Fabulae

Four Storeys

Four Storeys You can pluck up the roof with your fingernails. Underneath it, in the attic story, a boy at a white enameled desk operates a ham radio. When I lift the attic and set it gently into my palm, he doesn’t notice, going on with his da-di-das. I place the attic on the ground, and he climbs out the window and walks off to see if the rest of the street has changed. The second story, with its darkened bedrooms, is empty save for the sleeping mother—and comes up too easily, like a glass pitcher that turns out to be plastic. Meanwhile, the sudden wind in the living room lifts the sheet music from its stand and pulls it into an airborne s. The young woman at the viola scowls. I have interrupted her practice. She flings her bow onto a chair. In the kitchen, the cabinet doors are blowing open and shut. Since this is the kitchen story, you can unscrew it like a jar and lay it aside. In the basement, four small girls call “morn-ing!” because, having stretched out and closed their eyes for a moment to mark the passage of night, it is morning. After a second they realize the cellar’s brightness is real; they squint upward, hair flying into their faces. I’ll tell you what none of them know: I buried a piece of coal under the foundation so that I will come back when I’m old, dig up the diamond, and be rich. 20 ...