I wanted to bang this out real fast just in case something happens to me. I told you that I was going to go over to Bill’s and find out what in the hell he was hiding in his basement – well I did. It took a lot longer than I originally expected because he very seldom leaves the house anymore. My chance finally came last night after supper when I saw him head out. I didn’t want to drag Rena into this (not after seeing her swollen face the last time I was over there) so I kind of broke in.
I jimmied the rusty lock on one of his basement windows and shimmied on in. I was so pre-occupied with that damn padlocked door to his coal room that I didn’t even notice the shovel or bricks at first.
There was no secrecy to my actions. I knew that I’d be leaving evidence that at least someone had been down there – but I was to the point that I didn’t care. I grabbed a hammer off a workbench and brought it down across the padlock with a vengeance. Several whacks later, I was dripping with sweat and huffing inside the coal room. I flicked on the light bulb dangling from the ceiling, and as it threw shadows from one side of the room to the other like a boat rocking at sea, I scoured the brick walls and dirt floor for anything out of place. I threw an old wooden bucket out of the way and was just about to give up when I finally noticed it. It was an old, rusty, iron hook - nailed to one of the joists. It looked like it had been there forever, but it still looked like it was strong enough to hold a man. I was about to use the bucket as a footstool when I realized that I’d seen it before. It was the same bucket that Bill used to hold stain whenever he worked on his trim. Except that when I slid my finger across the inside, it didn’t feel fresh and oily or set up smooth – it was crusty and flaked off in my fingers. Stain doesn’t behave that way.
Before I had a chance to spend any more thought on it, I heard the front door open. Bill was home. I dropped the bucket and ran for the window. That’s when I found the shovel and bricks. My foot landed in a shallow depression and I tripped. As I scrambled to my feet, I saw a pile of fifty or so bricks (bricks were used to line the dirt floor in Bill’s basement), and a shovel.
I heard the door at the top of the basement stairs open. The fuel of fear ignited me to action. I leaped over and hit the brick wall beneath the window that I crawled through, grabbed on to the sill and started chinning myself up as the basement stairs began to creak. I got one elbow up on the sill, then two – and then I pushed my upper body through the window. That’s as far as I got before I heard the silence behind me. The stairs weren’t creaking anymore. I froze for a second – then the fear of not being able to see behind me propelled me forward. I clawed and scrambled out onto the dirt and dead grass between our houses. But I had to look back. I flipped onto my belly and swung back around. From the outside, Bill’s basement looked completely dark. But how could it?
Now that I’m safe at home and have a chance to think about it, I don’t remember flicking off the light in the coal room.
Until next time, I’m afraid that I’m about to find out how much the truth is going to cost me… J/W
