The Chimney

Martha K. Davis

I’ve always considered myself ordinary, a regular guy with a regular life, the same as other men I know. I have a pretty wife, a young daughter, and a baby boy. We live in a renovated farmhouse set back from a country road, sheltered by maple and birch trees. I work in construction, laying down hardwood, laminated, and linoleum floors in houses built for families just like mine. My parents and my grandmother still live in town, in the same house where I was raised. Most of the families in our tight-knit community have roots here. The usual changes take place: births, marriages, old age, and death. Nothing remarkable, nothing out of this world.

So this story might sound improbable, even impossible, but it’s the absolute truth. Three years ago, on a windy afternoon when the last yellowed leaves on the trees were swirling to the ground, I was outside the house doing chores. I loved working outdoors, weeding the flower beds and breaking off dead branches from the trees and shoveling snow in the winter. I had tried repeatedly to coax my wife into sharing those projects with me, but she always insisted she was an indoor person. That afternoon, she’d driven to town to meet with her literary friends for their monthly book club, and our daughter was inside the house. After raking masses of leaves into piles on the large front lawn, I was thirsty. I found Jenny in the kitchen, playing with the puppy my wife and I had recently given her for her sixth birthday.

“Hey, sweetheart, come outside and help me with the leaves,” I said, filling a glass with water from the faucet and drinking it all.

My daughter looked up at me. She was kneeling on the white-and-red diamond-patterned linoleum I’d laid myself when we renovated the kitchen five years earlier. She held a green rubber ball and was on the verge of throwing it. The puppy, a Boston terrier, kept his gaze on the ball.

“How?” she asked.

“I need you to jump in my leaf piles before I take them to the dump.”

My daughter smiled. “I can do that.”

“I know you can. I remember from last year.”

She lowered her arm slowly, and the puppy’s eyes followed the movement until she released the ball, which rolled toward him on the floor. He pawed it, then wandered away.

Outside, on the lawn, Jenny ran toward the nearest pile and launched herself, scattering scraps of yellow and orange and brown. When I caught up, she was lying back in her bed of leaves, half covered by them, looking happy. I extended my hand. She weighed almost nothing as I pulled her up to standing. Dried leaves stuck to her blue-striped sweater and crackled under her sneakers as she rushed to the next heap. I raked the first one into an extra-large trash bag and tied it closed. Then I followed her around the lawn, gathering up the other piles she’d already jumped into.

While I was filling the last plastic bag, my daughter ran to the swing I’d hung a couple of years before from the limb of a tall maple. She grabbed the ropes and stepped onto the wooden seat, pumping herself forward and back to gain height. I lugged two full bags to my pickup in the driveway and heaved them in. The rest could wait until morning. I figured I had time for one more task before it got dark.

“Push me, Daddy! I want to go higher.”

Jogging over, I saw my little girl flinging herself forward, feet first, and her frustration at not being bigger, stronger, more powerful. From behind, I pushed her once, then with more force, sending her up toward the sky with only the canopy of tree branches above her.

“I’m flying!” she shouted. “I’m as high as the roof!” I sensed she wanted to let go of the ropes, at the top of her forward arc, and soar through the air. I understood that urge. If a pile of leaves had still been on the lawn to land in, I might have encouraged her to jump.

She slowed and came back to earth, and by then I knew what my last chore would be. “Want to help me clean the gutters? You’d have to come up on the roof with me.”

“Yes!” she shouted, leaping off the swing.

“You’ll need to sit nice and still up there, and make sure I do a good job.”

“I will, Daddy.”

We walked to the woodshed. I wrestled out the tall metal ladder and hauled it to the front of the house. Laying it on its side, I extended the ladder to its full length. Then I raised it, leaning it against the roof so it made contact with the gutter. A couple of rungs stretched up into the air.

 “You want to climb up first? I’ll be right behind you. Or should I carry you up?”

Jenny considered the height of the ladder. “I can go up by myself.”

