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As I stand at the top of the steps, I hear voices from inside the house. The voices are muffled through the walls but still clear enough to make out words. A woman’s voice. She must be right on the other side of the door. She must not know that I am standing there, just about to knock.
“Get off my back, Mom. You know I don’t want to be here. Tom left us. We have no choice. I have two kids. I got laid off. I have nowhere to go. Just leave me alone.”
I knock on the door, first on the wood frame, then softly on the pane of glass. The house seems to react violently, like an allergic reaction to my knocking. A storm of violent noises erupts from inside.
A woman’s voice, a child’s voice, then another child’s voice, running, stomping sounds on creaky wooden floors. Then another woman’s voice which seems to shout deeper into the house: “Who’s at the door? I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
The curtain pulls back from the door, and a woman’s eyes appear in the shadow behind the glass, then disappear again behind the curtain. I hear a woman shout towards the door, “Sheriff already came through and warned us the access road might close with the flooding. We’re safe on the stilts. Go away.”
I put my face up to the glass window panes in the front door and shout into the glass, “I’m not with the sheriff. Can I talk to you, please?”
Then, in a smaller voice which seems to come from the bottom of the door, the woman’s voice speaks softly. “Just you be quiet while I answer this. Okay, Pumpkin?”
A woman opens the door. She looks 30ish. An oversized T shirt covers her to below her waist, billowing over a bulky pair of cargo shorts which come to her knees. The woman at the door wears stiff black, rubber boots, the kind of boots worn by someone who expects to step in water and wants to stay dry. I wonder why she’s wearing the boots inside the house. A small child’s face peeks out from over two handfuls of fingers which grip her cargo shorts. The child watches me carefully and curiously as I stand on the steps. Inside the house, I can hear another child crying, or maybe just screaming. Behind the woman at the door, inside the house, there is another voice, an older woman’s voice: “Who is it?”
The woman at the door looks down at my wet shoes and wet pant legs, and she takes in the puddle of water I am dripping on her steps. Then, she looks down at my car, parked in 6 inches of water in the driveway. She turns her head to face to scream into the house, “Mom, it’s some stranger, an old guy.”
“Who is it?” the voice shot back from inside.
“If you care so much then come see for yourself.”
Then, the woman at the door turns to face me. She doesn’t wait for me to speak. “If you’re not from the sheriff’s office, why are you here?”
“Excuse me,” I say, searching for words. I had expected to stew at this door, like I stewed at the other beach house doors, in quiet contemplation. But there is no silent reverie on these steps.
About Brian Rodan
