“This is not some cliché horror movie bullshit,” he said aloud. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
There’s talking to yourself, and then there’s talking to an empty room, Alan thought. Let’s try to cut back on the latter.
Alan went down the narrow stairs and pulled himself through the little door to the closet. Down in the shop, he found his long straightedge. He would need it to compress the insulation for cutting. As he walked it through the house, he cursed himself for not dropping the rope down. The straightedge was probably too long to fit through the opening to the narrow stairs. He confirmed his fear quickly. He leaned the straightedge up against the wall and pulled himself through the opening.
I should tell Liz to quit the gym. She can get her cardio done right here, just climbing up and down the stairs to this damn attic.
Alan laughed as he began to climb the narrow stairs. He paused just before his head came up over the edge of the floor. He was certain what he’d see—the chair would be back at the window.
“I’m warning you,” he said. “You better be right there.”
The chair was still in the center of the room where he’d left it.
“Good boy,” he said.
Alan lowered the rope out the window.
He took the straightedge down to the yard and tied it to the end of the rope. At some point in the distant past, the straightedge had been a decent bubble level. Unfortunately, constant abuse in the form of dropping it, tripping over it, and accidentally hitting it with his hammer, had reduced its usefulness. These days, Alan just used the long piece of metal to draw lines on things he was about to cut.
“Hey, Dad,” Joe said.
“Hey, bud,” Alan said. “Good day at school? You’re early, aren’t you?”
“Nope,” Joe said. “Right on time.”
“You want to help me for a minute?”
“Sure. What do I do?”
“Go up in the attic and pull on the rope there. I’ll guide this thing away from the house so it doesn’t hit the bedroom window.”
“Okay,” Joe said.
Alan waited in the lawn for his son’s face to appear in the window. While he waited, he tied the level to the middle of the rope so he could tension the end and hold the level away from the house.
“Okay?” Joe asked.
“Pull slowly,” Alan said. “Try to keep the level from swinging.”
Joe hung out the window so he could hold the rope away from the bay window below. Alan held his breath as he tensioned the rope. All he could imagine was accidentally pulling his son through the window and watching him fall to the ground below.
“Don’t lean so much, Joe,” Alan said.
Joe was out the window so far that Alan could see his belt.
“It’s okay, Dad. I have my foot hooked around this thing,” Joe called back. “Besides, the rope is tied up here.”
“Joe, the rope isn’t going to stop you from falling. Back up,” Alan said.
He let up his slack on the rope. When Joe was a little kid, he always wore the same funny face when he was trying to learn something new. He looked up and left, squeezed one eye shut, and stuck his tongue out to the side. It was the same look when he tried to learn to balance on a snowboard, kickflip a skateboard, turn a cartwheel, or jump rope. He had that look now. Alan pictured him biting off the tip of his tongue as he bounced in the flower beds below the window.
“Come on, Joe.”
“I’m trying,” Joe said. “I can’t go back in. I’m stuck on something.”
For several seconds, Alan watched his son squirm in the window. He couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Okay, Joe, drop the rope and just hang on. I’ll come up and help you,” Alan said.
The straight edge banged against the side of the house as Joe let go of the rope. Joe had both hands back at the sill, trying to pull himself in. Alan darted through the kitchen, nearly tore the newel post from its mount as he pulled himself up the stairs, and ran into the master bedroom. Outside the big bay window, the rope flopped and the straightedge danced at the end of its tether. The screaming started when Alan was still in the bedroom.
Alan threw himself through the hatch in the side of the closet. He rammed his head into a bare stud as he clawed to pull himself through to the attic stairs.
Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall, Alan thought.
“Hang on, Joe,” Alan yelled.
He could still hear the screaming. The sound ripped at his heart, but it meant that Joe was still alive. Alan used the first couple steps to launch himself upwards he pulled at the floor above and vaulted up to the attic. On hands and knees, he scrambled to Joe. The window was down, clamped against Joe’s thighs. Alan grabbed his son’s feet in one hand. With the other, he reached forward and threw open the sash. Joe kicked at his grip and he lost the feet. Alan threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around Joe’s legs, hugging them to his chest.
“Dad! No!” Joe yelled.
“I got you. I got you,” Alan said.
“Stop. You’re pulling me.”
“I won’t let go,” Alan said.
Joe screamed again and bucked in Alan’s arms. Alan looped one arm around Joe’s thighs and slid the other hand up under Joe’s belly to lift him back through the window. Joe thrashed as Alan pulled in him. He hugged Joe to his chest. Joe’s snot and tears smeared on Alan’s neck as the boy’s cries diminished to whimpers.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Alan said. He rocked his son. “You’re okay.”
“Put me down,” Joe said. He hiccuped.
“Okay,” Alan said. He turned Joe away from the window before he complied, like Joe couldn’t be trusted to not fly back through the opening.
Joe’s face was bright red. Released from his father’s arms he immediately pulled up his pants and fastened them. They had slid down to his thighs. Alan saw angry scrapes on the front of his son’s legs.
“What happened to your pants?” Alan said.
“They got pulled down,” Joe said. He pushed his belt through the buckle and pulled it tight.
“Joe, what happened? Did you lose your balance? Did the window fall on you?” Alan asked. The sash was still up. It was the kind with ropes and sash weights to counterbalance the action, and it worked well. If anything, Alan had noticed that window preferred to be open—almost like it had too much weight hanging from the pulleys.
“You pulled me,” Joe said.
“I wasn’t pulling,” Alan said. “I wasn’t pulling at all. What do you mean?”
Joe wouldn’t look at his father. The boy dragged an arm across his face, wiping away his tears.
“I have a headache and I have to go to the bathroom,” Joe said.
Alan stared at his son. The boy was looking down at the floor and his chest shook as he pulled in a breath. He hiccuped again. The attic was silent as Alan stared at Joe and Joe looked at the floor. A shaft of light came through the far window and illuminated the swirling dust. The bales of insulation looked like little cocoons littering the floor of the empty attic. Joe exhaled and then sniffed.
Joe began to turn towards the steps.
Alan reached out and grabbed his son at the shoulders.
“Joe, did you move that chair?” Alan asked.
“What?”
For the first time since the screaming, Joe looked Alan in the eye. Fresh fear blossomed on his son’s face.
“Did you move that chair?” Alan asked again. He removed one of his firm hands from Joe’s shoulder to point at the rocker. It was positioned back in front of the far window again.
Joe hiccuped.
Alan heard the bubbling sound at the same time that the smell reached his nose. He looked down. A dark blue stain was spreading across the front of Joe’s pants.