Centuries of June by Keith Donohue Read Free Book Online Page B

a stoic witness to both my threat and my salvation. She panted and sneered at him, the anger pulsing at her temples. A small but distinctly metal squeak followed the tightening vise of his five digits, and she cried out sharply and let go the club, which landed with a clunk in the sink. Cradling her wrist, Dolly slumped back against the counter. She would not look at me and turned her head, though the bitterness in her eyes reflected in the medicine cabinet mirror.
    My head ached again, either from my ancient wound or the complex implications of her story. The pain was not only in my mind but also two or three spots on my chest and shoulders, phantom aches of an empathetic nature. Given the tenor of her story, I found myself oddly drawn to X’oots, the bear man, and his self-sacrifice, and totally appalled by the dog Chewing Ribs. Somewhere in the house, my gentle cat practiced his diffidence. Behind the cabinet doors, pharmaceuticals promised hope and relief—an aspirin, perhaps an ibuprofen. As I was debating over which to take, it occurred to me that an hour or so must have passed since Dolly entered the room and began her story. A sleeping pill might be in order, but I did not want to take one too close to the hour I was supposed to be awake.
    “Excuse me,” I said to them both and left to find the correct time. Without a word, they waved me off into the darkness just outside the bathroom door. The overhead light, which I had certainly turned on when fetching the bottle of whiskey, had been flicked off. Playing withthe switch illuminated nothing, and the hall dripped dark as a tomb. From the bathroom, snatches of conversation rode the air. “… the sixteenth century,” she said. He asked, “So what have you been doing with yourself these five hundred years?” Surprised by the old man’s question, I looked back and saw him standing close in front of her, nearly pinning her to the counter, his left arm extended and his palm against the mirror, and Dolly leaning back, her shoulders squared, a coy smile parting her lips. Distracted by their flirtations, I tried to fathom how and why I was alone in the darkness. The light switch failed again, but the household stairs could be negotiated even if I were blind. Closing my eyes, I grabbed the railing and lifted my toes over the abyss.
    With no difficulty, my left foot found the first step, and my right the second. Thirteen to go. I remembered the thousands of journeys up and down these stairs, and the house was a great relief and shield against the aura of doom that had threatened me since I fell. In The Poetics of Space , the philosopher Gaston Bachelard wrote, “A house that has been experienced is not an inert box. Inhabited space transcends geometrical space.” As long as I am in my own house, there is nothing to fear, for it seemed to me that the house could be trusted when everything else posed nothing but mysteries and questions. I love the Poetics and at the architectural firm where I work, when no one else was around, I would read it furtively at my desk. The book sort of just landed in my hands at a moment of particular despair over my future as an architect. For the life of me, I can’t remember who gave it to me. Someone important, who has escaped through the hole in my head.
    Despite the utter gloom of the staircase, I made it to the bottom step without tripping and killing myself. The switch downstairs had been positioned between off and on, so I corrected the situation and illuminated everything. Pupils dilating, I stumbled into the kitchen. On the digital clock built into the stove, I punched in one minute on the timer and waited. While the digits did not regress, the beeper sounded its alarmafter the appropriate interlude. Certain that some electromagnetic catastrophe had stopped the power, I went to the window but saw nothing but the dead of night, not the least hint of the dawn that should have been there. I scratched my head and suppose I would