Writing Contest for Community College Students
— First Place: Creative Non-Fiction
Nightlife
by Catherine Pieslewicz
(Clackamas Community College)
An icy chill runs from the bottom of my feet up both legs as I walk across the tile floor of the family room to the twin bed nestled into one corner. It is so quiet in this room without the hissing of air inflating and deflating the mattress on the empty hospital bed where, this afternoon, my husband had lost his fight for life. The porch light reflects on the cold medal of the oxygen bottles pushed against the wall. Our vain attempt to keep his paralyzed body warm meant flames that leaped, crackled, and danced for months in the now cold fireplace. The smell of mesquite wood smoke and ashes fills the room. The kids were thoughtful to move our oak dressers and my rocking chair with the blue cushions to this room. It helped make this space less like a sterile hospital room. As I push my legs under the covers and pull them up under my chin, I feel as if the cold has penetrated my, body freezing my bones, and wonder if I'll ever be warm again.
The ringing phone pierces the quiet night rudely waking me from a peaceful dream. I feel my husband sit up and reach over responding to the demanding shrill. Glancing at the clock ticking away on the nightstand I am filled with dread. It's 2:30 in the morning, the boys are home and I know it must be our daughter. "Calm down, are you both okay?" His strong voice fills the air. I can hear our daughter sobbing something about an accident and that no one was hurt. "Okay, okay, I'm on my way—...it's okay sweetheart it's just a car—cars can be replaced, people can't."
Midnight and the only sound in the house is the light scraping of the red pen I'm using to grade papers. I rise from the dining room table, pass through the living room with its faint fragrance of recently burning vanilla candles and walk softly along the back hallway peeking into the kid's rooms. All three are peacefully sleeping. On my return trip I note our period furnishings, early and late Salvation Army with a smattering of Wal-Mart. I am filled with contentment and gratitude that we stretched the budget to buy this home before they were born. The hope is that they will be able to grow up here and not be uprooted numerous times like I was as a child. We made this decision knowing that many lean years lie ahead but feel it is well worth the struggle in order to provide a feeling of roots. Back to my chair, I am so tired. I lay my head down on folded arms knowing that he will be home in a couple of hours.
The baby girl sucks and coos contentedly as I feel the release of milk into my breasts. We sit in my rocking chair bundled together in a flowered afghan. Soft light filters down the hallway from the back of the house. At twenty-seven we've been blessed with our first child.
Tires crunching on rocks, a car door slams shut and the sound of a key in the front door lock. It is the middle of the night, his shift is only half over and I wonder what he is doing home. I sit up in bed as he walks into the room. "Stop. Before you turn on the light, I'm okay" he says. The bright light stings my eyes as I look at his uniform covered in bright red blood. Blood is everywhere: boots, pants, shirt, and even spattering the badge pined above the left breast pocket. "I made the mistake of rolling the guy over. Guess he cut an artery trying to slit his wrist," he says while changing into a clean uniform.
I lie here under piles of blankets curled up in a ball thinking this is what the rabbit feels like burrowed in his den. The only heat in the house comes from the small electric space heater we bought weeks ago that is not safe to use at night. I can see the soft, faint moving shadows of fluttering curtains as the cold desert night wind blows through cracks around the window frames. The dog barks. Looking over the side of the bed I see him lying on his back, legs running in his sleep, and wonder what he chases in his dream. Coyotes howl in the distance. An owl's who-who-who sounds close. I am soothed by the rhythmic snores coming from the other side of the bed. I move over, press my cold nose up against his back and remember standing with him at the alter ten days ago as I drift into darkness.
Rattle-bump-clang, rattle-bump-clang, rattle-bump-clang drums in through the open window of my bedroom filling me with an unbearable sadness. It is two-thirty in the morning on the tenth day of March in my twenty–first year. The sound is made by the ambulance attendance pushing the gurney that carries my brother's lifeless cancer-riddled body away.
The sound of the television filters up the stairway squeezing through the crack under the bedroom door. I am eight years old and Mother tucked my covers in around me hours ago. Even though I should be fast asleep, the draw of the television is much too great as I slip out from the warmth of blankets, quietly open the door, and steal halfway down the stairs. I can hear water running in the kitchen sink and know Mother is washing dishes. Through the banister rails I see my father, sitting in the overstuffed living room chair, parked in front of the television. Perry Mason's voice fills the room. He is talking with his newest client, a woman accused of murdering her husband's mistress. Mason's assistant, Della Street, focused on Mason's words, writes away in her stenographer's notebook.
