First Draft: The Cubby Hole

1.      I wiggled my way into the tiny, square hole in the wall. She followed. A “cubby hole” mom would call it. It used to be the base of our upstairs gas fireplace, but they didn’t like it. So they carved it out and coated the red-brick walls with the same pink carpet from the upstairs living room. There wasn’t enough, so the brick was showing on all the corners.

            The entire wall containing the hole was bare brick. Above the hole on this brick wall, Mom’s small wooden shelf was perched. On it laid a bi-fold wedding photo, a big, white, unused candle, a golden goose with a small bowl for a body, and a pair of massive toe-nail clippers sitting sideways inside the bowl-body of the golden goose. The hole was plenty big enough to fit my 8-year old body through—barely capable of allowing a full adult passage into its domain.  The room inside the hole was a strange shape—like a rectangle with a trapezoid on top of it and extra squares off of the sides. Despite being a tiny room, it was about eight feet tall (all the way up to the next floor). It was a secret place. A spying place.

            When Dad got home from winning another “3 on 3” tournament with Feeba, Ryan would follow me down into the cubby hole. I could put my arms and legs on the sides of the trapezoid part and Spiderman-climb all the way to the top, where the leftover metal tubes from the fireplace still dangled down on my head. Through the holes and tubes above me that led to the living room (which still appeared to have a fireplace in it), I heard every word Mom and Dad and Feeba would say to each other. I would climb down to my enamored friend and report the topics of discussion.

            They talked about Dad’s 3-point shot. They called him Dr. Nay. He almost never lost. They said he could have gone pro when he was younger. Dad was silent after that. They talked about us kids. They tapped on the fireplace when they knew I was listening. Mom never said much. She was glad he was home. Glad they had won. Sometimes, after Mom left to make supper or wash dishes, Dad and Feeba would talk about wives. I guess Feeba wasn’t very happy with his wife, and Dad would say encouraging things. He would say “be patient,” “they’re all the same,” “you got to learn to deal with it.” He would suggest they go out for a drink to let off steam.

            When they came for us, I climbed to the top and hid. Ryan curled into a tight ball in the right or left square, but parents’ hands could reach the squares. Feeba would drag her out and tickle her on the ground outside our oasis. I stayed hidden. No one could reach me there. I was safe. I had control. I would listen for the screen door to click closed from upstairs, still listening through the metal tubes and vent holes.

            One day, Ryan came running down to the basement yelling about Mommy and Daddy kissing. We were suddenly perplexed by this. We’d seen it a million times, but just now we thought of it. We thought of ourselves—a boy and girl just like Mommy and Daddy. We climbed into our secret space. We looked at each other, and we kissed. We were very proud. “Daddy! Me and Kolton kissed!” she exclaimed while voluntarily venturing out of the dark cubby hole. They weren’t quite sure what to say.

            A few years later, Mom thought the basement was too cold to do anything in. They installed a small furnace over the opening of the cubby hole. I tried to squeeze through once. I didn’t fit anymore.