Canville Communications: Article
I know that the false window on the face of my grandparents’ home
serves only decorative purposes. As a child, however, I could
not fathom the concept that a window would not have a corresponding
room. But, try as I might, I could never find the secret room
that belonged to it.
I stared at that window for several minutes. The house had stood
empty for the past ten years, as the family could not agree on
what to do with it. Finally, everyone decided to put it on the
market. Each of us took our turns in the house, saying our final
good-byes and taking our last mementos before the auction.
Walking through the old place felt surreal. Things remained almost
exactly as they had been when my grandparents last lived there.
It seemed as though I had taken a step backward in time, but everyone
had already moved forward, leaving only stillness behind.
I walked through each room, pausing to relive memories. At last,
I had come to the final place to reflect, the basement. I had
never much cared to go down there alone, but this being my last
opportunity, I went down the stairs.
The basement seemed smaller and better lit than I remembered.
A thin layer of dust offered the only indication that no one had
been there for quite some time. At the far end of the basement,
I saw the white door, with a small window, covered by a curtain
on its opposing side. I had never before dared to open that door,
and could not recall anyone ever going into that room in all the
times I had visited.
Cautiously, I entered the room, which turned out to be a small
hallway. A wooden chair stood in the corner with a pink pillow
for a seat. Two doors at opposite ends of the wall faced me. Instinctively
I knew they both opened into the same room, though I could not
recall ever having been in this room or the other.
I opened the door to my left and stepped into a sun porch. Diffused
daylight entered the room through hazed windows. In the corner
nearest me, I saw the old red wagon I had played with as a child.
A stack of old, unfamiliar books rested in its hold. Atop the
books sat a teddy bear–my teddy bear. Its eyes simple buttons lovingly
sewn on by my grandmother after the originals had been lost. He
wore an old shirt that had no longer fit me. How could he be here? Last I remembered, I had him stored in a box in my closet at
home.
An old wooden plane, battle-scarred from years of play, sat on
the window shelf. I recognized it as the plane my father had built
as a child, though I can not explain how I knew that.
A nearby box contained Christmas ornaments my mother had used
to decorate her first Christmas tree away from home.
I explored this priceless treasure trove of memories until I came
to the realization that the house had no basement windows. Where did the light come from?
I walked across the room to a door that led outside, opened it,
and stepped outside into a backyard that I had never seen before.
Trees scattered everywhere the eye could see. Grass stretched
across the horizon. I turned to look at the room I had just left.
I saw an aged sun porch of white wood and old aluminum windows
that looked like something built in the 1940’s. I followed a sidewalk
around the porch to the front of the house.
Nothing looked familiar–it didn’t look like my grandparents’ home
at all. Where could I be? The sidewalk led into a driveway and to the street. To the right,
a winding gravel road faded into the hills, where a castle appeared
in the distance. To the left, a paved road carried on into a small
town.
I chose to go left. After about a mile’s walk, I came into the
center of town. Friendly people greeted me as I strolled curiously
past the stores and shops. Men wore suits and hats and women wore
hats and pretty dresses. They curtseyed while the men tipped their
hats. I found that, I too, wore a hat and a suit. Kids whisked
by on bicycles, scooters and skateboards. The cars, what few I
saw, were old models from the 1950’s.
Curiously, when people wished me a good day, they frequently addressed
me as “Mayor.” I later learned that my grandfather had served
as the prior mayor, and that, unbeknownst to me, I had been elected
to the office.
Where is this place? What is this place? I stopped asking those questions long ago. I could not let this
place fall into anyone else’s hands, so I bought my grandparents’
home. Sometimes, I go outside and look at that false window. Though
it does not belong to a secret room, it is a reminder to me that
there are false windows that lead to nowhere, and real windows
that lead to somewhere. A few of us know that secret. We live
false lives, and no one else realizes it. While others fear imaginary
monsters in their basements, we enter our basements to escape
the real monsters outside.
“Hidden Away” is an original story by Dan C. Rinnert. Photograph
by Dan C. Rinnert. Copyright 2004 by Canville Communications.
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Hidden Away
