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The Intruder Overhead
by Yermiyahu Ahron Taub There is a tiger in the attic. Its paws thud across floorboards that groan in protest. The glass in the windows rattles in its frames; the amulets bequeathed to you by Gran rustle in their blankets. Directed by Blume with the crown of black braids and the bisque face, your dolls, the Lorelei of long ago, trill lullabies in tinny unison in an effort to temper the thunder of the tiger’s march. For all the sturdiness of its foundation, for all the grace of its lines envisioned by your grandfather and built with the men of the village, this house can surely not long withstand the tiger’s insistence. Mother, I tremble in tempo with the foundation, and I am afraid. There is a tiger in the attic. Foam drips from its whiskers. Its black stripes have magnified a thousand fold and transformed into tentacles tight around my skull. The orange negative space between the stripes has scorched the barbed wire looming over our once-sturdy shelter. Hacking into the secrets of our paltry pantry, its blue eyes penetrate the abyss of my dread. The gloom you’ve polished into gleam buckles under the clarity of its knowing. Mother, I gaze upon the inferno of its determination, and I am afraid. There is a tiger in the attic. Sounds emanate from between the ridges of its jagged throat. First there is mewling, as if its younger, domesticated alter-ego is exploring hay in a barn. Then, with greater certainty, there is displeasure expressed, deceptive in the abruptness of its brevity. Finally, a roar relentless batters the Lady Baltimore cakes that cool on the marble sideboard. The lemon frosting must still be applied. The tranquility you’ve embroidered these many decades dangles rent beneath the transoms. Mother, I absorb the staccato of these proclamations, and I am afraid. There is a tiger in the attic. And yes we know of its loss of lair, the power of those in pursuit of its skin’s warmth, its fur’s glory. And thus we are the latest witnesses to the tiger’s fate, to the vulnerability belied by rippling flanks and cerulean depths, to the scarlet streak of the macaw’s plumage against the jungle wall so evident in the tiger’s yowl. And yes we believe in co-existence, as we’ve discussed while the milk bottles rattled in their crates on the threshold. What shall become of this house? How shall we fortify the fragility of home? Mother, I pose these questions, and I am afraid. And so I stagger up the twisted staircase to the attic to face the feline whose plight has grown no less dire while I have been dithering. A candle’s flame shielded by glass flickers in my hand; its shadows gyrate over the wainscoting and the veins in the ceiling. The tiger pauses in its pacing. In that respite, in that intake of breath, I search for the fuel for the transformation of fear, so carefully cultivated these many years, for the determination to continue on towards a clearing in which the tiger and I lie entwined under a midnight moon. I imagine the tiger’s crouch as I approach. The lace of your encouragement flutters as a veil before me, Mother, and a shawl all around. Return of the Repressed Yermiyahu Ahron Taub Leaves, long since no-longer-gold, flutter across the circular drive. You observe that its shape so suitable for a horse-drawn carriage or a Model T seems less so for a lone straggler without a suitcase or valise. Your heels, although flat and without taps, sound thunderous to your ear on edge. The wind whisks echoes of your steps into its own bitter refrain. Perhaps you shouldn’t be here, you would once have thought. The shrubbery and foliage, formerly the pride of the neighborhood, shiver raggedly across a pouting sky. Weeds and unidentified scrub growth flourish madly. You think, I can’t bear to look up to see the state of the shutters and the cupola from where Sylvie declaimed your new oratory to unseen adoring crowds. This was where Sylvie mastered inflection; this was where you came to accept backdrop, or to drop back. But you do look up as if drawn by a force beyond yourself. And your worst fears are confirmed. There’s no way around it—the shutters are chipped, lopsided, missing many louvers, hanging by a rusty thread as it were. The cupola, missing its signature pointed roof and many railings, has met an even worse fate. You are not surprised, even if you wish you had maintained a level gaze. You’ve always fetishized neutrality. You approach the front door, its carvings strangely still gleaming. You look into its high window. Despite the gray of the day, sunlight is refracted through the stained glass windows above the circular staircase. You strain for echoes of Thanksgiving dinners past in the room just to the staircase’s left. You make out the click of silver against china, the communication through gesture, the interplay of staccato and silence. You reach for the cranberry sauce that your mother flecked so sparingly with cinnamon and cloves. Your mouth waters, despite your father’s invocations against excess. This time you will not be lauded for your discipline. You hear the chimes of Sylvie’s laughter at this display of bravura; you glimpse the flash of her auburn locks as she floats up the stairs. Even here, even now in this rust sun, Sylvie will become the day. |
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