Within Close Range: Sixteen Steps

At the end of the front foyer, just left of the door to Mom and Dad's bedroom, was another door. Behind this, were steps - sixteen in all, which wound one hundred and eighty degrees and landed at the end of the upstairs hallway. The gateway to the children's domain. No one understood why a door met the very last step of the front staircase until well settled in, when it was discovered that this simple, wooden portal was an incredibly effective insulator against second story commotions, created by five very different personalities and hormone levels sharing the same space. 

From a kid's perspective, this door was also a very effective tool for adding the proper amount of drama to a scene. Being old and solid and hinged with solid brass, it not only THUNDERED when slammed, but had the added bonus of rattling both the glass cabinet in the living room filled with fragile bric-a-brac and Mom's already shattered nerves in the master bedroom. Slamming doors was not advised when Dad was home. 

Beyond a tool for delivering angst and buffering upper story chaos, this door also inspired a secret indoor sport. I don't think it ever had a name, but it always kicked off by two things: the arrival of a large box and Mom and Dad going out for the evening. As soon as we saw the headlights of the car wind down the drive and disappear, someone would shout, "PILLOWS!" and children, ranging in sizes and relationships, would disperse and collect. Grabbing every pillow, cushion, bolster and upholstered pad we could lay our hands on, we'd meet at the top of the winding front stairs and with wild smiles and near frenzy in our eyes, toss each one over the railing and into a giant, cushy heap, penned in by the very same door. 

When every bed, sofa and chair in the house had been denuded and a tottering stack of softness lay at the bottom of the steps, the real fun would begin. One by one, we'd take turns climbing into the magic-markered, carton race car at the top of the stairs and at the call of "Ready!" someone would push from behind and send it sliding down the steps, atop the carpet runner racetrack. The trickiest maneuver was the hairpin turn half-way down. Cardboard box jockeys continually tried to lean into it and continually failed; ending their run at the dreaded curve - Dead Man's Curve - at the foot of the not-soft-at-all, two-story wall, just inches from where the ocean of cushions began. And when the race car got totaled and tossed aside, there was still that tempting pile of pillows at the bottom of the stairs and that very convenient, railed balcony directly above. 

We usually made Mark or Mia jump first. To make sure it was safe. They were also the first to be pushed to the front when entering dark rooms or dim hallways; the first to be volunteered to check the temperature of the lake - or pool - in early summer, the first to be sent into the woods to lure the "Ghost in the Graveyard", and the first to be nudged to the top of the stairs to face Dad when he bellowed from below. So it only stands to reason that they would be the first to test our padded pond. 

If Mia and Mark somehow evaded these forced initiatives, the nearest child who failed to recognize Jim's half-crazed gaze, would soon find themselves dangling precariously over the railing - like an animal in a snare - as a T.V. dinner or chicken pot pie threatened to reappear through fits of laughter and mild hysteria. The only things that held us from the headfirst fall were Jim's hands around our ankles. He teased us by occasionally loosening his grip, but we knew he would never let go. At least not intentionally. Not specifically intentionally. Jim's strength was both a great comfort and a great dread during our childhoods - like having a big, playful, ginger teddy bear who sometimes forgot he could squeeze the stuffing out of you. 

Only once (when Mom and Dad returned home unexpectedly) were we discovered in our favorite pillow-based pastime. Precisely at the moment of a free-for-all, the door to the stairwell opened and - like a flood gate releasing - arms and legs and cushions came pouring out at Mom and Dad's feet. 

“What the hell is going on here?" Dad boomed. 

Mom looked at the swell of kids and pillows... then quietly walked into their bedroom, grabbed the forgotten item and, without a word, left the scene - and Dad - to lay down the law. Needless to say, we became the finest pillow fluffers and cushion replacers west of the Poconos. 

There was something about those sixteen steps. It was a mecca for mischief and play, for sneak attacks, grand soliloquies and even grander exits. It was the ideal location for makeshift mountains, paper airplane launch pads and especially, making spooky noises. Its tall walls lifted and amplified sounds, especially when the much-abused carpet runner was removed and never replaced. Mom's loudly whispered "Sweet dreams." gently rose and floated into our ears and into our dreams; while Dad's call of "Anne Elizabeth!", "Lights off!", or "Inspection in five minutes!" burst up the stairwell and roared down the hall, like an air raid siren, sending bodies scattering in all directions. 

