The Party
Bev Hopwood
Donna opened the front door to let Kitty inside and breathed in the fresh air of a starlit November night. She smiled as she looked at the bridge over their creek where she and her grandchildren had invented a home for three trolls. She glanced over to the pond fondly thinking of Eushenie and Miss Meadow Ma’m, the mermaids. For a moment she thought a cat had brushed past her ankle, but realized Kitty was already inside.
Dolly and Jack Donkey belonged in the barn, along with Jenny Wren, more story characters she and her grandchildren had created, while Kitty, whose given name was Stormy, lived in the house. A bat flew out from under the eaves into the open, but then she thought she heard wings behind her. It was a grand night for reminiscing, but the chilly breeze was picking up, forcing Donna inside where she firmly closed and locked the door. Tonight would be her first night alone on the farm in the ten years she and Doug had lived there.
Not one to go directly to sleep once in bed, Donna sat propped up under duvet and quilts with a note pad and pen. She could hear a clacking noise out on the roof, but remembered Doug had intended to fix the tin cap on the chimney. The usual groans of an old house broke the absolute silence of the upstairs, each one she identified and dismissed as plaster creaking, floor boards expanding, or wooden beams stretching.
Suddenly, the front door lock clicked open. Donna sat bolt upright in bed, suppressing her breathing and tensing every muscle, anticipating the approach of footsteps which might come creeping up the stairs. None did. However, there were what seemed to be many heavily weighted footsteps padding toward the kitchen. Donna, sitting rigidly, listened with intensified hearing. She tried to remember to breathe, aiming for deep, slow breaths. She waited intently. Nothing further disturbed the quiet, until the grandfather clock chimed its reassuring two bells. Gradually the pounding of blood through her head quieted. Donna slumped back in relief, forgetting the heavy trim of the headboard. The back of her head hit hard, causing an immediate dull ache.
Massaging her injury, Donna threw the notepad on the floor beside the bed and turned out the bedside light. She was getting sleepy, but her tired body could not relax and she turned one way and then tossed the other way, in-between fluffing the pillows. As she lay there in a semi-state of drifting towards sleep, she thought there was a smell of burning. She remembered hearing that a person smelled toast burning when they were having a stroke. Her fingers and toes were cold, but not numb. All her body parts seemed to be in working order, even though over-stimulated.
Donna tried hard to relax, starting with rotating her feet and ankles, then working upwards to shrugging her shoulders. In the next instant, her eyes flew open, raising her eyebrows to unexplored heights at her hairline. That was cinnamon she smelt, and the groans of the house had changed to that of several muted voices muttering below in the kitchen area.
She flung her left arm over to the bedside table, misjudged the edge, and sharply wrapped her knuckles on the underside of the furniture, gasping in pain. Rather than turning the light on, she now massaged the tender joints, and listened with increasing amazement to appliances being opened and closed, and water running. Frigid in her recumbent state with eyes fully opened, she listened intently to soft laughter, the occasional guffaw, and the clatter of dishes. Gentle braying and twittering sounds flitted upstairs.
The front door clicked open and shut again, allowing a brief dash of brisk air to reach the landing and surge into the bedroom. Then sounds of sloshing reached Donna’s ears. It was as if someone were wearing rubber boots full of water. They were headed to the back of the house, but more noises seemed to come from the dining room. Chairs were being pushed back and forth across the bare pine boards. Drawers were being opened and shut. There was flapping, tapping, and shuffling. It was the sounds of good china chinking and the tinkle of crystal which forced Donna into action.
She flung back the quilts and leapt out of bed. Unfortunately, her left toe caught in the covers, throwing off her balance, and when her right foot landed on the notepad which slipped from under her, it launched her onto her right hip and elbow. The rim of her eyebrow collided with the corner of the bedside table. She lay stunned momentarily, slightly in shock, but all the while listening to the activity downstairs, the gentle cacophony of several party goers. Dishes and silverware continued their quiet clatter, water ran, and delicious smells emanated from below. She felt helpless. Remembering she’d left her cell phone on the hall table, she warily knelt onto all fours and crept towards a broom propped in the corner. Her hip ached, her elbow pained, and her head throbbed. She felt for the long handle and felt it lurch forward. In her effort to catch it before it clamoured to the floor, she smashed her forehead against the closet door jam.
Beaten, Donna carefully laid down the broom with which she had no idea what she would do with it, and crawled laboriously back to the bed where she dragged her ailing body onto the mattress and under the covers. She pulled the quilts right over her ears, hoping to dull the quiet clamour from below. Aching body parts called her attention from the gentle hum, clatter and clink on the ground floor. Gradually, a fretful sleep overcame her and before she knew it, dawn was seeping in under the blinds. She ignored the urge to get up and explore down below, and tried resting until mid- morning.
At eleven, Donna stiffly manoeuvred her slippers and housecoat on, and then cautiously made her way downstairs to the brilliant sunlight. Nothing in the dining room appeared to have been disturbed, except that one of the chairs was pulled out at an odd angle and the table cloth appeared to have one or two wrinkles in it. Standing in front of the kitchen sink, Donna surveyed the counters which appeared just the way she had left them the evening before. At the moment Doug walked in booming a big hello, Donna was discovering that her slipper had become soaking wet from a puddle on the floor.
"It smells great in here. Have you baked some cinnamon rolls?" inquired Doug with a smile full of hope. He reached around her waist for a welcoming hug, but leaned his head backwards while inspecting the blackening around her eye, and the lump on her forehead.
"What happened to you?" was his concerned question.
Her forehead furrowed into firm ridges as she inspected the puddles in low spots on the floor. "Do you really want to know?" Donna replied.
The End
