1995

 

     The day I found the portal was the day of my mother’s funeral. I’d hidden in the old garage to escape–well, everyone. Grandma Bert vacillated between weepy tears and snapping at us all for our inattention. Me especially. As if, had I listened, life wouldn’t have turned out the way it did. One minute, she held me close, pressing me deeply into her powdered bosom, moaning about how things weren’t supposed to go this way. The next, she’d clicked her tongue at my supposed attitude and the speck of dirt on my dress hem. I was to sit there without moving. There would be no fun or stolen moments of joy. 

     Grandpa Milton had done what he’d always been known to do - obey his wife. It was his job to answer her every beck and call. Not speak. His tired eyes seemed to know the day was coming, like an angel had personally delivered him the news. Pawpaw moved with purpose, without showing any hint of grief or dismay. He shuffled around the house, fixing what needed to be fixed, without complaint. It was just how life was. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. 

      I, on the other hand, was somewhere straddling the fence somewhere between my grandparents. My dearly departed mother, Alice, had been mostly a stranger. The kind of well-dressed, distant relative who only showed up on random holidays. Like the CME church goers who only attended Christmas, Mother’s Day and Easter services, Alice felt more like a pretty older sister. One who’d grown up and left the house before you were even old enough to realize she had even been there.

     Grandma Bert dropped a bowl of chunky oatmeal on the table in front of me. “Try to eat something, it’s gone be a long day. Since I ain’t making nothing for the repast, I don’t know what it’s going to look like.” There were several church matrons who could cook just as good, if not better than her, but there would be no convincing her. We’d eat and smile about it, whether the food was well prepared or not.

     “You gone be alright today.” It came out something like a statement with the hint of a question.

     I spooned a mouthful of the milky oatmeal. I was already alright. 

     Grandma Bert shuffled across the linoleum, her heavy gait making a sweeping sound. “You know yo mama didn’t leave you because she wanted to.”

     “Then why did she?”
     Grandma Bert looked me over, as if trying to assess the smartness in my question. After everything, I deserved an answer. “I don’t know Pheelie. She left because she had to.”

      I nodded as if I understood, like I didn’t have a hole gaping in my throat and stomach. The sadness running through me wasn’t what I’d missed out on. It was more about what I’d never get. 

      Alice had dropped me off at my grandparent’s country stoop when I was four, with the half-hearted promise that she’d come back for me. She only needed to work for a few years to make enough money to take care of us. The few memories I did have of us were dark and thick as molasses. Eight years later, I was still under Grandma Alberta’s care and Alice was gone.

     The front door opened and shut. I ate my oatmeal. Mrs. Peters, with her head full of gray hair and austere black crepe entered. She zeroed in on me.

     “Good Lord chile, will you ever know how much your mother truly loved you?” Mrs. Peters, one of Grandma Bert’s friends, bent at the waist, over me and my bowl, and pulled me tightly to her bosom. Her eyes were filled with the sadness mine were missing.

      “Now Elsie, don’t rile the girl up. Today will be hard enough without you adding to it.” Grandma Bert grabbed my empty bowl, then indicated toward the door. “Go on outside and get some fresh air. Don’t go too far and stay out of the dirt, for heaven’s sake. We’re leaving here in ten minutes. I don’t want to have to come looking for you.”

      “I ain’t even say nothing to the girl, but give my condolences,” Mrs. Peters said. She patted my hair, then fell into the seat I vacated.

     “Thank goodness you’re here, I need you to help me get my mind right.” Grandmother Bert, shuffling back to the stove, leaving me to do as she bid.

     The last place I wanted to be was frying under the humid June sun. My scalp started sweating in the direct sun, curling up the roots of my freshly pressed hair. It needed to last longer than a few hours, lest I risk her wrath again. Sitting on the porch swing would be inviting someone to talk to me. With all the people coming and going, I didn’t want to entertain any conversation. Even if my favorite cousin Animal showed up, I’d rather hide. Walking through the manicured lawn, around pockets of crabgrass and errant weeds, the back of the house was no better. Animal’s daddy, my uncle Jerrold, was lighting up the cigarette he rolled himself, with another man I didn’t know. Jerry was one of the funniest people I knew, but Grandma Bert always told me “if I was to find myself alone with him to go somewhere else.” His gruff laugh sounded, easy and welcoming, but I backed around the corner before he could call my name.

      The soft earth squished beneath my Mary Janes while I wandered. 

      With my mama, the time that I remembered being with her, we lived in the city on the corner of Twelfth Street and Congress Avenue. The intersection was a busy amalgamation of honking cars and city buses with squealing brakes. Men stood on street corners, calling to everyone that passed, known and unknown. The squat two room apartment Alice and I shared wasn’t big enough to turn around in. 

      Grandma and Grandpa Miller’s house was almost like moving to a different country. They had an entire house, backyard, and side lot where Grandpa grew all the fruits and vegetables that made an appearance every night on our plates. Every summer I watched the corn and beans grow over me, in apparent sun worship. The jaunts to the corner store for candy and chips turned into solitary ambles through the path to the blueberry bush. 

