Good Times

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 it. 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 at times like now was the old You wont regret this, Jefferson! attitude. You live once! It was worth it, wasn't it? Huh, buddy? No guilt. Cologne for cover. “Go back to bed, sweetheart,” he would say. “Tell ya in the morning…long story--” The bedroom door would slam. That was okay. The guest room was slowly becoming his room. Good old Janet! After all, what was she gonna do?

He closed the front-door carefully, turned the lock.

The house remained dark gray. 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.

The up-stairs became more visible 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, thinking he was going to fall, he made it to the staircase and sat down heavily on the first step. “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch…”

-299 Words-