A Roof Above

“Well?” the boy asked. He paced back and forth, polite enough to be without his shoes. 

“Don’t quite know yet,” said the father. He was hunched, had the young girl’s head pressed to the door frame. “Hold still, sugar.”

“I’m nervous,” said she, fingers drumming on her thigh. The father etched a marking on the frame with a red pen that read ‘Milwaukee’. He smiled before the kids could.

“Take a look,” he said, turning his daughter to face the frame. It was a work of art; a spine composed of multi-colored vertebrae, some straightened by rulers and others sloppier. Most in permanent ink, few in pencil. He pointed at the blood-red tick marked at two-thirds of the frame’s total height. The tape measurer made that satisfying, brittle crackle when the yellow tape emerged. The boy covered his eyes, turned away. At that moment, all sounds seemed to have vanished. My tongue quivered with anticipation. “53 inches!”

The applause was raucous. The boy jumped in the air, the father picked up his little girl. She squealed as he spun her around, brown hair like helicopter blades. I felt it before they saw him coming; the scratch of his claws against the tiles in the kitchen. As sudden as ever, but it never failed to satisfy the itch I couldn’t reach. The pit bull slid a little when he entered the hallway but regained balance and jumped into the boy’s arms, knocking him back onto the stairs. 

“It’s okay, buddy,” said the boy, giving the slobbering dog a scratch behind his ears.

“This means I can ride the big rides, right?!” the girl said, tapping her feet and running in circles.

“You sure can,” the father said. The tape measurer and pencil returned to his belt. “See, I told you that starting volleyball made you taller. I can see it.”

“Congrats,” said the boy, giving his sister a pinch on the shoulder. “You can sit in the seat next to me, but I will not hold your hand.”

“I’ll take what I can get, but I don’t need a hand to hold. Dad told me that you held his hand last year when you went on The Shadow Striker.” The boy went pale, looked at his father. His eyes were wide, lips pursed to prevent the smile from showing. 

“You did not tell her that,” the boy said, his voice shaky and fists balled. He turned to his sister. “Okay, for starters, it was a new ride. I didn’t know the drop was going to be that intense, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” said the girl. “Sure.”

“Listen here, you little crud-muncher, I’ve been on more coasters than you and know when my limit is pushed. Now, when we go this year-”

“You’ll do the same thing. Hold my hand.”

“Dammit, no! I’m gonna be just fine,” said the boy.

“Okay, you two. Stop it. There’ll be plenty of time for this tomorrow. Look, your mother’s gonna be home soon with Grandma. Why don’t you go get an ice cream bar and watch something like other siblings do? Maybe you’ll get along.” The father turned, headed down the hall, the slobbering dog at his heels. While the kids went to the freezer then the living room, the father stepped out the sliding glass door to the backyard. He entered the shed, came back without the tool belt. By the time he was inside, he’d unbuttoned his flannel and tossed it into the laundry chute. I felt it fall somewhere in my gut, no basket to catch it. He removed his boots. Thank goodness. Those stompers gave me the nastiest headaches. 

The mother and grandmother came home a bit later. I saw them from the front lawn, pulling into the driveway with the silver car, the same spot I’d seen the yellow moving truck come to almost thirty tick marks ago. They were all younger then, the kids significantly smaller and the father’s hair hadn’t started to recede and the mother still had her breasts. Now, the mother helped her own mother into the house, taking the installed ramp next to the stairs. It was a nice compliment to my teeth. They’d gotten pretty splintered over their stay with me, scuffed from shoes and bikes and toys. The father’s sanding equipment was tucked into the corner of the far side of the deck, three of my teeth cleaned but the rest left tampered with dirt and grass smudges. 

“Hey, Grandma,” said the kids from the couch when the two came walking in. 

“Hello, darlings,” said the grandmother, waving a hand in the air, keeping the other on her walker. The tennis balls on the legs were withered and miserable. They scooted along the floor, their squeaking sending shutters through my body. I tell ya, not my favorite scratch. No indeed.

They went to the amusement park the next morning, as the sun started to creep over the trees bordering the neighborhood. It was bright against my eyes but mellowed soon after they left. My front left eye has been more sensitive since the boy put a baseball through the old panel, shattering it into pieces. After the dad had spoken his mind with a very loud tone, they were kind enough to replace it. Since then, I see better with that eye, but the sun bites the worst when the day breaks. 

