The Radio Is On
It's dark in the house. It's not my house, but not wholly unfamiliar. It's old, with dark wood trim, red carpeting, and patterned wall paper.
Somewhere downstairs a radio is playing. It's on a talk show, and male voice talks about military history in a British accent. It's late, though, and the radio should not be on. People are trying to sleep.
The floorboards creak as I make my way down the dimly lit hallway. I walk slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. At the end of the hall, around a corner, is the long wooden stairway down to the first floor, where the radio is playing. Each platform complains as it takes my weight, amplified by the quiet of the house as is the voice on the radio, now talking about the battleship Bismarck.
When I'm about halfway down the stairs, the radio stops. The house is silent for just second, then another radio comes on, this time upstairs. It's playing classical music just loudly enough to hear.
I'm in bed, and I can hear music which seems to be coming from outside the house, this time my house. I climb out of bed, but the sound moves as I do. Is it a voice? I stand for a moment in the dark trying to get my bearings.
What is it?
Barbara asks.
Do you hear that? I think I hear something,
I whisper.
Oh,
she says, more wakeful. I think I left the radio on
downstairs. Sorry...
She's right. I can tell now that the sound is coming from downstairs. I go down and turn off the radio.
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