My Third Psychic Memory

I am maybe five or six. I must have been in kindergarten, since I have a real sense of myself. Every weekend I beg my mother to let me go alone into the front yard, which borders a boulevard with rushing cars. I have to go without her, since she likes the back yard with its privacy and noisy birds and a line to hang wash. Her front porch visits are limited to a sweep and a wash.

I keep asking to go out front alone. When she finally lets me, I hide behind our big old elm tree with my back against the rough bark. I think about two of our three neighbors, the ones my mom calls widows. I don’t know what that means, but I want to see what they do in their homes, so I stare through the tree and into their lives. One lady slouches in a chair to read and the other one is busy in her kitchen. They are boring to watch.

The house right next to ours is different. Inside lives one crazy family, and their intrigue and my shock equals fun. I stare into their house and watch the mother pace back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. The drama begins as she throws her arms in the air and runs to the bottom of the stairs, where she yells at the husband and children who are hiding upstairs. When she exhausts herself, she throws her body on the stairs and breaks out in a sob. In the yard, through the tree, I see her but I cannot hear every word.

After her final outburst, the husband storms down the stairs and bawls out his anger and
frustration. He stops to check on her as she lies prostate, then he stomps through the house and out to the garage. If he is only a little angry, he sits in his car inside the garage with the garage door open. When he gets really mad he drives off and doesn't return for the rest of the day.

Their ritual stays the same every weekend. The kids hide in their rooms, the parents fight. Their passion and pathos enthrall me. These are the days before we had a television, so their antics provide me with my own personal soap opera. As far as seeing through walls, I assume everyone has my abilities. I figure it’s like underwear, private. I certainly do not talk about it.

In second grade I make a new friend, a tow-headed tomboy. To impress her I take her to my secret spot behind the tree. I tell her about my fun as I watch the neighbors act crazy. She stands behind the tree with her back straight against it. Time passes.

“This isn’t working. I have to face the tree to look through it,” she tells me, as irritation creeps into her voice.

Silent as stone, she waits with her nose pressed against the bark. Within minutes she gives up.

"What are you STUPID?” she screams at me. “People can't see through walls!"

Our friendship collapses as she marches off for home.