The Sky Is Falling

         The November sky crackled with an approaching storm—an odd occurrence for this region at this time of year.  Wind gusts surged against the farm house, causing it to groan and creak and snap more than usual.  Clara hated this house. 

         The century-old two-story house emitted strange noises and seemed to possess a weird energy.  Plus, their home was so far out in the country that the county sheriff’s department was unable to respond to break-ins that according to recent reports were occurring more frequently in the neighborhood.  But the property had belonged to Craig’s family and Clara never insisted on living elsewhere. 

         A wind gust thumped the front room window.  Clara snapped off the television and cocked her head toward the noise.  Absent another pane-rattle, her mind started to replay the comment of the talking head she had been watching.  She peered toward the offending window and recalled that the research expert had proposed how the fear of the dark was ingrained in our civilization’s DNA due to millennia of conditioned living in the long, black nights before electricity became widespread.  Shuttering the windows and barring the door against the strange intrusions of the night were suggestions she tried to shake from her mind.  She tossed the remote aside and skittered out of the living room.

         Climbing the stairs, Clara inventoried her exhausting day: the children had been more demanding and had been bickering more than usual; she became testy and irritated by the slightest annoyances; and, she was fatigued from the family chores she had finished—alone.  Craig was away at a sales convention and was scheduled to return tomorrow afternoon, if he wouldn’t be home earlier. 

         Her husband had missed another Halloween with his family.  Clara thought he purposely planned that.  Tonight she would sleep alone in an empty bed in their sprawling home.  Clara didn’t like that.  Not that she desired Craig’s company.  But his presence would be reassuring against those frightening things that bumped in the night. 

         Craig and Clara Kleckner co-existed in the house these days.  They didn’t communicate much anymore—not that they ever had.  Clara sensed they were drifting apart, but she was just grateful she had a husband with steady, if annoying, habits.  Although she seldom corrected Craig’s shortcomings, she had managed to live with them.

         As soon as she flipped on the bedroom light, she spied movement on the other side of the room.  She gasped.  Then she exhaled gently after realizing that the window shade and the flower-patterned curtains were flapping against an opened window.  That was Craig’s habit.  He insisted on keeping a window open in all types of weather for the sake of having fresh air.  She hated that practice but she tolerated it.  Clara moved toward the window, slammed it shut, and locked it.

         Hobbling into the bathroom, she untied her pony tail and raked a comb through her crown of flaming red hair.  Rinsing her light complexion, she sponged the darkening bags under her rheumy golden eyes.  As she slowly lowered the green wash cloth, she exposed her most prominent feature: her sharply chiseled, hooked nose. 

         Clara stared at her reflection.  Although seven years of married life had filled out her face, her aquiline nose was still prominent.  Her hawkish facial feature had been the bane of her life.  All through her school days, mean-spirited classmates taunted her with names like “Hen Honker” or “Henny Penny” or “Chicken Pecker.”  Clara had never corrected them.  The more they had teased and bullied her, the more she had buried her feelings. 

         Her father had vexed her, too.  As a child with one leg shorter than the other, Clara had an awkward, gangling, and skittering gait.  Her father had dubbed her “Belle.”  She never knew whether her father had been trying to raise her self-esteem or if he were maliciously joking.  Unfortunately, her school tyrants had discovered the name combination, Clara-Belle, and its suggested reference to the ancient clown on TV’s “The Howdy Dowdy Show.”  She had hated her father’s endearment and often had wished she had the clown’s seltzer bottle to fire at her father; but she never told him to stop.

         Strutting back into the bedroom, Clara watched the woman undressing in the full-length mirror.  She removed her sweatshirt and bra—size thirty-four double-A.  Craig sometimes teased her about her chest pimples.  But at least, she appraised, she never had to worry about any man pawing at her breasts. 

         She slid off her scrubbed jeans and pink panties.  Her legs were still extremely slim and spindly, but her hips and rear had been ballooning.  She decided she would have to do something about that—I’ll start tomorrow.

         Scurrying about the chilled room, Clara hunted for her flannel pajamas.  She wrapped the top around her and felt the soft fibers against her skin.  She was being practical to wear flannel, she considered, since Craig wouldn’t be warming the bed with his hulk.  Clara recalled how she wore pajamas almost every night of the year: flannel on cold nights; cotton on warm nights—even on the hot ones.  She never slept nude.  It suddenly occurred to her that maybe that was why Craig’s ardor had been cooling.  She hadn’t connected her pajama wearing with their sexual diminution until tonight.  She didn’t believe he was running around with other women, although he might have ample opportunity.  He didn’t seem to care for her anymore. 

