~ The Seventh ~

~ The Seventh Step ~

It was the haunting memory of the seventh step that kept her up most nights. A leap out of bed to close the door she purposely left ajar in order to challenge her inhibition, a guarded stance behind a closed door listening for a squeak no one else seemed to hear, and a repeated signing of the cross had suddenly become her new kind of normal.

Ronda Briggs was an average woman; the kind you’d walk by without noticing. She was also the kind of person who noticed everything and acknowledged everyone. “Good morning Sir.  Have a nice day Miss,” and by far her favorite, “Do well in school today, kids, and remember to pay attention.” She’d smile. She always smiled when addressing the little ones parading off to school; some skipping along and some lagging behind. Her friendly words of encouragement made a huge impact on one particular child, a cute little round-faced seventh grader who wore her hair in Afro puffs.   “I always pay attention, Mrs. Briggs,” she’d reply with a serious tone. Every morning during Ronda’s routine walks, she’d notice that the little girl was always alone.  She was never in a group with the other children, yet she always seemed to be happy. There was something different about the little girl, not strange, just different.  Unlike some of the other kids who dressed casually in their sneakers and trendy little outfits, she wore dresses, a different color dress every day, blue, pink, lavender …always in a solid color and always with a white collar. This extraordinary child in her white patent leather shoes walked with precision, always with her head held high and always wearing a big toothy smile on her face.

After the school term had run its course, the seventh graders from last year were now eighth graders parading off to school, some skipping along and some lagging behind, but no one walking alone with Afro puffs. The mysterious little girl would definitely be missed.

The house on Duncan Street was an unusually designed house; the exterior was not exactly as proportional and balanced as the other houses. The additional work that had been done by its previous owners made the structure confusing; it looked like three individual houses hammered together by someone without a sense of humor. Nonetheless it was always a topic for conversation. As neighbors walked past the dull gray structure with its weather-beaten shutter in need of repair, they were reminded of a newspaper headline that carried gossip on the tongues of every person in the district.   “Woman claims self-defense in the death of her husband.”

Harold Briggs was a brute and everyone in the neighborhood knew it…He was a relatively good looking man, tall in stature with an intimating presence. His personality was as sinister as a Charles Dickens character.

The black eyes and swollen jaws his wife often endured were not enough for her to leave him; however with a sudden twist of fate, the question of her leaving would no longer be an issue. Late one evening Mr. Briggs came home complaining that the porch light was left on again. He went on a rant about Ronda’s lack of respect for him, and the beautiful house he worked so hard for. Ronda apologized as usual and tried to reason with her bullying husband but she knew there was nothing she could do or say to stop the inevitable because she knew her husband was in “one of his moods.” She tried to ease her way out of the room but he matched her every step. “Where do you think you’re going?” he said catching up with her at the foot of the stairs. Ronda started to run up the stairs but he grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her back down. “Jesus! Lord help me,” she cried.  He snatched her by the hair and started banging her head against the stairs, and with each bang he emphasized a word. “YOU! – FAT! – DISGUSTING! – PIG!” he shouted, but somehow his words were muffled and the bangs to her head were pillow soft. Her body felt warm and protected as if it were under a cozy blanket made of steel. Suddenly a pleasant scent of coconut oil alerted her senses and guided her to sit up with assurance.

Moments later the house was filled with police, paramedics and nosey neighbors gathering outside to air their opinions and accusations. Ronda was amazing; she stayed surprisingly calm as she tried to tackle the harsh questions being thrown at her.  “Did your husband fall down the stairs? Did he trip or did you push him?  All during the interrogation, the court trial procedure, and even the jury deliberation, Ronda remained at rest.

