A Southern Girl: A Novel

17: Coleman

161 j 17 i Coleman Power failure. I grope for the desk drawer, open it, and pan for a flashlight front to back but find nothing closer than the hammer I used last week to mount a picture. The room is in total darkness and, once I settle back in my chair, palling silence as well. It will not last, I think with a grin. I’ll give her thirty seconds. Allie is studying in her room on the floor below. She retains her Hugoinduced fear of the dark. We joke about it, but only in daylight. Her chair scrapes against the hardwood below and my grin expands a fraction. “Dad?” she calls out from the landing on her floor. “Up here, sweetheart! In my study.” “What do you think caused it?” she asks as her voice draws nearer. “Beats me. A transformer must have blown. I’ll get a candle.” “I’ll go with you,” she says, a bit too quickly. We feel our way to the banister and edge downward. At the middle landing off her room our hands overlap on the newel post and we each give a faint start. In the main hall the grandfather clock, a wise old mahogany monarch never a vassal to electricity, ticks reliably and louder as we arrive on the first floor. The windows, virtually floor to ceiling in the dining room we are passing, emit no light. All of Charleston seems entombed, and the moon is new or smothered. We reach the kitchen. “They’re not here,” I report, rummaging in the logical places. “I must have used the last match trying to get the grill started.” “Here’s a candle,” she says from the direction of the pantry. I shake my head to signal the futility of a candle without a match when I realize the futility of the gesture. A Southern Girl 162 “The camping gear,” I say. “The lamp is stored by the tent and the waterproof matches are in the backpacks.” “But that’s in the basement.” “So get them. I’ll wait.” “Dad . . .” “Come on, let’s go.” Access to the basement is through a door off the laundry room. Its stubborn knob has irritated me for years, but not enough to fix. This basement is one of the few in old Charleston and something of an engineering marvel in that it stays dry, hurricanes excepted. The stairs creak and the ceiling makes a tall man pay for walking erect but then that is the way basements should be. I like the place, spiders and all. Only I like it lit, and tonight it is an ink spot in a lead-lined coffin. The knob yields, I probe blindly for the first step, and cool, captive air tinged with mildew rises to meet me. “Hold on to me,” I instruct over my shoulder. “I can’t see a damn thing.” “No,” she says softly. “I’ll wait here.” “You’re sure?” “I’m sure,” and she sounds it. So I descend alone. On another night, I would have covered these nine steps in less time than it will take Allie to seat herself, whistling as I went. But now I pause. Is something down there? I listen. She breathes behind me—nothing more. Inwardly, I laugh at my foolishness and feel a flush come to my face, but my grip on the banister seems to be guarding against something more than a fall. “Wimp,” I mutter silently. Forty-six is long past the age for ghosts. I take two more steps. “Is something wrong, Dad?” “Nope. Thought I heard something, that’s all.” I continue down, faster now because she is watching me though she cannot see. I feel the concrete floor and exhale, surprised to find I have been holding my breath. I am thinking of this—my withheld breath and my boa constrictor grip on the railing and the eerie mood of disquiet that has come over me since turning that stubborn knob—my mind is wandering from one strangeness to another when I realize I have strayed into what must be the center of the room. Now I am disoriented, without Flow 163 bearings. A mild but distinct panic seizes me and for the first time I can actually sense another presence in the basement. “Allie?” “Yes?” “I need to find the stairs again. Talk.” “What about?” “Anything . . . never mind...