The Voice

When it was windy, the house rattled. The windows in the library (we called it the library). Where the big bookcase was. The kitchen rattled, too. Wind in the vents above the stove. I didn't like the sound. It reminded me of a busy signal, a message not getting through. A lonely sound.

I remember being in the kitchen, getting something. Peeling an orange, I think, standing in front of the sink. The Davises' clothesline next door was humming. The wind got trapped in the stove vent, and then the sound went hollow, like it was squeezing itself through. And it said, "Do you?" I heard those two words, in the wind in the house. "Do you?"

Did I what? It said it again. A woman's voice, or maybe a child's. It was almost formless, a faint whistle at the beginning. "Do you?"

I dropped the orange on the counter and backed away from the stove. When I was a kid, my fears were a frayed screen. Anything could get through to me. I hadn't lost all of that (I guess you could call it) openness. My mind was flexible, and if it had to fold to fit some new fear, it would. I kept my eyes on the stove. I heard the blood racing through my ears. The clothesline buzzed.

The wind talked again: “Do you?” The voice was getting clearer. The voice knew I was there. My heart bounced up and down, jumping with the startled branches outside. I took a step toward the stove. Do I what? I was maybe a foot away. The trees were waterfalls.

The wind said, "You will." The clothesline sang Amen and the wind died, and it wasn't long enough before I heard the voice again.