The grandmother stayed at the house, in her room. She’d shuffle to the bathroom without the walker, thank goodness, but otherwise stayed in bed, watching programs on her television and giggling to herself. She crocheted when she watched, her aged knuckles moving like that of someone significantly younger. Her hair was white and curly. I never saw it when it was like her daughter’s. Even the mother didn’t have the same hair as when I first met her. It used to be so silky and gentle ginger. It lost its shape when she got sick, falling out like a pinch of a cottontail. She seemed to regain some of herself when it started to come back all fuzzy and orange, a little color returning to her cheeks. I smiled, as best I could.

Occasions like this were rare for them; all of them leaving to go do something. Ever since the father had started his own company, it was all go. He’d talk about his work when he got home, sitting at the foot of the bed with his wife.

“I’ve had three injuries at the south site,” said he, head hanging low. “We lost one property, had to close another. All the while, I’m getting pressured by the execs to keep the sites operational without even a lick of their help. God, my back is killing me.” He’d lay back and try his best to hold in the tears that were already streaming. His wife, head covered in a bandana, would curl next to him, head on his chest, and shush him to sleep.

“Things get better,” she’d whisper. Or something like “Injuries hurt. Scars help remind you how to treat the wound.” He’d kiss her head and slowly drift away. His wife wouldn’t be far behind. This is how most days would end for them, sleeping above their sheets and half-dressed in work clothing. Seeing them get away and have a nice enough day to put a smile on the father’s face bestowed me with contentment.

They came home that night, sunburnt and toting giant stuffed animals and a cooler through the door. The pit bull came bounding into the daughter’s open arms, its giant tongue swabbing her cheeks. 

“Settle down, bud!” the father said, pulling a chew toy from the basket by the shoe rack. He threw it in an arc. I can’t say it didn’t hurt when it landed down the hall, but the scratches that succeeded more than made up for it. Once the energy had died, they showered, applied aloe vera, and went to bed. I use that loosely; the son scrolled on his phone before falling asleep, the daughter reading next to her night light. The parents settled in, a fan blowing cold air at the foot of their bed. 

“Not a bad day, huh?” the mother asked. The father rolled over, looked at her, stroked her cheek.

“Not bad at all, honey,” he said. He smiled without teeth. “Thank you.” They kissed a gentle peck. Another one. Longer smooches now. Eventually, I’m surprised they’ve got enough energy left to do what they do, but I’m not like them so I can’t comment.

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The grandmother died briefly before the son’s graduation tick. The mother was the one to find her. She was on the floor, unmoving. I’ve always been scared that a sharp noise could fracture my lenses, but the sound that came out of the mother’s mouth was inhuman and sent horror all the way through to the insulation. She cried, cradling her mother’s corpse in her arms. The father came up in a sprint, stood in the doorway for a while. He collapsed soon after, crawled over to his wife, held her close.

“How?” the mother said. She was looking around the room, hoping to find something to blame. “How did this happen? Who took her from me?” She said this between choking gasps and long bellowing cries. I wish I could have told her. Oh, I so desperately wish I could have said to her that her mother had gotten up to use the bathroom, tripped on the heated blanket’s cord, and smacked her head against the oxygen intake. I hoped the bruise on her forehead was conclusive enough. Crying has never been my forte, but the rain that spattered against my eyes later that evening seemed a good substitute.

Days later, they gathered in the foyer, draped in black and tidy. They said nothing when they left and said less when they came back. The mother’s face was pink, eyes swollen and nose raw. The father had his arm around her shoulders when they went up the stairs to their room. 

“See your sister to bed, will ya?” the father asked his son over his shoulder. He obliged, taking his sister to bed and laying himself to rest, the dog following him to his room. The house fell silent, save for the mother’s muffled sobs into her husband’s chest. I usually enjoy the stillness of the nighttime. The stars are pretty and the white noise of the airplanes in the sky help put me to sleep. That night felt different; uncomfortably silent, almost hostile. No planes flew that night. I’ve heard the family use the phrase ‘Rest in Peace’ before on several occasions. Seems the planes could sympathize with that.

________________________________

Things get better. They start to, anyway. The son’s tick was put on the frame by his father.

“Take the cap off,” said the father. He took his son’s graduation cap from a corner, set it on the hanger on the wall. “Doesn’t count toward the height.” The son stood straight, trying his best not to make eye contact with his father. The father scribbled on the frame. “Okay, step away.”

