In the Basement

Mr. Filmer and his wife lived in our basement during the summer of 1988. Mr. Filmer wore faded blue jeans and brown construction boots. His wife, Ingrid, had a thin, droopy face and eyes that sagged with black circles beneath them. She stayed in the basement all day while Mr. Filmer worked at Michelin, a tire factory. When I helped him bring in groceries from his old blue Ford he always offered me a cool white mint. My mother had a hard time with English names and could never pronounce his wife’s name properly. It always came out as “Ingredient”. Mr. Filmer laughed every time she said this.

Mr. Filmer fixed my ten-speed bike when the chain got caught in the wheel, he helped my dad fix the shingles on the windows, and he brought our garbage bins back from the curb on Monday afternoons. My dad told me I could really learn something from Mr. Filmer. He worked hard to provide a good home for himself, his wife and their future children.

One hot summer night, my sister Kara and I snuck down to the living room to watch an extra half hour of television. My parents slept through anything. People claimed an elephant could trample through the kitchen and they still wouldn’t hear it. I settled myself on the couch and Kara nestled into a big overstuffed Papasan chair. We flicked the television on and watched The Simpsons. I heard a muffled whimper and turned the volume lower. Kara murmured, “Did you hear that?”

I sat motionless and concentrated. This time the voice sounded louder. I heard a man’s voice. Kara pointed to the brown rectangular heating vent beside the television and said, “It’s coming from the basement.”

We darted to the vent and almost banged our heads together as we knelt down. A loud angry voice drifted up and I heard, “You bitch! Don’t fucking ever try that shit with me again. You don’t know who you’re dealing with and I don’t give a horse’s ass if they’re fucking family. If you ever tell anyone about it again, I’ll fucking kill you!!!”

I looked up and my brown eyes met Kara’s. Her mouth hung open and her small chin quivered. “That’s not Mr. Filmer,” I whispered. We jerked back and clung to each other as we heard glass shatter.

“Come back, you bitch!” Mr. Filmer bellowed.

I heard a high-pitched scream that reverberated though my small body. A door slammed.

I sat frozen and clenched my knees close. Kara yanked my hands, pulled me up and we ran to the front window. We lifted a small edge of the white curtain and peeped out.

Ingrid’s tiny body sprinted across the driveway and her thin nightgown flapped in the breeze and she jumped into the blue Ford and pressed the accelerator as she zigzagged down the street. Mr. Filmer, barefoot, ran down the driveway and stopped at the curb and watched Ingrid drive off. He stood for a minute. I shifted my weight to my left foot as I watched him. Mr. Filmer turned around and stared at the front of the house. Kara and I let go of the curtain.



One week later, Mr. Filmer rang our front door. His hair looked ratty, and stubbly hairs on his chin stuck out. He wore dirty tattered blue Levis and stank like cigarette smoke. Mr. Filmer told my father that he would vacate the basement that night. My dad leaned against the doorframe. “Well I wish you and Ingrid all the best. How is she doing? I haven’t seen her this past week.”

Mr. Filmer studied the black welcome mat. “Oh we’re going through some tough times. You know how it is.”

My dad nodded.

The next morning, I opened the basement door and crept down the stairs. The blue walls looked bare and sunlight streamed through the windows and empty boxes littered the carpet and half filled beer bottles cluttered the kitchen counter. I jolted as I felt sharp glass pierce my bare feet.