         Clara often fretted about their loss of passion.  She had finished reading a woman’s magazine article about love and lovemaking and how to rekindle a sex life.  She decided she would broach the subject with Craig; they needed to discuss this issue—sometime soon.

         Rummaging through the boxes in the closet, Clara located the diaphanous white peignoir she had purchased a year ago but was too timid to wear.  She slipped on the negligee and enjoyed the cool comfort of the smooth material against her nipples and the delicate material rustling against her hips.  Clara brushed her hair forward, pursed her lips, and put on her most sultry come-hither look.  She chuckled at the result in the mirror and figured this might do the trick to rekindle romance.  She pivoted a model’s turn and decided, maybe tomorrow night.

         Clara flinched when she saw a shadow in the mirror dart behind her.  It was only Archie.  She had forgotten to put out the tomcat for his caterwauling.  Scooping up the feline, she trudged downstairs, carefully turning on the lights as they went.  She opened the back door and let the cat down.  A rain-misted breeze rustled her gown and tousled her hair.  Clara posed herself in the doorway.  Just like Frankenstein’s bride.

         Clara watched the tomcat scamper into the violent darkness.  I’m deserted once again.  Clara felt all the more isolated as she surveyed the empty windswept fields behind the house.  She envisioned how desolate the front yard would be.  The neighbors’ houses were nearly a mile away in either direction.  Her only immediate link to civilization was the gravel road in front.  She knew why burglars had chosen to victimize this isolated part of the township.  Just like the highwaymen I heard about tonight.  She shuddered with the chilling thought, closed the door, and returned upstairs.

         Stopping at the first bedroom, Clara checked and adjusted the blankets over her angelic son, who was cuddling his teddy bear.  She peeked in on her daughters, who were both slumbering in the room across from hers.  After turning on the rose-colored night lamp in the hallway, she scurried into her bedroom and perched herself on the bed.

         After swallowing a sleeping pill, she adjusted the alarm on the lighted electric clock and inspected her nails.  She loved to file and curry her nails.  Clara had kept her nails long ever since the day she had used her fingernails to scratch Bill Barton, the class bully.  Billy had been an excruciating tease.  One day and at the wrong time, he had shoved her aside in a school hallway and had called her “Eagle Beak.”  She let fly at him, flailing as best she could and drawing blood.  She had been disciplined severely for that outburst and she never again clawed with her nails.  But at least Billy never bothered her again.  And as news had spread about her sharp and menacing talons, most classmates lessened their teasing if they didn’t befriend her.  Since she got married and bore children, however, Clara continually snagged and broke her fingernails during household chores.  Sort of declawed, huh? She grimaced, snapped out the light, and nestled between the sheets. 

         Occasional lightning flashed through the bedroom.  The brilliant flickers obscured the rosy hall-light that had glistened on the bedroom walls and ceiling.  The bedroom furniture seemed to do shadow dancing.  The walls groaned against wind surges.  The window rattled sporadically.  But the steady glow of the clock-face reassured Clara that she could finally let herself sleep.

         A slight creaking noise in the hallway alerted Clara.  Her eyelids snapped open and her mind-projector began streaming movie trailers of horror scenes.  Clara shook her head to clear her mind; she knew it was silly to be afraid.  Staring at the bedroom door, she forced herself to recall some scientific explanation about old-house wood expanding and contracting.  That’s got to be causing that noise.  Then she remembered that their house and the barn seemed to attract field mice and other creatures that scampered behind the walls.  Maybe Archie isn’t as good a mouser as he’s been billed. Hearing no further noise, she relaxed.

         Fluffing the pillows and snuggling into the center of the bed, Clara mused how funny she had been as a single woman.  When she slept alone, she would curl into a tight ball under the covers.  She only let her nose poke out from the sheets for air.  After marrying Craig, however, she couldn’t sleep in that position any more,  She usually could only rest on her side of the bed—not taking up too much room—fighting the gully caused by his weight and countering the action of his sudden shifts.  I won’t curl up tonight.  Clad in her slinky negligee, she let her body spread luxuriantly under the covers—she would be Sleeping Beauty.

