The Ritual of Light
by Susan Landgraf
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I open the door to the basement of the home where we live while our father builds the two-story house above our heads; I step down, down the wooden steps without handrails. The musty basement smell reaches up and envelops us, my two sisters and I, home from school. We are stairsteps, the three of us–ten, nine, seven–and we are on our own on a remote stretch of road a mile south of Lake Erie. Our mother is still at work as a secretary at a chemical plant, our father at his job—or not, maybe he’s in a tavern.
I am the keeper of the flock, the eldest, charged by my father to be the boss for the two hours until he or our mother comes home. On weekends we can go outside to swing on the rope-and-board swing under the pear tree or wheel our doll babies in their strollers down the long driveway. When my parents are home, the basement fills with the smells of frying chicken or chili and the clink of dishes and silverware as my mother cooks. Sometimes, we play games with the sounds of our father sawing and hammering above our heads. Sometimes, we crouch in our beds to get away from his shouting. But during the week we have to stay indoors, and my job as the boss is to check the basement to make sure no one has broken in. In the winter when the sun falls early in the day, you can’t see much. The seven window wells, typical of cellars in 1940s Ohio houses, let in only small rectangles of light that don't fall far enough to reach the floor. Our bedroom, to the left of the stairs, contains Sharon’s single bed and a double bed with a board down the middle to keep Linda and me from rolling into each other during the night. The chenille bedspreads lay smoothed like white rafts. To the right of the stairs, the kitchen is the brightest room. It has three windows and two overhead bulbs; I stand on a chair and pull the chains. The kitchen gleams: its washtub sink set on a metal stand, the white-faced stove and refrigerator, the green Formica table and chrome-legged chairs. “Change your clothes first,” I tell my sisters. “I have to go,” Sharon says, dancing on one leg. I check the bathroom, the only room with a door. It holds a flush toilet. We wash our hands in the washtub and take our baths once a week in the claw-footed tub at my grandmother's. “Okay,” I tell Sharon, who bolts inside as I continue with my job. I give my parent's room a once-over, stopping to touch my mother’s matching silver mirror, brush, and comb set. They sit in their mirrored tray like an altar, the silver plate cold. I know rich women have such sets; they own thick rugs like clouds and built-in bathtubs and painted cups. They don't need to keep their coats on until the rooms warm up. I turn on the two floor lamps in the living room and feel warmer in the two soft pools of yellow light cast on the braided rag rug, a corner of the blue couch, and the radio on top of the oval table. I am building up my courage. Finally, I grip the flashlight and step into the far north end of the basement where no light enters. Cool and dark in the summer, frigid and dark in the winter, my head fills with the smell of oil and the hum of the furnace. I inch forward and flash my light behind the furnace and hot water heater. When I step back out, it’s warm enough to take off our coats. I fix a snack: Oreo cookies and milk or a bowl of Cheerios. “Hang your clothes up,” I tell Linda and Sharon when we’re done. “You haven't changed your clothes yet,” Linda says. “But I’m the boss.” “You're not the boss,” she says. “You're not old enough.” “Yes, I am.” I move closer and stand up taller. “You're supposed to mind. We’ll all get in trouble if you don’t.” She steps back. “I'm scared,” Sharon whimpers. “Didn't you see me check the house?” I snap. A stern voice in my head says to check it again to make sure. Maybe there’s a snake hiding under the furnace. I don’t want to go check again. I don’t want to go back into the inky dark. I want to return to the book under my pillow, The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew. Page after page, the words are where I want them to be. I want Sharon to stop crying. I want a chandelier with lots of bulbs and shimmering crystals over my head. I want somebody to give me a coat with a fuzzy collar, and tell me how brave I am. |
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Susan Landgraf’s Journey of Trees will be published in May 2024. Crossings was published by Ravenna Press as part of its Triple series in 2022. She was awarded an Academy of American Poets’ Laureate award in 2020, which resulted in a book of Muckleshoot Indian Tribe poetry to be published by Washington State University Press. Other books include The Inspired Poet, What We Bury Changes the Ground, and a chapbook titled Other Voices. More than 400 of Susan’s poems have appeared in Nimrod, Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Margie, Third Wednesday, Calyx, Rattle, and others.
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