We could have gotten into a lot of trouble, though this was no consideration at the moment. The possibility of an afternoon of illegal entertainment versus sitting around and watching television overrode any thoughts of parental retribution or even the danger of an abandoned house itself; in fact, there is hardly anything which is more intoxicating than the possibility of being caught. Small towns don't afford much in the way of entertainment, which encouraged the growth of imagination in some and the breeding of vice in others. Thinking spooky thoughts, we imagined all sorts of things as we struggled up the steps of the condemned house.
The steps of the house were concrete, the only thing not rotting, a stark contrast to the porch, which was peppered with fist-sized holes and completely unstable. Loree's wheelchair was proving to be quite an obstacle and we were having some difficulty scaling the porch. When the wheelchair tipped backwards on the second step, I was lucky enough to grab the handle to keep her from falling. This only made the house more appealing to us. In our minds, something in the house wanted to keep us outside.
"Nice save."she said. She nodded in the direction of the door. "Kinda creepy, huh?"
"Yeah." I crossed my eyes and wiggled my fingers at her. "Wooooooo."
"Whatever."
On the porch we looked in through the windows, the broken panes as toothless as creepy Charlie at the Luckett's Mini-mart, the only man in town to openly drink his breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I poked at a shard of glass sticking up in the window. The glass came out easily and as I held it up to my face I could see the ripple it made of my surroundings.
�See, that�s how you know it�s old,� I explained. �when they used to make glass it wasn�t totally flat, or sometimes it rippled because of gravity.�
�Whatever. Push me inside.�
I opened the door and rolled her inside. It was filthy, old, and empty. Nothing of interest, no mystery. The house was built below the floodline of a river, and the water hadn�t left anything behind of interest, nor had it washed the floor of debris. There was glass on the floor, knocked from the windows by rocks thrown inside. All the glass was wavy and old, none of it of any interest to my friend. Her father�s house was new, all the windows flat and sterile; cleaned regularly and framed with pretty curtains. Her father had even replaced the glass of the front door with clear plastic, so that the footrests of her wheelchair wouldn�t break through.
I t was a Saturday when I went to get the mail. The falling snow had discouraged anyone from venturing outside and retrieving it, but the warm hissing of the radiators and the sounds from the kitchen made the cold seem weaker. My older brother dared me to run to the mailbox and back barefoot, solid Norwegian stock that we were, it didn�t seem that hard.
The windows glowed yellow with warmth and protection, they looked so inviting as I rushed back in triumph from my dare. He was sitting on the couch laughing when I turned the knob of the door and found it locked. My feet were burning as he laughed, my clever older brother, and I pounded on the glass to be let in. His face rippled through the window and I pounded harder, my fist breaking through the antique pane. A warm prickling in my hand echoed my throbbing feet.
My parents ran in and as my father yelled, my mother opened the door and let me in with a disappointed look. My brother was crying and my father turned his attentions to me. As his face reddened with anger, I started to cry and felt a stream of blood pool in my clenched hand and fall onto the carpet. No one seemed to notice.
My father began ranting and as he reached a fever pitch, he grabbed the front of my shirt, throwing me to the ground. My hand opened as I hit the floor and I stained a small patch of the carpet as a splinter of glass was driven deeper into my palm. He finished yelling and stalked off to the kitchen, my mother following quietly after. They started to fight. My brother�s face was pinched and red.
�I�m sorry.�
I looked at the hole in the window, then over at him. Wiping my nose with my sleeve, I shrugged and waited for my mother.
She told me of the importance of the windows. How old the glass was and how difficult it would b for daddy to replace. I listened patiently as she bandaged my hand. Through the Bactine sting, I thought of how easy it had been to break the glass. It was so brittle, it had taken only a small amount of effort to punch a hole through.
Later that week a glazier fixed the window. He was brusquely efficient and already gone hours before my father returned from work. He filled the window with a flat, modern, perfect pane of glass, and its singularity dragged the eye toward it. Tapping experimentally on it, I found that it sounded different, harder than the others. I wondered how hard I would have to hit it, punching from the inside, when would it break? I would often sit in front of the door and wait for my father to come home, watching, as the cars sped by. Rippling underwater until they reached the third, perfect pane.
A crackle of glass under her wheels, Lori swung her legs back and forth. A chill wind swept through the empty house, the broken windows no barrier to the smell of snow. It was cold and I had left my mittens at home.
�There�s nothing here.� She blew into her hands. �Let�s go get a soda at the gas station on the way back.�
I toed at a rock on the floor.
�Sure. Charlie�s probably drunk, again.� I thought of the vodka I found in my father�s tool chest.
I picked up the rock. I squeezed my hand, feeling the cold stone against my scar. My mother had placed a potted plant over the stain on the rug, but when we sat down to dinner we all knew it was still there. Later, when the carpet was pulled up, the wood we found was rotting underneath.
I threw the rock through an unbroken pane of glass. Loree inhaled sharply. The birds outside stilled. I hadn�t noticed their singing.
�Oh, shit. Let�s get out of here. Someone probably heard that. Now we�ll get in trouble.�
I shrugged and pushed her carefully outside. We managed the porch with no incident. No one had heard me break the glass in the window, no one was looking out their window to see us struggle down the cement stairs. No one would be calling my house to tell my father what had done before I came home for dinner.
As we walked to the gas station, I thought of being caught for trespassing ,of my being responsible for breaking private property and endangering my handicapped friend. I would walk up my front steps, the windows glowing with home, and I would see my father waiting for me through a perfect scar of glass.
