.
Opposite the furnace was a door set in a roughly made wall of cheap pine paneling, the builder’s fifty-dollar “wine cellar,” and the scene of those early experiments, one or two of which had left indelibly torrid impressions, the first, confused genital contact and the exploding pillow of pleasure that came with it. She had held his shaft in that room, too afraid and excited to move, listening with half an ear to General Hospital on the TV in the family room above.
On the door now was a rude sign painted in red ink:
“Kitten Kate Club. Keep Out!”
The sight of the rough letters pierced Mandy’s heart: this must have also been George’s kid’s secret room.
More evidence of lives departed. Did those kids also remember their little room, even now whisper about it?
It was not easy for Mandy to open the door, but she did it. When she saw what was on the other side, she could not even scream.
She just stood, gasping, disbelieving, staring. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, were painted and scratched and clawed with images of cats. Panthers crouched, wildcats leaped, toms and pussies lounged and crawled and spat, and here and there was a photograph of a dismembered cat. Spiked to the wall were bits of cats, fur, and shattered bones, and in one comer a gape-jawed feline skull.
There was a dirty sheet wadded on the floor. The place stank of something like rancid grease. A votive candle stood in the center of the mess.
There was hatred here that seemed beyond the capacity of a human being. She realized that this was no children’s place.
Only an adult mind had the patience to create this. A tortured, confused mind. Profoundly insane.
No wonder Kate had taken her children and run.
Mandy shrank back, closed the door to the ugly secret, then returned quickly to the mudroom. Her cat wasn’t in the basement. She wished she did not know what was. She dropped the trapdoor, went back to the kitchen, turned on a light. She sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, feeling the secret of the house like a festering, rotting sore on her own body.
How odd the Girl’s life looks—
Behind this soft Eclipse—
She whispered the words into the yellow Formica tabletop. Emily Dickinson knew secrets of women. So perfect to call me predicament a soft eclipse. Emily… you knew so much, wise Emily. And you hid on your little farmstead, far from life, far from the madness of men. I wish I were there with you right now.
Behind this soft eclipse…
To George, womankind, it seemed, was a cat. Kitten Kate.
So sick. So sad. So dangerous. She must leave here at once.
She stood up, thinking to go and gather her things. But there was movement outside. As footsteps ran up the front walk, her flesh crawled.
“Mandy!” The voice was high, shredded like that of a desperate woman.
“Mandy, let me in!”
“George?”
“Yes!” He howled out the word, rattling the knob as he did so. His voice was literally squeaking with rage: Miserably frightened, feeling trapped, Mandy unbolted the door.
He swarmed past her, muttering, stalking as dangerously as a spider through the shadowy house.
“Sonofabitch! Son of a fucking bitch!”
He disappeared into the bedroom. At once thuds and crashes started. “George!” She found him hunting through the bottom drawer of the dresser. Scattered around him on the floor were shirts and belts and
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