But here we were, descending the old wooden steps into the basement, leaving the brightly light living room for the cold and dim of my father’s world.
The basement wasn’t much. A single room with a single-window on the east side that looked out onto a field. It was a nice view, given the time of year, or the weather, but unless the hour was late or the summer was in full, little natural light made its way into the basement.
Along the far wall was a properly made bed, and next to the headboard was a bookshelf filled top to bottom. What had changed about the place was that three folding chairs sat at its center, and a little stage had been constructed on the near wall.
Dean stared. “Did you hear him build that,” he asked?
I shook my head.
Emma was the only one of us who was dismayed and went to sit on one of the three chairs. She pulled herself up, her legs dangling over the edge, unable to touch the ground.
“Okay,” she said, as though she was quite ready for the show to begin.
Given that Dean and I had never taken her to play before, this made both of us raise our eyebrows. But after quick odds, we took our own seats as well.
As soon as we had sat the lone ceiling light, overhead dimmed–though how I could not have said.
This is what we saw on the first night, the first night of three, at the end of which, my father disappeared.