I don’t remember the beginning of red blanket. Time behaves differently for six year olds, so I assumed that things like red blankets, mothers and slotted spoons had always and would always exist unchanged in the world. Since then I have had a series of sordid relationships with countless other blankets, but red was my first, which carries its own weight of distinction.
Red was an unusually thin blanket. This made it ideal for building forts and wrapping up toys to carry around the house, but it was suspiciously cold for a blanket. On a Cartesian plane of bedding, with sheets being at one end, and duvets on the other, red would have fallen right in the center, directly at zero. But my mother made my bed with the red blanket on top of my rainbow bright sheets, so I naturally assumed Red was a blanket after all. Further evidence as to red’s status lay in the soft, raised ridges that ran through out. I decided that while it is possible to have a very thin blanket that is consistently cool to the touch; it would be unheard of to have a thick, textured sheet on top of one’s bed.
One night, I remember thinking what a clever six year old I was to have thought this out so meticulously and scientifically. I wanted to run into Chris, my older brother’s room and impress him with my new found conclusions. I climbed out of bed and tied red around my neck like a cape. The bare floor was cold on my naked feet. My hand was on the doorknob when I heard my parents in the hallway.
Something made me stop. For an instant, I forgot to breath. The words were wrong, out of place somehow, like they belonged in someone else’s hallway far away from mine. I left the door open ever so slightly and silently crept back to bed. My Dad was laughing, but the laugh was ugly and thick and it made my stomach hurt. I brought red all the way over my head, and wished it had been thicker so I wouldn’t have heard the yelling and the yelling and the yelling and the dull thud of something large hitting the floor.
Then it was quiet. It was quiet for a very long time. Just when I decided to go see what had fallen; I saw my mother’s silhouette in my door way. Neither one of us spoke. With a wet face, she gently scooped me out of bed. She carried me down the mud stained stairs to the front door, with Chris sleepily trailing behind. I saw my Dad sitting on the end of the couch holding his head in his hands. “Jude, wait…I’m sorry”, he said softly. I remember thinking he must have said it too quietly, because my mom kept walking as if nothing had been said at all. She didn’t hear me either, when I whispered in her ear to ask where we were going. She merely exhaled softly and tightened her grip around me as we spilled out into the moon light. We crossed the parking lot to our neighbor’s apartment. I put my head down on her shoulder and fell asleep with red still tied around my neck, flapping in the night wind.
The Red Blanket
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