         Dozing, Clara counted herself fortunate that she had a husband and a family.  Her mother had worried that Clara would never get married and settle down, since there hadn’t been many gentleman callers—not even rakish ones.  Clara hadn’t attracted men and her personality didn’t seem to overcome that failing.  She had unfortunately become the embodiment of her high school annual’s prophecy for a shy girl who was nominated as “Best Wall Hanging.”

         Clara first met Craig when she had waitressed at the Chicken Shack in town.  He was a salesman at the implement dealership across the street from the diner.  One day, she had watched Craig sitting at the lunch counter, chomping on a drumstick.  She had giggled at the sight of him because he seemed like a cannibal eating one of his own.  Craig had a mammoth musculature: a gigantic torso and massive thighs that had grown enormous from football practice.  He had lost his football scholarship after he blew out a knee and had dropped out of college.  Craig kept his blond hair short, almost shaved.  His head was abnormally small as it rested on his broad shoulders.  He had a bulbous nose, beady blue eyes, and a raucous laugh.  Her tittering had introduced her into a whirlwind romance.

         Clara soon discovered Craig, a practical joker, had a sense of humor only he appreciated.  While dating, he took sheer delight in making himself laugh at her expense.  He teased her about her bobbing head when she walked fast.  He often pointed out how she looked like a pigeon when she tilted her head to look at him.  Clara hadn’t liked his belittling humor then—and still didn’t—but she never objected for fear of losing him.

         One night during their honeymoon, they had gone for an after-dinner stroll.  Craig purposely lost her so he could jump out behind a tree and scare her.  Then there was last Halloween when the kids left her for trick-or-treating and she thought Craig had gone bowling.  He had scared her silly by running around outside the house, rapping on the windows, and howling funny noises.  Craig had ended that escapade by presenting her with a lovely gift-wrapped, heart-shaped candy box crammed with plastic molds of people-puke and puppy-poop.  He had laughed himself into tears at the jest.  Clara had to repress the urge to lash out at him.  She could have told him how offensive he had been; but she hadn’t.

         Clara turned from the illuminated clock and gazed at the rattling window.  The lightning flashes and storm rumbles had intensified.  She clenched her eyelids and resolved to start telling Craig what was on her mind.

         Craig’s pranks were annoying, she mused.  His chair pulling act was getting out of hand and his wisecracks about her being a nit-picker or a hen-pecker were overworked.  She wasn’t perfect, she knew; but maybe if he told her in what ways she disappointed him, she could change.  Then they might both enjoy each other again.  Clara hadn’t spoken to him about these matters—I’ll have to tell him some time.

         Clara detested how Craig usually gobbled down supper.  And twice a week he would fly the coop for his bowling or dartball or other recreations.  He rarely went to parent conferences, PTA meetings, or scouting events.  What was worse, she considered, was how at dinner time Craig would grab a bottle of beer and head off for television watching, leaving her alone to tend the meal, the dishes, and their brood.  We need to change that.

         Craig’s beer drinking had become another thorny issue.  Every night after work he often downed four or five drinks.  During the course of a normal weekend, if he were home, Craig easily would consume a case and a half of long necks.  Craig probably would have kept a case of beer under their bed, if he could.  He even threatened to install of a beer tap in the den.  His alcohol consumption was getting worse.  I’ve got to tell him how I feel about his drinking.

         The wind shook the window frame more violently. 

         Her nightie bunched up as she rolled to her other side.  Clara hadn’t really considered her husband to be a slob, but he was.  She had carefully suggested one time that he change his underwear more than twice a week, especially since he sweated so much in bed.  He had complied; but that resulted in her having more boxers to pick off the bathroom floor in the mornings.  Even so, Clara thought that his willingness to alter a small tendency might possibly mean that they would be able to work together to remedy some of his more annoying habits.

         Bad habits indeed.  Craig had a loathsome manner of propping his stinking stocking feet on the hassock every evening.  He watched the insipid fare on television and laughed uncontrollably at the most inane quips and slapstick.  He scratched his head or his crotch during suspenseful moments of a film.  During romantic scenes he would elbow her and make jokes.  Joking was about all he could do for romance. 

         Clara remembered her excited anticipation on their wedding night.  She couldn’t wait to discover if the size of his thighs portended the dimensions of his other member.  But he was a disappointment.  Craig had drunk too much and had passed out after the reception—there was nothing she could have done about that.  When they finally had sex, however, he had been a disillusionment—he still was.  Clara determined they needed to talk about being more tender, patient, and satisfying in their lovemaking.