      As much as the garden called to me, I turned my back and wandered over to the garage at the end of the long, crumbling driveway. Backing up to the tall privacy fence, the garage seemed safe. Dark, yet cool. Quiet enough for me to be alone, yet close enough to hear my name being called. 

     The side door stuck on a piece of rising concrete when I tried to open it, stopping wide enough for me to slip through.

Most of the inside was taken up by Granddaddy’s tan Oldsmobile. He hadn’t driven it in years, the battery long dead, and front hood sporting a thick coat of dust. I walked around it, dragging the tips of my fingers over the cool metal, trying to avoid tripping on wires and the lawn mower which had been pushed in haphazardly.

     I’d gone about three-quarters of the way around the car when I saw it.

     Hidden in the back corner, behind all the tools, a heavy wood frame had been artfully cut like the cartoon mouse’s doorway I'd seen on Saturday mornings. The top of the entry reached up to my twelve year old knees, and bowed out in the perfect arc. A stack of wood boards had been hammered together, in a makeshift doorway. Intrigued, I kicked the door to find it easily gave way. I peeked my head in the entrance, expecting to see a cupboard filled with archaic junk. On the other side though, a dim tunnel with another paneled wood door at the end appeared, an additional entry and exit to the shed. A secret link that had to have been cut to the Anderson’s property on the other side of the fence. The tunnel was only about two feet wide and tall, tiny enough that I’d have to crawl to reach the door, but long enough to contain my entire body.

     If I had to explain why I climbed through the hole that very first time, I don’t know that I’d be able to find the right words. It was there and I didn’t want to be anywhere else. Outside, the garden had been too warm and bright. Jerry laughed like he was having fun, like we weren’t headed to the church to say our goodbyes. The circular entrance seemed like the perfect place to while away quiet time away from the family. 

      At first, I thought it was a gift, specially carved out for me to play in. Grandpa Milton would do that sometimes, arrange a surprise for my amusement. While the rest of the shed was filled with metal equipment and his gardening implements, the inside of the hole was clean and empty. 

      I ran back to the open garage door, where sunlight streamed in. Where my mother waited to be buried, and the ten minutes ticking down my neck. There was time. I only wanted to crawl through the tunnel and see what was on the other side. Then I would come right back.

     With a sharp inhale, I paused. No one called my name. Nothing moved. I knelt on the dirt floor, crawled into the wood arch, dragging my stockings along the soft dirt floor. The closer I moved to the end, the sharper my focus became. Surely there was a pirate’s buried treasure or something more interesting on the other side, otherwise it wouldn’t be closed. My heart gave off deeper pitter patters, as the tunnel closed around me, enveloping my entire body. I got to the end and realized there was no knob or handle, so I gave it a half-hearted push with my fingertips, not expecting too much. It was the back of the garage. 

      The wood end creaked and swung away from me, as if on a hinge. Peeking my head on the other side, was a shed identical to Grandpa Milton’s, except empty. Dim light streamed in from the misplaced wood beam on the far end. The scent of dirt flooded the room with nothing else to compete. The large garage doors didn’t fit flush, but rather leaned on each other like two drunks. 

I crawled all the way through the tunnel, swinging the door up behind me to stand to my full length in the clean empty. Even to this day, I can remember thinking that I’d never been to the backside of the garage and didn’t realize how big and spacious it was. There was no way Grandma or Grandpa could use the other side. Neither of them would fit through the tunnel, which meant it was made for me. 

      Sauntering confidently in what I’d decided would be my new secret hangout, I yanked the main entry door open to find my grandparents' home missing. It was daytime, but a dark rainstorm thundered, making it impossible to see further than five feet outside the door. Not that there was anything to see. Only swaying trees, fighting with the wind and tall grass. I pushed my arm straight in front of me, letting the cold droplets pelt my arm. 

Feeling like I’d found the end, I pulled the main door closed, buffeting myself from torrential downpour. There was nothing in the shed that would keep my hair from getting wet, so I took a deep breath and rushed back through the tunnel. After pulling and pushing the smaller doors closed, I beat a path to the house, only to find the sun. Shining. Proud like it’d never leave. The warmth stopped me in my tracks, rendering me frozen.

      A second ago, the water had been torrential. I’d dried my hand on the hem of my dress, the hem which was still wet. I held out the same arm up to the sun, wondering if losing my mother was making me lose my mind.

      “Ophelia, I been looking all over for you. What were you doing in that dusty shed?” Grandma Bert's voice carried across the yard. The entire family stood together on the side of the house; her, Grandpa Milton, Jerrald, and even cousin Frankie. They all looked at me standing there, with a mixture of pity, curiosity and fondness. None of them were immune to Grandma’s fussing, being on the receiving end of one of her lectures. Still, it was embarrassing, especially for everyone to watch.

      “I found more space in the shed. It’s on the other side of the tunnel. It was raining.”

      “Chile, get on in here. You’re worried about the wrong thing right now. Your damn granddaddy don’t need no more space in that shed. He needs to be getting rid of some of that shit, but now ain’t the time to talk about it.”

      “Now how did I get in it?” Grandpa Milton asked.

Grandma and Grandpa got to bickering, distracted everyone, which is how that ended up being the last time I talked to anyone about the shed.