Reveille. The notes penetrated
my fog-enshrouded brain. I pulled up the blanket and returned to
fetal position underneath it. One finger crooked over the cover
and pushed it down a bit. The sun through the window blinded
me. I realized it was useless to try and escape, so I
roused myself and plodded to the bathroom. As I
passed through the kitchen, I noticed the door to the basement was
open.
I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes
and discovered my father standing at the top of the basement
stairs. He was attempting to waken my sister.
He
held a bugle in his right hand, pressed against his mouth. His
left hand clutched the trapdoor of his dingy long johns, which had one
of the buttons missing. In middle age, his once slight figure
had blossomed into a resemblance of the A&W Root Bear.
My sister Mary's bedroom was in the
basement. She always reminded me of Lazarus. Whenever
horizontal, she became comatose. Calling her name to awaken her
would never work. Hoarseness would set in before she ever
acknowledged your yelling. So, Dad's latest attempt at making
her rise, short of finding a prince to kiss her, and since Jesus
wasn't immediately available, was the 7:00 a.m. bugle call.
His last effort before this one
wasn't too successful. He had cleverly installed a buzzer
switch-button on the floor next to his and my mother's bed with the
buzzer next to Mary's. When he woke up he had simply
reached down and pressed the button for a long time. Well, they
say there is no "fury like a woman scorned," but I say there
is no "fury like my sister being awakened by a buzzing
sound." She promptly pulled the wires out.
Her ability to sleep could be
dangerous, though, because when she was ten she walked in her sleep
down the back alley, at midnight and swung on the neighbour's gate.
As I padded my way back to my room I
heard Dad starting another chorus of Reveille.
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