Ariel drove past the can-filled phone booth, which looked more like an intentional artistic design rather than a makeshift garbage bin. He continued uphill towards Sheridon’s home with the sun climbing from behind the Grevelton Mountains in the rearview mirror. Ariel pulled up in front of Sheridon’s house, where Treen could see a light on through the curtain-less windows.
Ariel shut off the engine, then put on his hat. Treen fastened her headband. Russell snatched her discarded bandanna from the elbow rest then tied it around his head. Without a word, they opened their doors and cautiously stepped out.
Sheridon’s colorful home stood out from the dreadful houses around it. The burgundy siding, tan tiled roof and white window-panes reminded Treen of a house she’d seen in Amsterdam. The neighbors’ ridiculously high weeds seemed to bully Sheridon’s well-manicured lawn.
The wooden stairs creaked with every soft step they took up to the porch. Treen then moved towards a shattered window to look inside, where she found the interior not so cheerful looking.
“It looks like the Awakers have already been here because the house has been ransacked,” she said, peering between the shards. “Front door’s open,” said Ariel, examining the broken lock and chipped wood scattered on the porch. Treen and Russell moved behind him after he gradually pushed the door back.
They tried to enter the house quietly, but were soon crackling across bits and pieces of glass. Treen moved from behind Ariel and surveyed what had probably been a beautiful living room.
Stepping over a fallen lamp, she weaved through the overturned couches, tables and chairs, then stopped near the fireplace, where framed pictures of Sheridon’s family lay scattered amongst the plant soil. Treen glared downward, shaking her head in disgust.
One by one, she wiped off the frames and placed them atop the fireplace. The last photo she picked up made her smile; the broken frame housed a black-and-white photograph of a beautiful African American woman, who sat near a stone monument carved with the Ten Commandments. The woman’s cheerful eyes and serene smile were so infectious that Treen had briefly blocked out the surrounding mess. When she turned the frame over, the writing on back told her who the woman was: Mom 1979.
“I’m gonna look around upstairs,” said Ariel, standing near the doorway that led out of the living room.
“Be careful,” she said, as Russell walked up next to her. “We’ll keep looking around down here.”
Treen and Russell searched the kitchen and they could hear the ceiling squeak above them as Ariel thumped around the upper floor, slamming doors and calling out Sheridon’s name. However, when they retuned to the hallway, Treen heard a different noise; she grabbed Russell’s arm and stopped.
“Do you hear that?” Ra-bump!
Ra-bump!
Ra-bump!
“Sounds like it’s comin’ from the living room,” said Russell, who darted back into the kitchen to grab a broom that leaned against the oven. Treen shuddered when the dustpan fell off the top of the stick and clanged across the floor.
With the bristles pointing behind him, Russell gripped the broomstick and led the few steps towards the living room doorway. Treen placed her hand on his back and stayed close, as the thumping grew louder. They crept up to the doorway and peeked into the living room.
“Look over there,” Russell whispered, “That coffee table’s bouncing up and down!”
Treen stepped around him, into the living room, squatting for a closer look. “It’s not bouncing on it’s own, there’s someone under the floor.”
“Under the floor?”
“It’s a trap door and whoever is down there can’t push it up with that table on top of it.”
Treen zigzagged over to the coffee table, which for a moment had stopped its loud hopping. However, it wasn’t long before the racket started again —
“Ra-bump! Ra-bump! Ra-bump!
“That must be Sheridon down there,” whispered Treen, watching the door move up and down.
“What if it ain’t?” Why doesn’t he say anything?”
“Perhaps he doesn’t realize anyone’s here.”
“Why don’t we say somethin’?”
“Because it may not be him.”
“Told you.”
The door rose higher. The table began to slide off gradually and Russell readied the broomstick. Treen scanned the floor for something — anything to use for a weapon, in case someone (or something) other than their friend stuck its head out of that door.
“Pool balls?” said Russell, bewildered when she knelt to stuff the scattered balls into her coat pockets. “What you gonna do with pool balls?”