         There was a grating tap on the house’s siding.  A tree was brushing the house in the wind.  Clara’s breathing slowed rhythmically; her thoughts became sluggish.

         Craig wasn’t the man he had been at one time.  His muscles fattened under her home-cooking.  She considered that she might suggest they both diet and exercise.  He wouldn’t like that suggestion; he’d accuse her of henpecking.  But his health was something she had been concerned about for some time.  She just hadn’t said anything. 

         She started formulating a plan on how to get Craig to stop watching those idiotic television shows and those hideous horror movies.  She couldn’t remember the number—was it up to 25 now?—of the Halloween movie series he enjoyed so much.  She was chagrined when Craig moaned during the Oscar shows that Wes Craven films never won.  He rented videos and, controlling the television remote the way he did, forced her to watch those gory films about chain-saw murders and eerie, violent butcheries that were too much for her sensibilities.  Craig’s gruesome, blood-letting shows were terrible and she hated them; but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him so.  While he had been gone for these few days, she had watched the TV shows she wanted to—she had liked that. 

         Clara thought she heard a car, although she couldn’t distinguish the sound because of the loud thunder clap.  Was I snoring?  There was a creaking noise downstairs that sounded like a footfall.  Are the kids up? Is somebody in the kitchen?

         The bedroom suddenly went completely black.  The pink light on the wall and ceiling was gone, the clock face disappeared.  The house moaned.  Clara heard another strange noise downstairs.  Her heart skipped a beat and she winced when it hit her: I forgot to lock the back door.

         She groggily pulled herself out of bed.  Sauntering across the hall, she checked on her children.  Under brilliant lightning flashes, she saw the black lumps in their beds and heard their heavy breathing.  Clara bumped into the hall table and, finding the lamp, toggled the switch on and off with no result.  She flicked the hall overhead light several times and found it didn’t work either.  She figured the electrical lines might be down or a fuse might have blown—again. 

         Clara hated to go to the basement.  The place had so many dark angles and eerie shadows even during the daytime.  She knew she had to check on the problem, and she wasn’t going to chicken out now.  Her regret was that earlier she had watched those television episodes of Haunting, Ghost Hunters, or Scare Tactics with her children.

         Peering down the stairs, she slowly guided herself down along the wall.  Even in the dark, Clara knew her way from here to the back door through the kitchen.  She followed the familiar trail, stopping often to verify if the noises she heard were real or figments her terrified imagination.

         Clara hesitated at the kitchen door and waited to see something move.  Nothing did.  Lightning occasionally flooded the rooms and succeeded more in blinding her than illuminating obstacles. 

         Gingerly groping along the sink counter, she knocked some dishes piled there.  She was startled with the loud clap of thunder together with the clang of pots and pans she had just knocked over. 

         A few steps farther and she reached the catchall utility cupboard.  Fluttering about the shelves, she knocked a few bottles down.  An aerosol can hit the floor.  Finally she found the flashlight.  Holding it between her trembling claws, she fingered the switch.  It clicked and gave a very faint glow.  She rattled it and it flickered.  The batteries were low and wouldn’t light her way.  She put it down.

         Clara stepped around the stove, then passed the refrigerator, and neared the rear entry.  She hated this spot.  The hallway was dim even during daylight.  Coats, hats, scarves would be hanging along the wall in the alcove and there would be shoes and boots scattered on the floor.  She knew the back door was a few feet beyond.  The basement door was to the right and next to all those hooks.  Clara hoped the children hadn’t cluttered the floor. 

         Taking a deep breath, she slowly—ever so slowly—inched her head to spy around the corner.

         It’s open! The back door was open and quivering in the wind.  Clara couldn’t remember if she locked the door, but she knew she closed it after letting out the cat.  She figured a strong wind gust might have overpowered the ancient door latch.

         A smell of rain leapt at her.  There was another odor too: Craig’s Old Spice?  She couldn’t be positive.  It might be his lingering scent clinging to the coats, or—maybe somebody’s in the house. 

         She pulled her head back, pressed her fingers over her mouth and chin, puzzling what to do.  Clara slipped back toward the closet and, fumbling around and knocking down more bottles and cans, she found the box of stick matches. 

