Some kind of a noise. Or a nudge, a push.
Probably both. A “Babe, babe,” together with or followed by, enough of a jostle to wake me up while trying not to startle me.
“Sorry,” Michelle said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
I startle easily. I gasp, my body jolts; everything a sudden burst of confusion.
“I mean. I did mean to wake you. But I was trying to wake you without startling you.”
It felt like I’d awoken mid-dream. Like maybe even the dream had woken me.
I couldn’t remember the dream. Lost to the startle.
“Do you hear that?” Michelle said.
I looked at the clock. 2:41 a.m.
“There’s something in the attic,” she said. “I think it’s a squirrel.”
I looked at Michelle. My what am I supposed to do about it look.
She gave me her you’re supposed to go fix it / take care of it / at least check on it look back.
“You’re supposed to go fix it,” Michelle said. “Take care of it. Check on it. Get it out of there, ideally.”
*
On the chair next to the wall panel that pulls away to access our attic is a pile of paint-splattered pants, a two-sizes-too-large long sleeve t-shirt, a pair of old running shoes 100 miles past their recommended lifespan, a pair of work gloves, and a baseball hat that had looked cool in the store but didn’t fit my head right and so I’ve never actually worn in public. My attic clothes.
I changed out of my pajamas and into my attic clothes, moved the wall panel to the side. Grabbed the LED lantern from under the chair, turned it on and hung it on the nail on the closest beam inside the attic.
Two years ago, we had a leak. I figured out how to crawl into that small attic space — bending and folding my body through the access hole, walking and crawling on the beams so I didn’t fall through drywall. Six months later, squirrels. I set up a trap, fixed two holes where I thought they’d probably gotten in. Hadn’t heard from them again, so presumably I’d been right. Then, another leak. Different spot. Another makeshift fix. Months later, the first leak returned, makeshift fix proved makeshift indeed. Home ownership!
No new or returned leaks for a little over a year, but now another squirrel. Now, too, the attic clothes at the ready. The lantern. The being able to get into attic with swiftness and ease.
It could have been the same squirrel, returned. Didn’t really matter. New or same, it was the same problem.
*
The trap was still there, about halfway between access hole and furthest corner of the attic. Still set, Little Debbie’s oatmeal cookie I’d read was good trap food still resting behind the trap wall.
Moving toward the noise Michelle had told me to fix, to take care of, to check on, the roof sloped down. The space in the attic got smaller, tighter. Darker. No squirrel, but evidence of one — insulation torn to shreds, pushed and gathered into bunches. Black walnut husks scattered around.
I turned, looked back where I’d come. Couldn’t see anything. The lantern was off, the access hole… closed?
*
In the pitch black, I thought about this home. Homes, in general. The idea of homes.
Homes are full of pain, hassle. Ache.
I pushed the ideas and words around. Gathered them.
Homeache. Hasslepain.
Home is where the heart is, the saying came to mind.
The heart is wherever it feels most at home, I thought.
An ouroboros of home and heart, heart and home, all scattered.
*
I crawled along the beams, retracing my steps. Retracing my crawls.
I crawled and crawled and crawled and crawled and crawled.
I hadn’t crawled this long or this far in the first place?
The attic wasn’t this big?
*
Everything was so dark.
Home is where the dark is?
Dark is where the ache is?
Noises are where the startles are?
*
I curled up, exhausted. It was so, so dark. I was so, so, so tired.
*
I awoke, startled.
In my dream, I’d been surrounded by darkness. Trapped. Forgotten. I was calling out, making noises, wondering why no one could find me. Why no one would save me.
*
I crawled through the attic, trying to orient myself. Trying to make sense of the space. Back and forth, side to side. Circles. Again, in reverse — circles in the other direction, other side to other side, forth and back.
I scratched at the floor, scratched at the walls.
I called out for someone to save me.
I pushed, I nudged. I made all kinds of noises.
_________
Aaron Burch is the author of A Kind of In-Between and Year of the Buffalo, among others, and the editor of Short Story, Long and HAD. His next book, TACOMA, is forthcoming from Autofocus Books. He’s online lots of places, including here: www.aaronburch.net. He recommends “It Smells Like Dead Girls in Here” by Skyler Melnick in the hex archives.