To Open a Door

von Marcus Krug

 

I am in the hallway when I hear them coming. I just came in from the back garden to get something warm against the evening chill. The sun is setting quicker these days, closer to autumn; but it is still nice outside. I quite enjoy those days of being disconnected from a frantic world. I am out here on the farm in the middle of nowhere. Only me, the dog and nobody else to bother us.

And then there are at least three big cars pulling up in front of the house. A woman gets out first. Her gait looks somewhat familiar, she is dragging her left leg a bit. But I can’t really place her right now. Some indistinct flashback from a distant past only. Her entourage, some big guys in black suits and sunglasses, gets out of the cars as well, but keeps outside the little fence in front of the house. The woman approaches the front door alone.

They don’t look like they are here for the child support, which I still owe to my ex-wife in full amount for the last fifteen years, or was it even longer?! I don’t really remember. Anyhow, single mothers have never had this kind of a lobby that drives around in big black cars. Then there is the anticipated knock at the front door.

The orange-red sunset behind her makes it difficult for me to look at her. There is a halo around her, and the woman’s face is left in a shadow cast by herself. Her dark brown hair has been ruffled up by the breeze on the way from the car to the porch. The fiery setting of the sun adds a reddish glow to it now. She looks hard at me through her dark shades. I can almost feel her stare physically.

She shifts her weight to her right leg, giving the left one some rest. Her right hand rests relaxed on the door frame, but she withdraws it eventually after a little while. Now she smiles at me while she brushes some flakes of dry white paint off her hand. Her smile stirs up some more memories that were buried in time by many other events from the past.

The air is fresh and clean out here. The scent of late summer evenings is lingering in the air, and mingles beautifully with the perfume the woman is wearing. Apart from the crickets chirping, there is no sound other than the rustling wind, coming from the little grove further down the road by the little pond. The meditative spell of silence is suddenly broken by a phone ringing over by the cars. One of the men in black answers the call and walks down the road, away from the others. The dog starts barking on the veranda behind the house. He is probably wondering what takes me so long to get the cardigan.

Other than her escort, the woman doesn’t look formal at all. Quite casual even. Her bare feet seem to enjoy the soft carpet of grass underneath. Her toes curl around it, grabbing and playing with the stalks. Then I see it, and all seems to be coming back rather quickly. There is this long scar on her left foot stretching out up to the lower shin. Now I remember clearly her little mangled foot and the pain this had caused for all three of us back then. I have a closer look at her and eventually give her a smile.

She simply says “Are you going to invite me in, Dad?”