=Unsafe House=

Unsafe House

It’s going to be a rough take-off, the runway falls off like a rollercoaster and then—well, that’s where you hope that hope has wings. You grip the armrests and prepare, not for the worst, but for the horizon. You are making your escape. If, that is, the plane isn’t rigged in the last scene to explode among the clouds. Some stories end like this, with every living witness eliminated, the secret kept. It was like being trapped inside an espionage novel, my childhood. There was a CIA agent who’d visit me every night when the house was quiet and I lay wide awake in bed. He spoke in urgent whispers of plots and poisons, disguises and assassinations. “Be careful,” he warned me, "of your father's closet, your mother's nightable drawer. Under the basement workbench are things you don't want to know. Tell no one anything you'd tell me. You’re very life depends on it.” I thought of my brother, sleeping in the bed beside mine. I listened for his breathing because that’s what it was like in that house. You never knew when you’d casually touch a shoulder over an armchair, say “hey,” and find someone you didn't recognize. The CIA man had backed away, dissolving into the shadows of the closet like a black Necco wafer. I thought I could make out the sound of my brother’s breath licking the air, a tiny candle-flame careful not to give off light. Was he in on it, too, I wondered? What was “it,” anyway? “Hey,” I longed to whisper into the listening dark. “Are you still up?” But I didn’t. You never knew what might answer.