They looked at it together. The mark was close to his last one but there was a definitive gap. The father smiled as he wrote ‘Graduation #1’ by his son’s name. He looked at him, a spitting image of his younger self.

“I’m damn proud of you, kid,” the father said. The son smiled, put his hands in his pockets.

“Thanks, Dad,” he said. The father hugged him, held him close, patted him on the back before stepping away. 

“All right,” the father said, handing the cap back to his son. “Let’s go, everyone!” The daughter and mother came to the door.

“My handsome man,” the mother said, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Excited?”

“Nervous,” said the son. I was too. Seems like my shutters closed and when they opened not a moment later, he was taller than his mother. “Also excited.”

“It’s a big day. Nervousness is good every once in a while. Keeps you human,” said the mother.

“So should excitement,” he said, tracing the floor with the tip of his dress shoes. It tickled. 

“Will there be food?” asked the daughter. The son smiled.

“They don’t really serve food at graduations. We’ll go get something afterward,” said the father. “Let’s go. Traffic’s gonna clog up the parkways.” As they shuffled out the door, the mother flashed her daughter a look at a small packaged snack that she tucked back into her purse. With that, the door was shut and locked. It grew still once the van hummed away. The TV was off, the dog was in a ball at the foot of the stairs. Some birds chittered in the tree at the end of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a car would come along, kicking stones across the street and leaving a gust of wind and leaves in their wake. I slept, the sun kissing my green skin with a delicate touch. I peeled as the humans do.

___________________________

Things got better with time. The father sold his company for a lot of money. They took a trip, but not before the daughter’s high school tick was put underneath her brother’s wisdom tooth tick. If ever I felt lonely when the family left me to my thoughts before, it was nothing compared to how it felt during that absence. I think I lost part of my mind. It could be around here still, hiding somewhere; remind me to check the attic. They came back, smiling and tired, smelling of sunblock and satisfaction. The daughter was asleep before the sun went down. I was even happy to see the dog; I’m convinced now that the itch was what drove me nuts.

The mother wrote a book. A bunch of copies were stacked around the house for a while, unread and jackets dusty by the time the yellow van came back. By that time, the son had moved somewhere upstate, the last I heard. He took the dog with him. The daughter’s last tick mark, significantly higher than her first, was placed the day she moved out. She graduated with flying colors and moved east, to some university whose name I can’t remember.

As they packed, the parents rifled through their boxes, pulling out photos to laugh about and memorabilia to cry over. Before the stereo and record player were put away, the father took his wife by the hand. They danced to some old diddy, swaying gently in the center of the living room. In the end, they kissed; the last one I saw them share. By the end of the second day, their stuff was gone. They took one last look at the house before jumping into the van, the yellow moving truck following behind them. Before they left, they’d arranged for painters to come in and patch the damages done to my walls. The paint was cold and unforgiving. Not my favorite bath but I appreciated their kindness. I would have cried when they painted over the column of tick marks, but the father had taken several photos of it before he locked up. I rest easier knowing he has it with him. 

That’s the last family to live within. I wish I could say I’m appealing but not many others think so. Times have changed and so has the neighborhood. The new houses don’t look like me; they’re delicate, urban, and sexy. I’ve got my old bones and not much else in terms of worth. I’m okay with this. A new owner would be nice, but even so, the previous ones made for a lifetime of memory that I’ll never take for granted. I’m fine. I’ve got my birds, my sun, my wind, my planes, my-

“Is this it?” someone says below. There’s a car; a sedan. It’s gray, scratched, and in need of a wash. A teenage girl is leaning against the side, hair blue and arms folded. “It’s trash.”

“What are you talking about?” says what I can only assume is her mother. She’s thin but perky. Her hair bobs with every step she takes. “It has character.”

There it is. The hiss and screech of another moving van, this one white with orange trim. I swear I feel the furnace in the basement tremble for a moment. 

“Whatever you say,” says the girl. The mom pulls out a keyring, gives it a shake.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s check it out, you guys.” You guys? Another one. A young boy. Two of them. Another young girl. Oh my, they’re adorable. Red-haired, dressed in multi-colored clothing, a great contrast to their older sister. A man gets out from the passenger’s seat.

“Last one in is a rotten egg,” he says. Behind him, a massive dog, fluffy and brown in color, sprints toward the porch. It bounds and bounds and bounds. My, look at those claws! Come in, darling. There’s a tile in the kitchen that would love to meet you.