 

~ Staircase ~

The alluring scent of coconut oil had long vanished and the memory of its effect was now dormant. A year had come and gone since the acquittal and Ronda was still living in the odd looking house.  She tried selling it but there were no brave takers.  Most people read the for sale sign as an invitation to come and see where a man had fallen to his death, or was pushed to it, as some still suspected.  Men, women, and especially teenagers skulked around oohing and aahing as if they were visiting a Lizzie Borden museum.    The famous staircase was always the center of attraction.  It had been released through the media that drops of blood were found only on the seventh step. Thrill seekers, pretending to be buyers, would climb only as far as the sixth step as if the one above it was hexed with an evil spirit. Once Ronda had resigned herself to the reality of not being able to sell, she decided to keep the house. Her first course of action was to have it repainted, spruce it up with a nice lively color; a project she could do easily with the check she received from her husband’s insurance policy.  However, with the unsettling figments of her imagination still running rampant she had to abandon the idea, because the thing she wanted to do was get away. To put it simply, she had to get away, her sanity depended on it.  The obvious and logical thing for Ronda to do next was to renew her driver’s license and buy a car, something she always wanted to do but something her husband would never allow.

A month later Ronda was in a new cute little powder blue Volkswagen Beetle heading toward Pennsylvania, more specifically toward her old alma mater Pennsylvania State University commonly referred to as Penn State or PSU. The idea of her returning to PSU was exciting; thinking back to the time when she served as a head librarian and the friends she accumulated during those seven years were pleasant memories, and then there were the book clubs. Oh how she enjoyed those book clubs.   Such lovely thoughts put a smile on her face, but the idea of throwing it all away to marry the despicable Mr. Briggs was disturbingly distracting. “If I could only turn back the hands of time,” she said aloud, when suddenly there was a loud noise, like an enormous clang from a steel drum.  Small fragments of glass floated through the air in slow motion and then a mysterious vortex of air rolled off each piece of glass and pushed them downward leaving Ronda badly shaken up but unscathed.

As she sat there wondering what had just happened, a panic stricken woman with long, disheveled hair rushed over to the passenger side window. “Thank God you’re okay,” she said, closing her eyes for a second as if to pray.

“Yes, I’m okay.” Ronda looked around totally confused. She noticed her Volkswagen and a truck, apparently belonging to the stressed woman, were properly off to the side in the brake down lane. “How did I get here?”

“You pulled over. I must say, you are one heck of a driver. I was looking in my rearview mirror when I saw your window suddenly shatter. What broke it?” the woman asked as she opened the door to investigate.

“Oh my God!” she shouted. “It was my husband’s pipe wrench.”  The woman took the wrench from the back seat and held it in her hand.

“You could have been killed,” she said as she began to cry. Ronda got out of the car to console the women. “But I wasn’t killed and there isn’t even a scratch on me.” The women hugged realizing how blessed they both were.  The woman from the truck admitted hitting something that caused her truck to jolt. “That’s when I checked my rearview mirror; I probably suspected something had happened. Wait. I’ll be right back,”   she said as she turned away and walked back to her truck.  When the woman returned, she had an acceptable explanation.  Apparently her husband’s tool box was fastened to the cargo bed but it wasn’t locked, so when the truck was jolted the wrench went flying.  “But how did the wrench miss you, and what happened to the broken glass?” she asked.

Ronda took down the basic insurance information before considering her course back home. The truck lady was against her driving with a broken windshield so she offered her a ride that was graciously refused.

Once again Ronda found herself roaming aimlessly in a house with too many rooms and not enough locks. The false sense of security, which came from the safety devices she was constantly upgrading or installing, was always temporary. However her constant fear of something or someone was lasting and, in her mind, justified the need for seclusion.  The telephone was the only thing that provided any type of normalcy, she came to realize that the people she once communicated with face-to-face were profoundly different over the phone, their voices seemed void of judgment and their short conversations usually stayed focused on their reason for calling.  Mrs. Blackman, the bitter old lady who lived across the street, called constantly looking for her cat, and Ronnie, the high school kid from next door with his expiring  learner’s permit, called at least once a week begging to start her car engine. “That’s a nice whip parked out there Miss B.; it would be a shame if your engine seized just because it was sitting idle.”    Ronda knew he was exaggerating but she was always amused by his effort.

