The Captive

30 08 2012

I’m writing about sounds this week as part of a challenge and thought this episode from my past might  be worth telling as it shows some ways that sounds influence our life, our emotions and our memories.

Port Arthur

Port Arthur (Photo credit: Mathew Knott)

In the late 60’s I moved  myself and my five children, a son and four daughters,    into a beautiful old 1920’s  house along the ship channel in Port Arthur,  Texas while my husband built office buildings in Houston.  He stayed with a brother there  during the work week coming home to us late  Friday then returning on  Sunday.  Through the rest of the week I was a ‘single’ Mom.  Money was tight so several things had been  postponed till later while we got the Port Arthur  household set up and the kids enrolled in school.  A phone  and a TV were  on the ‘postponed’  list but I’d grown up without either so it was not a big  deal.  The library was close  and we had neighbors.

For a family from the middle of Kansas it was like living a great adventure  in a foreign  country.  The  street our house sat on was lined with palm trees,  from our  front porch we could watch the barges and ships navigate the channel, feeling as  well as hearing the melancholy booms coming from  the horns of the passing ships.  The sea wall was within walking distance for a son who loved to fish.  The beach was a short drive away.

On one  side of the house lived  a tree  so overgrown with  entwining wisteria  it’s vines created a green, cool, intensely  fragrant  bower-like  cave. The kids spent many make-believe hours playing inside this enchanted space calling  it “Heaven”.  In the evenings after dusk the  songs of backyard crickets, cicadas  and frogs  blended with those of the ship  horns to create a comforting if not melodious background  to accompany our end of the day routines.

One evening, after we were all upstairs in bed, the kids quietened at least  if not quite asleep and me reading a book,  I heard a different kind of  sound. One I did not like.

Quietly, I put down the book and concentrated on listening very carefully.

Again I heard the familiar but disconcerting sound of wood slipping against wood. I thought back, going over all the steps in my ‘closing down the house’ routine. The doors were all locked – I was certain of that.  We’d had some windows open downstairs letting in a cool breeze.  Surely I’d checked, closed, and locked each window  on the sun porch and the kitchen.  But what about the ones on the back wall of the dining room or the living room? Unquestionably, I knew I had not checked every window downstairs.

Again that sound slithered through the quiet of the house.

Heart pounding I slipped out of bed and put on a house coat.  Remember, we had no phone, it was on the postponed list  and these were pre-911 days.  On silent feet I moved carefully across the hall to my son’s room knowing there was a baseball bat in a corner there.  Shaking him awake gently while telling him to keep quiet,  I whispered to him that I thought I had heard someone opening a window downstairs, I thought there was an intruder.  Retrieving the bat from a corner I told him my  plan, he was to stay close behind me as we moved down the stairs and towards the doors directly beyond the stairs.  When we got to the doors  he was to  run next door and get the neighbor while I stayed at the bottom of the stairs with the bat. You run no matter what happens, I told him, I have the bat and it will be enough till you get back with the neighbor.

Scared, filled with dread we made our way as noiselessly as we could through the dark, down the hall and carefully down the top three steps, me with the bat, my son right behind me when once again that slipping sound wedged itself into us.

“Mom, it that what you heard? It that the noise that scared you?” my son whispered.

“Yes.”  I nodded in the dark.

 “Mom, that’s my frog.”

“What?”  me, not quite  so quietly.

“My frog”  he said again “the one I’ve got in the coffee can  in my closet. When he jumps,  he hits the lid of the coffee can and it moves a little bit across the floor and it  makes that noise. Come on – I’ll show you.”

End of that  story.

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3 responses

30 08 2012
sjlewis39

Thanks – I seem to be better with a remembered story than an imagined one,

30 08 2012
Judith Robl

Love it!!!

30 08 2012
bottledworder

Great ending 🙂 You are a good storyteller.

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