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Footfalls in the night

FeaturesFootfalls in the night

A gold-plated butcher’s cleaver hung above the man’s head on the wall behind him. It was Friday, the 13th of December.

Henderson Redfern looked at the faces of his family gathered in their spacious family room. Known to friends and others as “Hendy,” he was a tall, heavy-set, broad-shouldered and well-known 44-year-old butcher. The emblem of his trade that gleamed overhead was a gift from an appreciative client. Hendy grew a thick moustache and his hairline had begun to recede. A half-full glass of dark, burgundy-red sorrel wine sat on the end table beside the upholstered armchair on which he lounged.

His gaze rested for a moment on Gilda, his wife of 18-years sitting directly across from him in the middle of the sofa. She was a health inspector with the City and though a bit tired, her smiles helped to mask the wear which the demands of Christmas preparations put on her. Her hair was brushed back and knotted in a bun the size of one of her Easter creations similarly named. She wore her favorite blue loose capri, topped by a lime-green gingham blouse that hugged her just enough to mold her still firm breasts.

Their eldest child, Henderson (“Junior”), a first year student at S.J.C. 6th Form, sat on the sofa beside her. On her other side lulled Celeste (“Celi”), a Grade 6 student who thought and acted 3 grades above that. She was the youngest and leaned comfortably against her mother’s arm.

In his sweep of the gathering, Hendy’s eyes glimpsed the twins, Denthony (“Denny”), and Duaynort (“Dort”). They preferred being together, and were even then on the upholstered lover’s ottoman where they usually sat when the family met. Both wore identical graphic tees of an indeterminate greenish/yellowish coloring. Denny, the “older”, had nothing on his feet. So, neither did Dort.

Shemilla (“Millie”), their second child, sat near the Christmas tree. She was an eye-catching 14-year-old with large, soft grey eyes. Her smile was girlish, sincere but self-assured. She always sat as if for a portrait and never had to dress to impress. Her yellow flip-flops hung carelessly from her toes, and the shift she wore was tied loosely about her slender waist.

Her poise made her acquaintances jealous of her. Her long craboo-hued hair looked attractive whether she had it braided, plaited or curled. It always got a second look. Millie had a shapely body, was tall and walked with an upright gait. Even when she was in a hurry she could do so and not show any haste. Her classic neck made every turn of her head an unforgettable moment to anyone looking, and her eyes twinkled whenever she smiled. In school the students nicknamed her “Runway,” a word someone got from a beauty contest on TV. She didn’t mind.

There was some harmless antagonism at home also. The twins just felt uneasy around her and Junior regarded her as a competitor for bathroom time. Celi, however, even as a child, felt the differences keenly and made them personal. Unlike Millie, she was short, had black hair that was hard to tame, and a loud voice. She walked with a heavy thud which Gilda tried, but failed, to bring some grace to. As Celi got older she became aware of her small, dark eyes that made her appear cunning and aggressive. In fact, one of her childhood pranks was to screw up those marble-like orbs into thin slits, sneak up to someone or even the dog, and say “Bah.” By the time she was in the 3rd grade the two sisters were clearly onto separate paths. Celi liked the outdoors—fishing, birdwatching and sports. Millie was studious and introspective.

Millie was in high school, while the twins and Celi attended Salvation Army primary.
Hendy sipped his wine and exhaled contentedly.

All the lights were off except those adorning the Christmas tree. They dazzled brightly, reflecting gaily from the polished wooden floor. The “star” blinked its Christmas greeting with paced regularity. Outside, Bumbles, the family’s German shepherd, growled warningly, signaling the presence of a wandering cat. There was a light rain, and the rhythmic tap, tap of water dripping on to the concrete walkway near the garden was soothing. The mini-grandfather clock said 7:45 p.m.

The annual lighting of the Christmas tree at the Chetumal Street roundabout would begin at 8 o’clock. The family munched on crackers and cookies in their split-level home on George Street, in Belize City. The music was low, seasonal and comforting. When the last of the Jim Reeves CD had ended, Hendy rose to get another. The floor creaked under his weight. He was reaching into the CD rack when Millie stopped him.

“Dad!” It was like a hiss. “Stop. I heard something.” Her voice, barely more than a whisper, was ominous with fear and alarm. The room was suddenly, eerily quiet as everyone strained to hear what had alarmed Millie so. Hendy stood rigidly where he was.

After a short spell with no one hearing more than the dripping rain, they all sighed in relief. The spell cast by her sudden outburst was gone, and the worried looks of a moment before were replaced by tentative smiles that became beaming grins.

“There’s eleven more days before Santa is due, Millie,” Hendy joked, smiling at his daughter with fatherly fondness and appreciation.

“Much too early for the big man’s appearance,” added Celi, bitingly.

“Yeah, yeah!” Chorused the twins.

Gilda intervened then with her sympathetic, motherly smile and a gentle toss of her head.

“It could’ve been the wind, Millie.”

“I heard it, ’ma,” Millie protested.