One evening she decided to sleep downstairs on the living room sofa, something she normally did when a good television program called to her exhausted body, but this time was different. This time her sleep was met with a strong emotional response of the mind. A struggle between fear and peace was causing her head to shift radically from side to side as if being slapped by some invisible force. Her flailing arms reversed their purpose and gave aid to the hands that instinctively tried to shield her face. As she laid trembling with her face buried inside the palm of her hands, a pungent scent of coconut oil cut through the tension leaving a calming effect and putting the room at ease.  The sudden calmness invited Ronda to remove her hands from her face without fear.  “Ooooh. Ahhhh,” she exclaimed as the alluring stream of scent flowed through her body causing it to levitate and gradually drift toward the staircase. Her body floated through the air with the soothing motion of a lullaby until a mysterious wisp of turbulence intervened and beckoned her to the seventh step. As her body hovered above the stairs it suddenly flipped over to a bird’s eye view position and slowly started to descend on the notorious seventh step. Ronda, with her eyes now open, panicked when a gray stream of threatening smoke began to spiral up from the step to seize her helpless body. The gratifying shrieks from only moments ago, were now cries for help as the seventh step opened and the cloud of smoke morphed into a large hand pulling her body down into an abyss.

~ Beneath the Stairs. ~

Down, down, down she went riding in the palm of a King Kong sized hand. All of a sudden the hand came to an abrupt stop and Ronda’s tiny body fell to the ground. “You’ll be safe down here.” she heard a voice say, and then something soft lifted her up onto her feet. “Who’s there, can you help me?” she asked, but to no avail.

Frightened and confused she tried to feel her way through the dense darkness of her staircase grave wondering if she were in a dream, a nightmare, or some form of hell. As she continued through the abstract maze of horror the mysterious hand suddenly appeared in a fluorescent light that lite an obvious path for her to follow.

“Who are you? Why am I down here? What if I need water, and what about food?” were some of the questions that went unanswered. Ronda wiped away her tears and stood up with a different kind of attitude.  “If this is a dream I’ll wake up soon; if not, God will protect me.”  All of a sudden the light from the pathway began to throb and Ronda’s feet started tingling.

“Come” said the voice.

Without hesitation Ronda began running down the pathway. Her prickling feet were the only thing that seemed real; their tingling sensation was a welcoming feel of reality. She felt like she was actually moving and heading towards a way out until, without warning, the light from the pathway disappeared and once again she was in the dark.

“Do not be afraid,” the voice whispered.

Ronda stood there paralyzed by fear, until a small hand found its way into hers and escorted her through the darkness.  “Where are you taking me?”

“Hehehehehehe,” the guide’s voice giggled. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Shhhhh” the voice commanded.

Ronda said nothing; she just held on to the small hand. “God help me,” she prayed squeezing the hand tighter and tighter until it melted into an oily extraction of something that smelled vaguely familiar. “Coconut oil!” she said aloud.

“Hehehehehehe” the guide’s voice giggled. This time Ronda ignored the sniggering and began sniffing her way through the darkness until finally she heard the voice say. “It’s safe for you to go home now.”
The neighbors were out in numbers watching as the house on Duncan Street burnt down to the ground; some were there to be helpful, some were there merely enticed by the drama. The gossips were lined-up with their fiery tongues eager to explode with their judgmental opinions.

“It was just a matter of time.”

” living alone in that big house must have driven the poor woman crazy.”

“She was probably the one who set the damn house on fire in the first place.”

The fire department was there within minutes. The fire chief would later report seeing flames shooting as high as 30 feet above the roof. His main concerns at that point were containing the flames and preventing them from spreading. The firemen, the first responders, were proud to report that there were no fatalities. “Hey Chief!” one of them yelled, “There was only one resident at this address and the paramedics are putting her in the ambulance now.” With all the chaos no one knew how Ronda had escaped the fire, they only knew she was in the ambulance and Mrs. Blackman from across the street was with her. 

~ Millie ~

Ronda gasped at what she thought she saw; a cute little round-faced girl with her hair in Afro puffs, sitting on her bed in a bright yellow dress adorned with a white collar. She rubbed her eyes in disbelief. “It’s just a figment of my imagination,” she thought, but when she opened her eyes again she couldn’t deny the sweet little voice she heard.

“Hi My name is Millie!” Millie said; with her breathe telling the tail of coconut oil.

Ronda sat up but was not afraid. She sniffed the air… “It’s you!   Are you the reason, she sniffed again, I smell coconut oil?”

