I recently visited a country house that had old fashioned radiators and seeing them led me right into this fictionalized memory.
look
that's a big old
radiator over there
and if you didn't recognize it
you could read the words right on the side:
American Radiator Co.
haven't seen one of these in years
but here it is
in this quiet room
in a big beautiful country house
high up in the hills
on Friday the 13th
2 o'clock in the afternoon
in the middle of summer
and the year is 2012
but then
it's not
it's late afternoon, getting darker, at
621 Elsemere Place in the Bronx
my grandma's apartment
I smell a chicken roasting in the oven
so now I know it's Friday here
too
winter isn't far off
the windows are closed against the
dusky chill
grandma goes into every room
making sure the radiators are turned on
I lie on my back
on the floor
close to the couch
but not on the couch
I don't go on the couch because
it is itchy
Dad calls it the horsehair sofa
and when he says that Mom says
"sha Morty
don't put ideas into her head"
but it's too late
the ideas are already in my head
I am not going on that couch
made from a horse
that's why
I lie on the floor
and when no one is looking
I scrooch myself over
until my head is
under the couch
it smells good here
not like a horse
I don't know what a horse smells like
you can't smell a horse through the TV
but under the couch
it smells
like wood
and lemon
and flannel
and the pale pink
of a bubble bath
with not too many bubbles
just enough
with my head under the couch
I am anywhere and nowhere
and also
I am invisible
with my head under the couch
and my eyes closed
I can't see anyone and that means
no one can see me
even if they walk right over my legs
sticking out in the middle of the
living room floor
so what?
they wouldn't know for sure it was me
they might think it was but
they wouldn't know
for sure
because if you don't see a face
how do you know who it is?
you don't know
and that's how I like it
I don't want anyone to know I'm here
I don't want anyone to talk to me
I don't want anyone to ask me any questions
mamela, do you want some juice?
do you need a pillow?
how about a blanket?
did you just sneeze?
does your throat feel scratchy?
are you sure you don't want some juice?
a cookie maybe?
sometimes
it's okay to be asked because
sometimes I do want juice
sometimes a cookie is nice
but not on this Friday afternoon
when I am still 8 years old
not on this day
when the radiators are turned on
all through the apartment
in every room
even in the bathroom
even in the back room
where there might or might not be a ghost
who is sometimes sleeping and sometimes laughing
on this day
in the soft grey afternoon light
I wait to hear it
the first sad whistling whispery sigh
of the radiator
making steam
(or maybe
it is the ghost
in the back room
belching)