Gilda knew how sensitive her daughter was about her souped-up hearing. They all did, and whenever Millie would “hear” something that they didn’t (as she had just done), the sibs were cautioned against saying anything dismissive. As time went on, Gilda would warn them against telling Millie that it was just her imagination. “It’s a gift,” she insisted, and drilled it in until the lesson was embedded firmly. Hendy’s joke, however, provided a crack in that façade.

“I didn’t hear a thing,” said Dort, all serious and conciliatory.

“Me neither,” mocked Celi. She bobbed her head from side to side, mimicking someone trying to fix the direction of a sound.

“What did it sound like, Millie?” Asked Hendy, trying to cover his earlier insensitivity with his Santa Claus joke. He had found the CD he wanted and was hunched over the player, waiting.

“It was a footfall,” she responded firmly. “A light footfall, like from someone small.”
“Then i’ll wait a moment longer for this,” he said, indicating the new CD. “Everyone, be quiet.”

Once more the room became silent, each one staring uncertainly at clasped hands resting uneasily in their laps. This was a drill they had all been through before: no one looked at Millie.

“Play the music, Dad,” muttered Millie at last when the quietness had gone on too long. “It’s better than listening for footfalls!”

Hendy inserted the CD and when Belafonte’s voice filled the room he went back to his seat, humming softly. There were times when he was glad his daughter had this unusual gift. At other times like the one which just ended, he felt a kind of regret about the whole thing, wishing that Millie’s enhanced hearing would just go away. A childhood quirk was one thing, but he worried about how it would affect her in adult life, and he would not always be there to explain.

When Millie was born three years after Junior, there was nothing missing or odd—fingers, toes, fully-formed lips and ears, and eyes that looked straight at you. The perfect baby. And the most beautiful! She made the home complete, and Gilda’s days were just endless rounds of joy and busyness. She fussed over the baby, sometimes changing her dresses 3 or 4 times in one day. Just to see her in different outfits.

One day Hendy felt moved to say: “She looks the same, Gilda,” he grinned, “regardless of how you try to pretty her up.”

“Oh, yeah?” She retorted. “Are you saying I look the same whatever I’m wearing?”

That was slippery turf, so he backed off and never interrupted her again, allowing her nurturing instincts as a young mother to develop at their own pace.

It was a time before the smart phone, and the family albums contained dozens of photographs of the new baby in jumpers, PJ’s, puffers and diapers.

The first alarm Gilda got was while she sat with Millie on a park bench at the BTL Park on the north side of town. A dog was barking nearby, and the baby screamed, covering both ears with her hands. Nothing she did could quiet Millie, and the screams continued until the dog and owner had moved on. She said nothing of the incident to Hendy at the time.

On another occasion she and Millie were at the gate waiting for the ice cream van with its loud, catchy tune to roll up. Millie again went through the routine of covering her ears until the van had left. That time she mentioned her growing concern to Hendy.

“I think we have a problem,” she began. They were seated together at the dinner table going over some expenses.

Without looking up, Hendy asked airily: “More than what we have with these bills?”

“Yes—much more!” She related the encounters with the dog and the van.

“So, couldn’t it simply be fright?” His voice was calm and almost toneless. “You, know,” he shrugged, “many children are afraid of dogs, and she’s just three.” But the conviction was not there. He knew he had a distant relative who had the same condition.

“Yes,” agreed Gilda, “but all children like ice cream!” Her retort was not angry; just an appeal for compassion.

After a minute Hendy brightened. “So,” he dragged out the word, “what do you have in mind, sweetheart?”

That was the beginning of many visits to doctors’ offices seeking a cure for Millie’s condition.

“It’s called hyperacusis,” the first doctor they saw told them. “It only occurs in a tiny percentage of the population.” Not satisfied with local opinions, they had taken her to Mérida for specialist attention. But sadly, there was no remedy.

“The best you can hope for,” the especialista said, “is that she might be able to control her responses.”

But things remained the same, and accommodation became their mantra. Music was played softly, the TV volume was kept down, and the whistle kettle was replaced with a regular one. It worked, and as she got older, life in their home settled into a state of controlled conflict. By the time Millie was ready for school, her responses had become less visible. Now as a teenager, it was a mere annoyance—trivial and tamed.

Then, one day at school the kids were up to an old trick of switching digits on the blackboard while the teacher was out of the room. She returned sooner than they anticipated and Millie heard footsteps outside. More than that—she realized she could tell whose they were by the footfall!

“Hurry up!” She shouted. “Miss is back.” The student at the blackboard hesitated a moment, glanced at Millie and scurried back to his seat. A moment later the door opened and the teacher re-entered.

“Okay,” she wailed on seeing the changes made to her work. “Who was it this time?” She jived, and got the twitters she expected. But not the admission she wanted. Millie said nothing to her classmates about the footfall revelation for fear of being teased. But she told Gilda.

“So, you can tell who is about just by the footfall?” Gilda asked, in a voice that held no doubt, just amazement.

(To be continued in next week’s issue of the Amandala)

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