         She thought she saw movement outside through the window.  Working her way back to the edge of the refrigerator, she stretched herself on tiptoe to peer out.  She was careful not to show herself to anyone in the back entry.  Nothing but swaying trees and grass moved outside.  Lightning flashed.  Clara could see sheets of rain splashing against the garage.  She gulped.  There didn’t seem to be any vehicles outside.

         Carefully peering around the corner, she struck the match and quietly edged forward.  She passed the first clothes hook.  Stepped on a shoe.  Stopped.  She whipped out the flame of the first match and struck a second.  The sulfur exploded with a flash that caused her to blink.  A strange yellow hue shrouded the entryway.  The blacks, reds, and blues of the clothes hanging there gave her some familiar encouragement.  She took another step.  The basement door’s open.  She hadn’t noticed that before. 

         She extinguished the second flame and wondered why she was doing this.  She wanted to turn tail and run, but some unexplainable force was propelling her toward the doors.  Clara moved forward.  She gave the back door a push that wasn’t strong enough to close it. 

         Clara lit another match.  As it ignited, she spotted something moving toward her from the basement.  Muffling a scream and dropping the matches, she retraced her route through the kitchen. 

         A door slammed shut.  Coats fell from the hooks in the entry.  The scene seemed to unfold like some slow-motion horror movie.

         Clara shimmied passed the refrigerator in what seemed an eternity.  She swayed and tripped over a kitchen table leg, sprawling across the wooden chopping-block.  She dropped to the floor, nearly crushing the fallen can of bug spray.  The figure lurched for her.  Clara aimed the can at its face and sprayed a stream of the stuff.  The assailant yelped, fell back, and raced through the entry and outside into the rain.

         Pulling herself up against the cabinets, she felt for the wall phone.  Clara had enough.  She needed to call the sheriff.  The line was dead.  The land line was down again—a common occurrence in this district. 

         Fighting against the effects of the sleeping pill, Clara sluggishly groped for the flashlight.  She didn’t need its light; she wanted a weapon.  Staggering to the upstairs bedroom, she searched to retrieve the cell phone.  She located the phone only to discover that its battery was too weak to use.  She was on her own.

         The wind pushed against the window panes.  She stood in the dark bedroom with a dead phone and in a dreadful panic.  At that moment she only prayed that her children were safe and that she might have time in her life to straight talk with Craig.

         The dull banging of a downstairs door electrified her.  Panting and jittering, Clara froze on one leg; her trembling limbs wouldn’t stop quivering. 

         The hall lamp came on; the walls glimmered in pink again.  The clock blinked 12:00.  The electricity was back on. 

Clara heard a distinct creak of the third hallway step.  Her first thought was about an intruder:  A burglar wouldn’t turn on electricity; he’d rely on darkness. Then she considered her returning husband: Wouldn’t be Craig; he’s always so noisy when he comes home.  She recalled how inconsiderate Craig always had been to sleeping folks.  Returning home, he always clomped through the house and woke up everybody.

         She heard the approaching noise on the stairs.  Her route to her children’s rooms was cut off.  I have to do something.  Working as quickly as possible, Clara stuffed the feather pillows in a row under the bed covers to resemble her sleeping body.  She grabbed the cell phone and flew into the closet door. 

         She peered through the slots of the closet door as a man’s silhouette in the rose light filled the doorway.  He entered the room.  Employing stealthy pas de chas, he slowly edged toward the bed.  The intruder hooded his black raincoat over his head, resembling Washington Irving’s Headless Horseman.  The large shape raised its arms, pulled itself up on tiptoes, and was ready to pounce onto the bed. 

         Clara flew out of the closet.  She flung the cell phone at the man’s head.  She heard a pronounced crack.  Either the instrument broke or the fellow’s skull split.  She didn’t care which one.  Clara was angry now.

         The raincoat fell to the floor, revealing a close-cropped blond head.  Craig!

         In her adrenaline rush, Clara squawked a howl, fluttered forward, and grabbed two solid claws full of his rump. 

         The man jumped in the air, wailing like a wounded walrus, and fell in a heap on the bed. 

         Clara snapped on the bedroom overhead light.  With terrified, puffed-red eyes, a perspiring Craig stared at her.  He whimpered while feeling the knob on the back of his blond head. 

         She cocked her head and narrowed a glowering, blood-in-her-eye squint at her prankster.  Clara commanded, “Craig, we need to talk.”

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