Treen rose with two in each hand and rolled her eyes. “I thought we’d find the table and play,” she said glaring at him, jamming two more in her pocket. I’m going to throw them of course — if I have to.”
Whoever was down there grunted loudly while they strained to raise the door. The table slid back, and a final thrust caused it roll over onto its legs. Russell readied the broomstick and Treen raised the cue ball. The wooden door flipped backwards.
“Damn,” whispered, a weary voice from the dark square in the floor. They knew that voice and squatted to look inside. Just then, their big friend stuck his head out.
“Sheridon!” Russell shouted. “Thank God,” said Treen, smiling.
Gripping the ladder, Sheridon stayed in the floor; he scanned Russell’s broomstick, Treen’s pool balls, and his battered living room: “Are y’all cleanin’ this place up or finishin’ a game of Quidditch?” They both laughed, dropping their weapons to help pull him out. Ariel jogged down the hall and into the living room wondering what all the excitement was about.
Although everyone was delighted that Sheridon was safe, the mood darkened as he inspected the damage to his house. He said he’d been hiding downstairs every since he jumped out the window at the Clinic to escape the Awaker attack.
“I could hear ‘em up here, tearin’ my place apart. Didn’t know it was this bad,” he said, rubbing his bandaged shoulder as he walked towards the window.
“Don’t worry man,” said Russell, we’ll help you fix it up.”
“That’s a promise,” said Ariel.
“Sheridon, with the information we found on Mr. Wellbay’s disk it’s just a matter time before we figure this all out. Don’t worry, we’ll get the Awakers off our backs.”
Sheridon continued to stare out the shattered window. With the others waiting for a response, he turned around slowly and flashed a huge grin.
“You sure know how to make a guy feel better. Thanks y’all.”
“We really should move away from this window,” said Treen.
“Come on,” said Sheridon, walking towards the trap door, “We’ll go down to the hideout.”
Sheridon waited for the others to lower themselves into the floor and climb down the ladder. Then he did same, grabbing the leather strap above him to pull the secret door shut. He slid the lock into its secure position then descended with the others.
Although there were no windows in the hideout, the sunset light bulbs tinted the walls and gave the small area a relaxing atmosphere. As they studied the hip looking room, each of them had found something on the wall to gawk over.
“A Night in St. Cloud by Edvard Munch,” said Treen glaring at the reproduction. “This is one of my favorite paintings.”
Sheridon grinned. “Whenever I’m down here alone, I feel like I’m that guy sittin’ in the picture.”
“Wow!” said Russell, “Here’s an old picture of you outside Ding Palace with Nirvana and Public Enemy.”
“I was nineteen. Best concert I ever saw.”
Ariel said nothing. He just gazed at jumbo-sized poster of Bruce Lee.
“You must have a lot of girls comin’ down here with all this sewing stuff laying around,” said Russell, examining the baskets that spilled over with yarn. Sewing magazines lay scattered on the couch.
“Ah, yeah. I-I guess you could say that.”
Treen knew differently. On a table near the computer desk, she’d been admiring some unfinished, crocheted hats and sweaters. Next to them sat a stack of homemade business cards that read: Sheridon Coswell’s Crocheted Hats and Sweaters.
“Sheridon, I think your designs are incredible,” she said, trying on one of the hats.
Russell walked up to him. “You mean you’re the one sewing?” he said, lips quivering. Even Ariel glanced over from his favorite poster to hear the answer.
Sheridon looked up at the ceiling. He exhaled loudly. After glancing over at Ariel, he looked directly into Russell’s eyes.
“Alright. Yeah, I make the stuff.”
Russell’s cheeks swelled; unable to hold back, he erupted in laughter, grabbing his stomach as he fell face down atop the couch.
Sheridon glanced down at him and shook his head. Then he looked over at Ariel, who’d turned his back to conceal his own chuckling.
Sheridon finally gave in, bursting into