Postcard Story V: Learning to Lie

His father was gone, and without him, the house fell silent, museum-like. They were scared to make noise. His mother spent hours cleaning, as if she were not a tenant, but a caretaker. Sometimes – as if daring some unseen force that moved in the staircase and in the airy hallways – they would attempt something more than a whisper. A shout, even a laugh. But the house devoured these sounds and afterwards it felt like they had offended the very walls.

He came inside from the garden one day – that unruly garden which was his only freedom from the shrine to his father that the house had become. He had been fighting a horde of brambles with a stick. He was red-cheeked and breathing heavily. He clattered into the hallway, still swinging his stick, then stopped abruptly. Mischief had overcome him – he knew it, and now it had to stop. The house said it had to stop.

There was a noise. From upstairs he heard a sharp gasp. He set down his stick. He started to climb upwards. He moved very slowly, very stealthily. For a moment, he imagined himself as he had in the garden– as a soldier – only now his mission was an ambush, so he must be utterly quiet and not even breathe. Halfway up the stairs, a step creaked. It seemed as guttural as a hacking cough. He paused. Only silence answered. He continued.

She was at the end of the landing. The door to the bathroom was open. Her back was to him. She was kneeling on the floor. There was an overturned bottle of cleaner at her knees. Her body was trembling slightly. He continued his approach. Suddenly, there was another creak – this one much louder than the first. It was like a thunderclap.

She turned violently.

“Christ – you scared me.”

Her eyes were red.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“You were crying.”

“No, I wasn’t,” she retorted hastily. “And don’t sneak up on me. You really scared me.”

“You were crying,” he insisted.

“No I wasn’t,” she repeated. She picked up the bottle of cleaner. “It’s this damn stuff. It irritates my eyes.” She sniffed. Then she attempted a laugh. “It’s probably making me high as a kite.”

She went back to cleaning. He didn’t understand what she meant by being high as a kite. He moved away as quietly as he’d approached. Outside the window, the sun was suddenly obscured by clouds, and the hallway became gloomy.

He ran down the stairs, not caring anymore how loud he was. He hurried through the back door and into the garden. He did not want to be in the house ever again. For a second, he had not even recognized her. The house had become a stranger, and so had she.