“I sure am! …Awww, coconut oil. My favorite! Did you know coconut oil is an edible oil extracted from the kernel or meat of mature coconuts harvested from the coconut palm? It has various applications because of its high saturated fat content…” Millie rambled on and on about her passion for what she called “Nature’s gift to her nose,” while Ronda stared in amazement. “You’re a smart little thing.”

“I sure am!” Millie shouted, waving her little hands through the air. “There, smell that.” she said, with another wave of her little hand.  Ronda laid back to inhale the sweet-smelling air.

“Yes. Take it all in. It will relax you.”

Millie crawled up the bed and snuggled next to Ronda. “It’s more than a lovely fragrance,” she whispered. “

“I know, Millie. It’s your gift from nature.”

“No. Mrs. Briggs, it’s your gift. Your gift of tranquility.”  Millie rolled onto her knees and crouched over her to make eye-contact.

Ronda’s face had confusion written all over it. “I see I have some explaining to do,” Millie said, and then paused for a moment. Ronda sat patiently waiting for what she now concluded was her very own Cherub. “My gift of tranquility?” What could that possibly mean?,” she wondered.

“It means you have a gift of tranquility, of calmness, level-headedness or whatever you want to call it.”

“Oh! so you can read my mind…of course you can. You’re an angel, right?”

“Mrs. Briggs…”

“You may call me Ronda.”

“Thank you. No, that would be disrespectful, and I have always respected you. I remember your kindness when you thought the school children were shunning me. I saw you look for me when I disappeared.

Ronda thought back to the last time she saw the little girl. “You were wearing a red dress with a white collar.”

“Yes, that’ right. All of my dresses have white collars because I come from a pure and uncomplicated place.”

“Your dresses were always the same style, except for the color.”

“Yes, that’ right. A different color dress for a different situation.” Millie knew in order to make Ronda fully understand her mission, she had to revisit some unpleasant memories.” I need to take you back to the day when you needed me most, the day I was told to wear my red dress…

…It was Flora who told me to put it on,”

“Flora?”

“Yes. She’s the senior messenger of truth; she was the one who put us together on the day you were born. I know everything about you Mrs. Briggs; I was with you through your childhood, your adolescence and definitely through your brutal marriage.” The word, marriage made Ronda very uncomfortable and the word, brutal made her think about Harold, the husband.

Millie placed her tiny hands over Ronda’s eyes “Relax. Let yourself go,” she said in a soft, trusting voice. “Let you mind travel: let it drift back to the staircase on Duncan Street.”  Ronda frowned at the notion. “You’re afraid; you’re very afraid. Harold is screaming at you; he’s banging your head on the step, on the seventh step, but you can’t feel it; you can’t feel anything but comfort.”

Ronda began to smile.

“Awww…. I smell perfume….No. Coconut oil,” she said.

“Yes. It’s your gift, the sweet smell of tranquility.” Millie switched off the hypnotic tone of her voice.  “This precious gift has always been there for you, but you would never ask for it. We knew there would be blood that day; that’s why Flora told me to wear the red dress. She told me to sit and wait for you on the seventh step. I sat helpless while you were being abused.  I wanted to help you; I wanted to help you so badly.” Millie’s amateur status started to show.

“I thought you would never cry out to God for help,” she said with human emotions. And then suddenly, she bent over and kissed Ronda on the cheek. “I was your pillow on the seventh step. I was your shield during the car accident and I was the hand that pulled you down to safety during the fire.  I was always there for you because you were always searching for me; you never stopped loving the cute little round-faced seventh grader who wore her hair in Afro puffs, but you allowed fear to become our jailer.” The sadness in Millie’s eyes was undeniable; she suddenly seemed like a mother chastising her child. “Good riddance to that fear-infested house that forced me into wearing a gray dress. Good riddance!… And I’m glad it burnt down to the ground.”

“My house was burnt down?”

“Yup. And like my friends, *Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego the hair on your head was not singed, your clothes were not scorched, and there was no smell of fire on you.”

The End.   The beginning

*Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego were three Jewish men thrown into a fiery furnace by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, when they refused to bow down to the king’s image.

Daniel 3 :26,27 So Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego came out of the fire, and the satraps, prefects, governors and royal advisers crowded around them. They saw that the fire had not harmed their bodies, nor was a hair of their heads singed; their robes were not scorched, and there was no smell of fire on them.