Seeking Oxygen

Bernie’s shiny lips curled up at the corners as she caught herself in the antique bathroom mirror, while quickly brushing through her thick, wavy hair, now beginning to fade into muted shades of brown and gray with wisps of white framing her lightly-wrinkled oval face. A sultry, late spring breeze wafted through the old casement window, teasing open her opaque black gown and baring the skimpy bodice stretched over her still ample breasts. She relished stoking the smoky fire in her hazel eyes, while lusting for her husky younger man.

“Jim, I’ll be right there!”

“Okay, I’m w-a-i-t-i-n-g!”

They had spent a year and four months remodeling the old white, two story farm house, built before the turn of the century. It would have cost less to tear it down and rebuild, Jim had told her, but Bernie had fallen immediately in love with the huge, decaying hulk of a house—it was the just reward for one of their Sunday morning house-hunting forays, this time, into an old upper middle-class Long Beach enclave. Bernie and Jim had married right after college and had been anxiously working for more than a decade to purchase their dream home and then hopefully start a family, and this house spoke to them palpably on both of these matters—it seemed an incredibly comfortable nest to pepper with a brood of little ones.

Satisfied she was finally ready for her husband, Bernie switched off the bathroom light and barefooted, she padded down the hall into the front, master bedroom. The darkness lifted slightly as she was helped on her way by an enormous moon that glowed through the ancient double pane, double hung windows facing the street, windows open to welcome the warm California night air that gave the shear, billowing gold curtains an eerie sheen. By now, having waited long enough, Jim was starting to feel a slight chill and got out of bed, quickly moving to swoosh one of the windows shut as Bernie reached her side of the bed close to the right wall, slid in quickly and put her arms out to welcome Jim back to bed. Meanwhile, his final footstep revealed yet another squeaky floorboard —he was making a mental note to detail this on his lengthy list for their carpenter—as Bernie kissed him hungrily, and soon made the floorboard and all the other pesky problems of the day instantly melt away.

And so it was by now already after the stroke of midnight, and this couple had just fallen into post-coital oblivion, the reward for this Saturday well-spent working on their new home. The shear curtain panels lay still and the last fragrant whiffs of the freshly-extinguished lavender candle hung in the warm air, mingling with the pungent aroma of Bernie and Jim. Actually only a few moments of bliss had come to pass, by now, when Jim roused gently at first, then his eyes flew open.

“Oh my God, Bernie, did you leave something burning downstairs?” Jim sat up quickly, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke filling his lungs: he was the light sleeper and early in their marriage he had, by dint of professional training, assumed the role of family safety guru, an easy fit for a Construction Engineer. Now he quickly swung his tall, hardened frame over the side of the bed, as Bernie mumbled, “No…Hon…,” and then she heard something that prickled the damp hair on her neck and jolted her wide awake.

“LISTEN, Jim,” she hissed, reaching for his arm, “Come HERE.” She clutched for him but wasn’t fast enough.

Meanwhile a strange and obvious din had seeped its way up into the second story. The frightened couple could make out many voices talking animatedly, crackling with laughter—a well-attended and raucous party was obviously fully underway downstairs in the living room beneath the master bedroom. Things grew quiet for a few moments as someone seemed to be telling a story; this was followed by huge waves of laughter sparkling with the tinkle of glasses raised and joined in inebriated camaraderie, as though sanctifying some ancient and special celebration. A piano joined in—a badly out-of-tune upright piano whose player was using a heavy foot on all three peddles. The tinny bar room sounds of an old wartime melody, “It’s Three O’clock in the Morning,” vibrated through the thin floor of the upstairs bedroom. At the sound of music, Jim had hopped back into bed and he and Bernie clung together fiercely, chilled in spite of the heat, until they realized they were suffocating from the humidity and the terror. Neither of them breathed, afraid of making a sound.

Finally, Jim offered in a raspy whisper something about “checking it out.” The first stair off the upstairs landing seemed a mile away as he, with a shaking Bernie glued to his back, tip-toed together, inching down the carpeted narrow staircase to the second landing which turned at a ninety degree angle towards the front door below. From there, in a crouched position, it was easy for them to peek through the stairs across the entry hall, through the closed French glass doors and into the living room which was huge and long, pushed out on two sides by large bay windows. Bernie and Jim had fallen hard for the old-fashioned promise of roomy window seating, trendy opaque mini-blinds and a newly restored fireplace in the corner to the right. They had been lovingly customizing the crusty old place, but as the two stretched themselves around the landing curve, trying not to fall down the stairs and reveal themselves, what they saw was anything but what they had been busy creating. The walls of the hall and the living room were now all a pale shade of faded pea green, not fresh Navajo white; the windows were hung with limp, unbleached café curtains, no mini blinds in sight, and there were no window seats—a forest green 50s horsehair sofa with blond legs stretched in front of one bay and a lavender-brocaded Duncan Phyffe wingback chair sat in royal, otherworldly splendor, setting off the other bay window. Several pieces of mixed-period furniture choked the room—a maple, five foot round coffee table anchored it, as it sat in the middle of a faded oriental hook rug. The faux fireplace, painted the same color now as the walls, looked receded and its none-working part, which had since been refurbished, was now closed off with a brass screen. Against all of this new décor, warming the furniture and filling the heavy pottery ashtrays were couples of varying ages, dressed in 50s evening garb, the women sporting Marilyn Monroe and Dorothy Lamar hairdos, the men’s hair flatly pomaded as was all the rage in the later part of that decade.

Jim absorbed everything while searching anxiously for something to anchor his sense of reality to. Bernie considered for an instant that perhaps this really was a weird dream, except that she really, really knew somehow that both of them were fully awake and that she was all alone in that tight, painfully conscious space between perceiving and disbelief, right before horror takes hold. On one level both of them were mesmerized; on another, they were irritated; the awful smoke would certainly take a while to get rid of; at least now they had a reason for it. Jim wondered if he should have insisted on tearing down the old house. He really wanted the two of them to have sole ownership. What a crazy thought! Would building from the ground up have been a solution? Hell. What was the problem here? He knew that an old place could be a nightmare on many levels—here was one more to add to his list.