The Closet

Part Two of Chapter One

The other auntie does not wait silently anymore, she burst from the closet before it can open more than an inch or two. Her eyes searching for me. They always find me. When they do, I scream. I have not messed myself or fainted since that first time, but I am just as terrified. Screaming I run to my room and wait for mama to come home.
One time, I left my coat and scarf lying on the sofa instead of putting them away in the closet. It was my plan to stay outside, avoiding Auntie until mama came home. I was in the barn when she came for me. Not the other Auntie but the real auntie. She was madder than I had ever seen her before. She beat me for leaving my things laying around. I had never been beat before, mama did not even spank me on the bottom; I was afraid of what would happen if mama found out, so I did not tell anyone about the beating or the other auntie.
Walking into the yard I resolve myself not to scream this time. Sound is ok but not a full scream. I imagine auntie’s look as I calmly step around her and hang up my school bag. “Nice Mask”, I will say as I turn my back to her and head to the kitchen for some milk. Dejected and confused she will take the mask off and stare in awe at my sudden bravery.
I start up the steps, feeling the quiet. The other Auntie is here, the house knows. I know. Trembling, I climb steps. As I cross through the front door I know with certainty that the she is not in the closet. The fear builds as I make my way down the hall to the closet. Trembling I reach for knob. heart pounding I jerk open the door. Nothing, it is empty but for the woolies and the dust.
The anticipated relief does not come. Stowing my things I began to understand. She is here, the other auntie is here and she is out of the closet. I hear Laughing, no giggling, the sound of a little girl delighted. The sound has been with me, distant and undefined from the moment I walked in the door. How could I have not noticed it? The sound is coming from Uncle Emery’s study. It used to be his dad’s study and his dad’s before that.
I walk to the door. Peering in I see her. She is not wearing a mask. But there is one lying haphazardly on the floor next to the desk. An unexplainable fear grips me. I want to run away but I can not. She is reading form an old book which appears to be a journal of some kind. I have never seen it before, which is not surprising. I am not allowed in the study and it is usually locked. The other auntie is muttering, smiling, delighted with her special treat. “Burn them” she mutters followed by a giggle. “Yes Nathanial, burn the whore. Fuck them and then burn them. Make them pay for our sins. Yes the smell! The smell is, (hehehe) the smell is wondrous. So much better for the salvation”. Some small movement, maybe the flutter of my dress catches her eye and she looks up suddenly her violet eye flashing. “Come Naomi, come read grandpa’s book” she invites softly. I wanted to go to her. No, not her. The book, I wanted to go to the book. It wanted me too. I could feel its pull. I ran.
I ran from the house crying tears streaming down my face leaving their tell tale tracks. I was not crying out of fear. It was longing I felt. It disgusted m to want it, but I did. I wanted to see the book, feel its oiling exterior, read its pages. I wanted to know it and it to know me. The sick came sudden, I lurched to the corner of the loft, and cried as the mess stained my dress and covered my shoes. I crept from the loft and quickly crossed the yard. I was able to make it to my room without seeing her.
Auntie was already eating when I entered the kitchen for dinner. We had a dining room but it was not used except for special occasion. Mama says there is no reason to dirty up a room that is entirely too big for our small family. As always auntie acted as if nothing had happened. I crossed the room and sat next to mama. Where is the book now? Auntie is the book’s whore but it is done with her. It wants me now. Mama what’s a whore?

The Closet

My Grandmother was afraid of masks. She told me why in January of 1992. I lost her to cancer a few weeks later, and I have kept this story as mine. It is not mine though and the time has come to tell the tale. This is her story. The story of Naomi Fay Bridge passed to me as she lay dying. It all started in the fall of 1933. No, it started long before that. But this is when it started for Naomi……..

From the journal of Private Leviathan Nathanial Gifford

November 8th , 1838
More of them died today. Why we don’t shoot the weak I can not understand. The amount of resources being used to relocate these animals breaks my heart and I dare say it is criminal. The cost of Jefferson’s indulgent mercy may well be our souls. Men resist temptation for only so long. Even the most fortified souls will fall to a prolonged siege.

Part One of Chapter One
I know she’ll be in the closet. Waiting for me; wearing one of those damn masks. Mama doesn’t allow me to swear, but if there is anything in this world that should be damned its Auntie's masks. Me and mama live out on old Gifford road, named after great grandpa Gifford; he homesteaded our farm back in 1841. Uncle Emery and Auntie live with us too, but Uncle Emery spends most of his time in the oil fields. He says the oil money is dwindling and oil work is the only way to feed us all.
I wish Auntie would go to work in the oil fields. She is as mean as a snake. She likes to hide in the closet and wait for me to come home, so she can scare me. She wears masks made from old news print. Where she gets them is anybody’s guess. I have never seen her make one, and each time she wears a different mask.
It is easy to tell when she is in the closet. The house becomes quiet, it feels vacant, like it’s family has gone away and will never return. It is a lonely feeling. The sad silence always gives her away. With tears on my cheek I tell myself not to be frightened; after all it is just Auntie in her old house coat wearing a crummy mask. It never helps and I scream every time
The problem is that sometimes, not every time, but sometimes her eyes are not hers. Auntie's eyes are blue Pale blue, like all the women in our family. The other Auntie's eyes are violet and they blaze from behind the mask. Their brightness is unnatural like the last flare of a dying light bulb. When I scream, the brightness intensifies which is something I would not have thought possible. Eyes were never meant to shine like that.
Standing facing the door, I pray for the courage and strength not to scream, but as my hand touches the knob I see her as she must look, crouched on the floor between the woolies grinning at nothing, the violet eyes unfocused seeing the dark, loving the dark, waiting.
. The first time she did not move when I opened the door. She waited until I was in, reaching for the hanger. I realized something was there, my eyes adjusted and I was staring into those blazing violet eyes. At first I didn’t know what to make of them. It was dark and I could not make out the mask. Finally my brain put it all together I most have fainted from fright; when I came to, I was on the floor, wet and cold. There was a bump on my head.
I try not to think about that awful moment, but I remember the terror and the prickly heat of the urine stinging my legs. Worst of all, I remember the teeth. Hundreds of tiny razor like teeth, arranged into a mocking grin. Auntie was humming to herself in the kitchen cooking dinner as if nothing had happened. I went to my room frightened, humiliated and ashamed.