Escape From Witch Mountain

An excerpt from my blog...

The air in the house is still, the whir of the portable air conditioners droning on in the master bedroom down the hall.  They’re all in there, sound asleep, he sees a light under the door but not the sound that people make, only the machine that lulls them to sleep in this mausoleum that reeks with despair.  Careful not to make a sound he steps his way down the stairs, careful to tread lightly a difficult feat with his very flat feet.  He doesn’t want to make a sound and arouse any suspicion.  In a way, the new Ukrainian girlfriend is a blessing, it has kept his father occupied and away from the house.  

 

He shudders to think of what is going on in the condo miles down the road that he remembers spending Saturday nights watching Batman and Robin, wondering why his Mommy and Daddy lived in two different houses.  He goes out the back, lugging his suitcases up the driveway, past the unfinished Olympic sized pool in the backyard, piles of rubble all around like headstones in the night, the ghosts of workers unpaid and disgruntled looking up at him as he walks past.  He tries not to look at what was supposed to be the dream home behind him and realizes this is likely the last time he’ll ever see it.  He makes his way to the mailbox, passing the old Farmhouse that stands on the hill, a hill that had always been a mountain to him for as long as he could remember.  Shutters hanging loose, once well kept rosebushes now wild and tangled, there is a whisper in the air, a good bye lingers in the slight breeze, the path ahead of him brightly lit under the full moon sky.  It is 2 AM, he is nervous, he looks around at the darkened houses, all estate homes, those kindly neighbors who shook their heads at the foreign family, the Russian and the Indian who didn’t seem to like pie.  Efforts at friendship long ago abandoned, now just concern about the children who live on the hill. 

 

Headlights rise out of the darkness, just beyond the wooded lane, and he feels his heart start to race as they slowly approach like a predator stalking its prey.  With a sigh of relief he sees the familiar white words stenciled on the side with the familiar swoosh of the Taxi company’s logo on the side of the car, reminding him of something similar and to him the familiar logo for the Washington DC area cab company represents a way out, and he thinks of another company that uses the slogan “Just Do It.” The driver sees him, he slows down and stops, the window glides down, “Dulles Airport?”   Luggage loaded in the back, safely ensconced in the confines of an air conditioned airport limo he is overcome with the knowledge that his childhood is lost forever.  As they pull away the driver hits the start button on the meter, the red lights glowing in the darkness of the night, “I’ll be paying by credit,” the driver nods but keeps his eyes on the road.  He turns to look out the window and swears he sees the bright yellow school bus lumbering toward the hill and a little boy getting off, making his way toward the dilapidated white picket fence.  But in an instant the image is gone, he looks at his cell, the time reads 2 am and there is no boy by the fence, there is only him.