The House on Seventh Street by Karen Vorbeck Williams Page A

what lay before her—the reproduction of a room she remembered very well. Shrouded in thick, slanted light, two small wicker beds with matching night tables, twin brass lamps with pink, fringed lampshades, an ornately carved oak dresser with an adjustable mirror, and a child-sized walnut rocker surrounded a handmade cedar chest stacked with old dolls. Winna closed her eyes, fully expecting that the vision would be gone when she opened them again.
    Decades had passed, yet she found herself standing at the edge of the bedroom she had shared with her sister, the furniture arranged as it had been when she and Chloe were very young. Pale blue plisse spreads covered the beds. Layers of dust grayed the chest and the dresser as cobwebs made their way between the mirror and the coat rack hung with a child’s woolen coat and hat. Winna saw her reflection in the cloudy mirror. In the dim light, the dark roof boards pierced with sharp fang-like nails hovered like an open mouth close over her head.
    She trembled as she reached out to touch one of the dolls in the toy box—a baby doll dressed in a white dress and cap lay there with her eyes closed. Winna picked her up. The doll’s colorless eyes snapped open as her small voice cried “ma-ma.” There was something diabolical in that faded face with the button nose and open red mouth baring two pearly-white teeth. Winna shivered and let her fall like a hot coal.
    Who had made this tableau? The act of stepping on the rug brought her to her knees. It had to be Dad. She burst into tears as her memory climbed the stairs to that very room in the old house on Ouray Avenue where they had lived before they moved to the country. There, she had played with Chloe on this rug. There, she had slept in her bed under the window facing the street.
    She knelt to open the bottom dresser drawer. A memory came so fresh it frightened her. Winna had been bad and her mother sent her to her room, this room. She had run there to hide from her father. Her mind racing, she tried to come up with an excuse to tell him. Why had she taken little Chloe by the hand and led her out of the yard for a walk down Twelfth Street where they were not allowed to go? They were both barefoot and Chloe had cut her foot. Dr. Sloane had to come to the house and stitch up her wound. Then her mother had called her father to come home from the store and spank Winna.
    She heard the screen door slam shut and her father’s voice call her mother’s name. Little Winna couldn’t think of any good excuse for what she had done. There were voices—her mother and father talking—then his footsteps came up the stairs. She got up off the rug and ran into the closet to hide. Footsteps tramped up the stairs and from her position behind a hanging bathrobe, she wished someone’s arms were around her.
    â€œCome get your spanking.” He knew where she was. He opened the closet door, his forehead contorted with rage. Winna looked up at him and saw his neatly pressed suit and vest, his spotless starched shirt, and the red stripes on his blue tie. He glared down on her, his dark eyes sparked with rage, then turned to sit on one of the beds. Winna had been so bad that he had to come home from work.
    He had been spanking her for as long as she could remember and she knew what to do. She had to be very brave—braver than when her mother took her to the dentist. She had to will herself to pull down her panties and lay bottoms up over his lap, then wait for him to spank her with his big hand.
    He hit her for what seemed like an eternity. At first, she did her best not to cry, but it hurt so much that she couldn’t help it. When he’d had enough, he let her slip off his knees to the floor. He told her to go to bed and that she could not come down for dinner.
    As if she could memorize every thread, the child stared at the rug of rose-and-moss-colored wool. She couldn’t look at his angry face and was