Directly below this winding staircase, was a tiny room, entered by a secret door in the paneled living room wall. To enter, you pushed on the paneling and popped open a small, angular door. Well-suited to housing stereos and storing things, the space with the staircase ceiling held barely enough room for an adult, yet it was an enormously effective tool for scaring the daylights out of stair-descending siblings. Thunderous noises and wake-the-dead voices suddenly emanating from the creaky crevices below caused innumerable mis-steps and massively feigned heart attacks over the years. 

The bedroom I shared with Mia was right next to these stairs. As if an ear were perpetually pressed against the wall, I could hear the comings and goings of all stairwell travelers and soon knew the sound of each family member's footsteps better than my own. I heard when Chris was breaking curfew and Jim was looking for trouble; when Mia was sleepwalking, or Mark was shuffling to Mom and Dad's for comfort from a storm. 

After returning from a night out, I'd listen for Mom and Dad's footsteps in the hall below and for Dad to toss his keys into the pewter bowl on top of the chest of drawers. At the sound of the staircase door opening and the sight of the light switched on from below, I'd close my eyes and listen as Mom made her way up to both Mia's and my bedside for a good night kiss, then down the sibling line and back again. I'd then listen to her gentle footsteps, still in heels, slowly descend those curving, squeaky steps, followed by the click of a switch and the door below, close - the sound if which made me feel as if Mom and Dad’s bedroom was not a flight of stairs, but a million miles from me. 

But it was just sixteen, wooden steps. 

Where, one night, as I sat between our twin beds changing Malibu Barbie's outfit for her big date with Ken, I heard Jim making his way along the upstairs hallway. It happened fast. (Lack of premeditation would be my strongest line of defense.) Jim passed my door and was starting down the staircase when something spurred me. Retribution for past indignities? Little voices in my head? Who can say? All I do know is that I soon found myself quietly opening my bedroom door, reaching around the corner to the light switch, and- 

"Click." "Thump-bump-bump-HUMPF-thump-bam-thud." Down he went like an angry sack of potatoes.

“God Damn It!!!! Who the hell turned off the lights?!” 

Tittering nervously, I crept away in the dark, feeling something between exultation (for not being on the receiving end of a prank) and remorse (for the revenge that was sure to be inflicted upon me). The result of my impromptu evildoing was a broken toe. And a thirst for my blood. My nervous tittering gave me away almost immediately. 

I wish I could say that I learned my lesson, atoned for my sin, and made things right with Jim. I really do wish I could say that.However, a short time later, history had the unmitigated gall to repeat itself. There I sat, in my room, with no thoughts of wrongdoing on my mind. Honestly. My strategy for surviving childhood was based solely on tears and cowardly retreats. However, when I heard those very familiar footsteps - now favoring one foot - heading down those cursed steps again. Something wicked this way come. I tip-toed to the door - again - quietly reached for the switch - once more - and... “Click."
"Thump...thump-thump-thump-bump-BAM-thud!... ANNE!... I’m going to kill you!” 

With no parents at home for safe refuge, I ran for my life, ducking and covering where I could and trying to avoid contact with any siblings who might give my whereabouts away - which meant ALL of them. Eventually, I hid in the dark of the sauna in Mom and Dad's bedroom, listening to Jim hobble and rage from one end of the house to the other, screaming my name and vowing revenge. I imagined myself in solitary confinement for the heinous crimes I had committed. "I'll plead temporary insanity," I reasoned to the fragrant cedar walls surrounding me, as I hugged my knees and listened desperately for the familiar footsteps of a returning parent. After an hour or so of seclusion and contemplation - and no longer hearing angry rants - I concluded the worst was over. Jim's stomach probably overpowered his thirst for revenge and it was time to come out of hiding. “After all,” I surmised as I opened the door to freedom, “even if he is still mad, there’s no way he can catch me with a broken toe.” 

“Two broken toes!” groaned a voice from behind the door, as I felt a pair of hairy arms grab me. 

Just sixteen, wooden steps. In a one hundred and eighty degree turn. And five kids living far from town.