Or perhaps it was only the basement door coming off its hinges, that made that awful cracking.
Looking back on it all, now — on the exploding door and Sarah’s simultaneous final, convulsive spasms; on the other children wading agitatedly in deepening greasy drain water rising to stain Sarah’s twisted appendages hanging limply from the calfskin and brass gilt edges of the trunk; on the sensational entrance of Meredith, swooping augustly down the stairs with Hope fastened like a crazed baby marsupial to her breast, stopping momentarily to gaze around, to take in that dismal scene, before splashing across the channel of basement floodwater to kneel at Sarah’s side, to gather, for some unclear reason, in her hands, a clump of the girl’s sodden hair — she peered up at me then, my beautiful, terrified wife, one hand clutching Sarah’s hair, the other still cradling Hope, and her mouth, my wife’s mouth, slowly opening to form the words “Murderer, Murderer”—looking back on all this, now, from the relative safety of my padlocked attic, I can only confess that I am sorry.
Nowadays, the profession of teacher is little valued. Who will steward the coming generations? Who will teach the bitter examples of history?
As always, I believe in primary education and the betterment of our fallen world through the intercession of children. Down comes the rain. It is afternoon. Who knows what day. The ball-strewn tennis courts are abandoned and the sky is howling black. My desk remains piled with things to do; in a minute I’ll get busy. I miss my wife awfully.
Lightning flashes over the sea. A few seconds later thunder sounds. Or maybe it’s just one of the leftover mines going off in the wretched recesses of the park. Nothing moves there except the tops of trees bowing beneath rain, windblown in sheets that split open over the roofs of houses, spilling down trellises and window casements, draining away into yards and gardens, over sidewalks, doorsteps, and drives: the seeping, luminescent world. It’s not good to go outside. There are snakes. And the violet welts covering my hands and arms, far from receding, have steadily flourished, discoloring the skin and filling my mind with feverish convictions. Sweat and dementia. At night, sleepless and alone, I become certain of death. Each day, the water in the basement rises a tiny bit higher. On its surface float books, toys and dolls, flower petals, a diaper. You don’t want to go down there. The kitchen’s a mess. The power is out. There’s a smell of rot. Rotten lungs, rotten genitals, rotten heart. Why can’t we all be happy with what we’re given in life? For my part, I can only hope that the unfortunate incident involving my sweet young pupil will not prejudice my constituency in the upcoming general elections. Compassion is everything. As for poor Sarah, suffice it to say she had to be carried out of there. Things are bad all over. Nothing looks promising. I wish Meredith would come home. I want to fuck her. She does not think well of me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DONALD ANTRIM is a regular contributor to The New Yorker and has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, and the New York Public Library. He lives in New York City.