Boogeyman

Photo by Katy Walters

I saw the Boogeyman. His enormous shadow loomed in my doorway like a thunderhead in the distance, yet he never stepped into my bedroom. Each time I encountered him, it was always in the middle of the night when something startled me awake. I'd slowly pull the covers over my head, frozen in my cocoon, hoping that he couldn't see me when I couldn't see him.

Our single-wide trailer was just big enough for our family and Poom, our cat. At the back end, Mom and Dad had a bedroom that was only as big as their king-sized bed. Down the hall was the bathroom with a litter box next to the toilet. I wouldn't say I enjoyed looking at it when I did my business, but Mom kept it clean.

Brother's room and mine were next, closest to the swamp cooler vent on the ceiling in the hall. Our rooms were symmetrical, separated by a narrow shared closet with an opening in the middle, allowing us the option to sneak back and forth if we wanted to. 

We never did.

My room was wide enough for my homemade mattress on an army surplus cot. My bedspread was Dad's old green army blanket from his time in Korea. Underneath were three pull out cardboard storage boxes for out-of-season clothes, hand-me-downs, and toys. Next to my cot, on the wood-paneled wall, hung a cork bulletin board adorned with thumb-tacked pictures of cats and comic strips from the Sunday paper. In the bottom right corner, I wrote in felt pen, "I love Sam." He was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy in my third-grade class, and since all the girls chased him, that meant I liked him too. 

At the end of my bed was a tiny window with a sheer white curtain and a tall white bookcase filled with my picture books and Disney records. My Tinkerbell nail polish kit and jewelry box were on the second shelf. When I opened my jewelry box, a ballerina in a pink tutu stood on her toe shoes and twirled to music. There wasn't much inside—just three gold birdhouse pins I received for my birthday and a silver dollar. Mom said I'd have lots of jewels when I grew up.

Mom's eye for design and simplicity transformed our single-wide trailer into a spacious home—at least, I thought it was big for a kid of my size. Despite the wood paneling she had yet to paint white, our living room was light and minimal, and the furniture was arranged well for such a small space. 

Along the wall with the sliding glass door were two low bookshelves filled with Mom and Dad's textbooks from Cal Berkeley, a complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica, piano music books, records, cookbooks, and a Webster's dictionary and thesaurus. On top of the bookshelf sat a small black and white television set, a record player, and a stack of books borrowed from the downtown library. Above the couch hung a painting of the ocean that reminded Dad of sailing on the San Francisco Bay with Mom when they were dating. Flanking the couch were end tables and lamps with large celadon green bases, completing the cozy atmosphere, especially at night.

Our couch was a single-wide bed with two enormous bolsters propped against the wall, covered with white canvas slipcovers that Mom made herself. She decorated the couch with her meticulously knitted afghans and needlepoint pillows, changing them with the seasons to add pops of color. While Mom preferred muted, earthy colors like beige and white, I wanted hot pink for my bedroom, not army green.

Dad had a favorite spot, his black leather Ames Chair. In front of his chair and the couch was a short, sturdy oak library table with a carved lion head at each corner. Underneath were stored two large white Naugahyde floor cushions.

The sliding glass door in our living room served as the front entrance. Mom placed flower power stickers at eye level to prevent anyone from accidentally walking into the glass when the door was closed. She didn't like bulky, lined curtains, which she said made a room appear smaller, so she made simple light linen curtains instead. Indoor-outdoor carpet covered the floor, just like in a dental office.

A busy tropical fish tank full of Guppies and lush greenery rested on the bar that separated the living room from our kitchen. The guppies were Mom's, and she didn't trust me to feed them because I once accidentally killed her hamster from overfeeding. Although our kitchen was small, it had a built-in booth, making it feel larger. During lunch, I'd sit in the kitchen booth eating grilled cheese, looking out the window at the poodles across the street, and watching Ed, the park manager, greet the neighbors from his golf cart. But at dinnertime, Brother and I ate in the living room on the couch with our TV trays and half an hour of television.

Outside the sliding glass door, beneath an aluminum awning, wooden steps creaked and wobbled onto the concrete patio where Mom cut my hair. I'd sit up straight on a stool with a towel draped over my shoulders while she ran a piece of Scotch Tape across my bangs. Anything hanging below the tape got trimmed with barber scissors. If I wiggled, my bangs ended up crooked.

Mom had a green thumb with potted plants, mostly with geraniums and Boston ferns. She grew them in terracotta pots on shelves made of bricks and boards on the patio. For decoration, she displayed Dad's old deep-sea diving helmet from when he worked on the San Leandro Bridge as a diver. The helmet had become a home for Black Widow spiders, and I could see their egg sacs through the face glass.

Mom also created a sitting area with a small table for her abalone shell ashtray between two director's chairs. She and Dad enjoyed spending time outside on the patio at night, chatting and listening to the crickets. Dad would talk about his day working on the California Aqueduct while Mom reported on hers. They sipped martinis and smoked cigarettes until Brother and I went to bed. Afterward, they'd come inside and cook fancy gourmet dinners together. I always felt calm when they were on the patio. If I got up for a drink of water, I could see the glowing red tips of their cigarettes through the sliding door, hear the soft hum of their voices, and sometimes catch my name.

The Boogeyman appeared in my doorway many times in the middle of the night, and each time, I felt terrified as he watched me. I'd hide beneath my covers, creating a small hole big enough to breathe fresh air. Then, I'd suck my pointer finger and flick Bunny's tag until I eventually fell asleep. 

Lightning and thunder also terrified me, probably because Brother enjoyed shooting cap guns at my head. Or maybe it was the flash photography I endured as a child. I was that one kid in every school class photo with my eyes closed.

Mom disapproved of my fear of lightning the most. She said I should get over it by standing outside in a good old-fashioned Oildale lightning storm with my eyes wide open. She said I'd conquer my fear if I did that, but it didn't work. 

I flinched with every flash of lightning and crack of thunder overhead until I couldn't stand it anymore. I shut my eyes tightly and stuffed my fingers into my ears, hoping to ease my anxiety. Mom just rolled her eyes and lit another a cigarette.

I never told anyone about the Boogeyman, my fear of the dark, or that I wished for a nightlight. The last time I saw him, he appeared in my doorway during a summer lightning storm, a frightening silhouette against each flash of light. I hid under the sheet with Bunny until sleep finally saved me.

Mom mentioned that Dad had trouble sleeping at night. Sometimes, she'd find him in the morning asleep in his Ames chair with a book on his lap and his glasses perched on the end of his nose. She'd wake him with a kiss and cup of Folgers, and then he'd get ready for work. 

I wanted to ask Dad about the Boogeyman. Had he seen him in the hallway or standing in my doorway on those lonely nights when he couldn't sleep? I felt embarrassed to bring it up and worried that Mom would get mad for bothering him. She often said my fears were childish, yet every night, the only place I felt safe from my imagination was under the covers of my bed.