Tick Tock Ticking

The porch light was off. He found the lock with his fingers and slid in his key. A small click as the bolt turned. Jefferson held his breath, made a face, pushed the door open a bit. Then a bit more. He stuck his head inside, testing the darkness, expecting lights to burst on, to bust on, and then the night-gowned entity on the top of the stairs, glowering. The only word for what she did at times like now. Janet in curlers and cold-cream., glowering, with a steady shaking of the head, and the how could you..? silent stare.

And all he had, all he ever had at times like now, was the old“You wont believe this.” story. Blah,blah,blah. A wave of his arm, cologne for cover, all worked to death, but it was better than nothing. And it was all he needed really. “Go back to bed, sweetheart,” he would say. “Tell ya in the morning…” The bedroom door would slam. That was okay. The guest room was slowly becoming his room.

The entrance-way remained lightless. Gray black marble floor. Gray silver chandelier. All was silent but for the grandfather clock, now a tick-tocking time-bomb ready to blast a great light upon him. He closed the door carefully, turned the lock.
The hazy darkness up-stairs became more visable as his eyes adjusted. There was something different. He very nearly called his wife’s name, but stopped himself. His eyes ran along the curving staircase to the second floor, searching for the row of black and white pictures of his children, children grown now and gone, as were their pictures. What remained were vacant square spots.

“I’ll be,” he said, dizzy, he made it to the staircase and sat down heavily on the first step. “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch…”

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