I'll be reading this piece tomorrow night, April 13, at the "read-around" held in the Quaker Meeting House. It's an evening that celebrates the voices of the women who have been part of Women Writing for a Change this semester.
The Cottage Door
She stood framed in the cottage door a small girl with brown curls holding close a small doll with brown curls, watching as her father tightened the last strap on the car top carrier. The 1953 Buick was fully packed and sank strangely close to the ground. It was time to go.
Her eyes fell to the narrow board that formed the bottom edge of the old wooden screen door. A familiar spur of excitement welled up. She laid her doll on the kitchen counter and took the screen door handle in her hand. She carefully placed her small canvas shoe at just the right angle on the board, rested all her weight on it, leaned into it, and swung open with the door. The door spring screetched and stopped at full swing, then quickly swung closed, bringing her back and ready to swing open again. She remembered her Mother’s warning that it wasn’t good for the door to swing on it but knew she was allowed to do it a few times so she leaned back into the swing. Her older brother caught the door at full swing and she lost her footing and slipped down on to the step. His eyes looked huge behind his thick, black rimmed glasses, “Don’t make Mom come and get you”, he said as he turned and walked towards the car. She saw her mother open the car door and her two older sisters climb into the back seat.
She looked back into the small cottage, now strangely quiet and dim. The refrigerator door stood open. The bucket they used to carry water from the camp well was turned upside down on the kitchen counter. The round wooden pedestal table stood empty and all six chairs were in place around it. She looked across the room and could just make out the pink floral cover on the day bed where her parents always slept. She glanced towards the tiny bedroom. It’s very dark in there she thought. She quickly stepped back outside the cottage door.
Her father stepped in front of her, pulled the inside door closed, and took a key out of his pocket. She heard the click of the lock. He took the screen door firmly in hand and closed it, then moved about the outside of the small cottage checking all the windows. She looked up at the weeping willow tree that stood just outside the cottage door and remembered the story about her father planting it when they first built the cottage. A willow is his favorite tree so it’s my favorite tree too she thought.
He walked past her on his way to the car. She felt a loneliness well up and suddenly remembered her doll lying on the kitchen counter. “Daddy, my doll”. He did not turn around and she watched as he moved to the front of the car and opened the hood. She saw her mother sitting in the car and ran to the open car door. She leaned over the seat and under the steering wheel and stretched both thin arms across the seat to her mother. “Mommy my doll is inside”. “Well, go back in and get it”. “I can’t, it’s locked” she cried. Her mother sighed, rolled down the car window and said, “Howard, she’s left her doll in the cottage”. “You’re such a baby” she heard her brother mumble from the back seat. Her father said nothing, closed the hood and began to walk towards the cottage.
She raced ahead of him, took the screen door in her hand and held it carefully so that it would stay just the right distance from him as he unlocked the door. The door opened and she stepped just inside the dark cottage. Looking up on the counter, she saw the shiny edge of the red cape she had dressed her doll in that morning. My doll has been all alone in the dark she thought as she lifted both arms and tenderly picked up her little doll. “Let’s go”, said her father. She held her doll close, stepped out of the cottage door, and looked to see her mother watching from the car. She ran to the open car door, crawled up on the seat, and carefully nested her doll just between herself and her mother.
