When I was six, I told my dad I hated him. He thought this a very unkind thing to say to the one who gave me food, provided a sister and married my mother. “I hate you!” I repeated, waiting for him to hit me. Dad didn’t tuck up his pants, nor clench his fist. Instead, he opened the pantry door and dared me to live without him.

It was cold and the smell of rotting potatoes made me cough into my sleeve. I was surprised that in a few minutes the dying potatoes had stopped fumigating the room. They were sloppy roommates but my brain had told the olfactory that production was coming to a stop. I slept for many hours in the darkness.

*

Philipe curved himself into a knot. There was light lazing in from the keyhole. It projected activities from beyond the door and placed them on the wall. The boy awoke to the smell of a pot roast. He watched the wall, looking for his pretty mother to wonder where he went off. God said grace and never mentioned the empty seat.

From inside the wall it seemed the house was more active than ever. Philipe heard the sounds of adult voices murmuring over the table. He put his ear near the keyhole, hoping that the sound would be a better activity than watching the picture. “I’m in here,” He called out, but none ever answered.

It seemed strange to the child that his mother wouldn’t miss him and his sister would eat all his food. Hadn’t Philipe been a good brother? The child was sure that God had fooled his mother. It wasn’t her fault. Yet his sister was still young and free, she wouldn’t be fooled when God said that the boy had run away. The sister wouldn’t be silent when told to be silent. She would ask the questions. Wouldn’t she?

“I’m in…” He stopped himself before he started. He didn’t want to create a scene. For what would God say when the family heard his voice after they were told the boy had run away? Philipe couldn’t stop his family from believing. So he remained very quiet.

*

I waited for hours, hoping that Dad would forgive me. I was his first and only son. How could he deny me like I hated him? I stopped putting my ear to the keyhole. It hurt to strain in that direction and the words were never clear. From the wall-picture I could see a table set for the greatest of feasts. It seemed that months had passed by and holiday supper was spread. I couldn’t smell anything now. My nose was clogged from trying.

I could already feel that I had not been the first to be walled away in this cave. My struggle was not unique but I would make it better. I could drain all the cans from the room and punch holes in them. Then I could listen throughout the house. There were vents to gain perspective, floorboard gaps to drain away what I ate. In no time I could have the place fortified. I would lock the door from the inside and make the captivity my decision, not his.

*

Philipe felt around for some tools. The wood boards were mostly smooth till he felt by a corner. There he stopped and did a double take. There was truly writing on the floor, carved in for the closet kid. After some time, he was sure he could read the small statutory of words. It said: God has patience.