I smiled, pleased by her conviction. “I’ll help you get started.” I lifted her until she gripped the fourth rung with her hands and set the soles of her sneakers on the second. “Now reach for the next rung, and when you’ve got it, climb up one.” When I saw she had the hang of it, I stepped onto the ladder and started up after her. The wind blew the branches of the trees above, and a shower of yellow-orange leaves fluttered to the ground.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Jenny?” I looked up and saw her gripping the last rung.

“Now what do I do?”

“You climb onto the roof.”

“How? The ladder’s in the way.”

“Hold the sides of the ladder and climb up one more step. Then all the way over the last one. I’ll help you.” I stood three rungs below her, my arms forming a safety rail. The wind gusted and I tipped back, but quickly recovered my balance.

As she stepped over the ladder, I put my hand on the seat of her yellow corduroy pants to steady her. After the toe of her sneaker touched the sloped roof, she scrambled up to the third row of gray shingles and sat down facing me.

“See? I told you I can do it myself, Daddy.”

“Just backing you up, sweetheart. Scoot over a little, okay?” I climbed another rung. I could’ve cautiously stepped onto the roof right then, but the truth is I wanted to show off a little. I charged up the last rungs and hopped over the top of the ladder, landing in a crouch. Again, I felt myself falling backwards, but with the forward momentum of my jump I was able to steady myself.

“Daddy!”

Her cry sounded more like alarm than admiration. I glanced back to where she was pointing. The ladder had disappeared from the edge of the roof. I heard a hollow thump and saw it on the lawn below.

“Damn!” I turned to Jenny. “Don’t tell Mommy I said that.”

“How’ll we get down again?” she asked. She wrapped her arms around her knees.

“That’s a good question. I bet we can find a way.”

I wasn’t worried. I’d gotten myself out of worse scrapes than this. It was just a matter of common sense. I scaled the roof and surveyed the area from its peak. The house was two stories tall. Although it was built into the incline of a hill, there was no side from which to jump to the ground without injuring myself. I could try to enter through one of the bedroom windows, but I didn’t have the arm strength to hang from the eaves, kick in the window glass and launch myself inside. I studied the two closest maples, their leaves rustling. Maybe there was a sturdy branch close enough to grasp or jump to. I glanced at my watch. My wife wasn’t due home for another hour.

“Daddy? I’m cold.”

I was a little chilly myself. The wind was steady up where we were, and the temperature was falling as the sun dropped behind the trees. I looked at my daughter still huddled near the roof’s edge.

“Jenny, can you come over here?”

She scampered toward me on her hands and feet. Then she slowly stood up, testing her balance, one foot set on either side of the roof’s peak, like mine.

I squatted down, bringing my face close to hers. “We may be here for an hour or more, until Mommy gets home. Let’s try to get warm. Want to do jumping jacks without jumping?”

Immediately she swept her arms up and down, as though she were making angel wings in the snow.

“You do it too, Daddy. We’ve got to do it together.”

I stood again and traced arcs in the air, synchronizing with my daughter. After a few minutes she said she was tired, so we sat side by side with our backs against the chimney.

“Jenny, you know what this is, don’t you?” I asked, patting the cold red bricks between us. I wanted to keep her engaged, distracted from the cold.

“Yes, Daddy. It’s the chimney. It goes to the fireplace. It’s where the smoke comes out.”

“That’s my girl. Do you know what these are called?” I rapped my knuckles on the shingles we sat on.

She scrunched up her face. “Uh…nope. But Daddy? How does Santa Claus go down the chimney? He’s so fat.”

“Maybe his belly is full of air, like a balloon, and he breathes out all the air and makes himself skinny.”

She examined my face for any hint of teasing. “That’s silly,” she announced. “Maybe when it’s time to leave he breathes in lots of air and floats back up the chimney to the roof.”

“You never know.”

“I could climb down the chimney,” my daughter suggested. “I could go get help.”

Her expression was eager, full of purpose. I hesitated. She could get stuck. She could fall. On the other hand, the wind was piercing now. “Do you really want to do that?” I asked.

“Of course, Daddy. I thought of it all by myself.” She stood up, and so did I. For a long time, I’d been meaning to get the chimney capped, but at that moment I was glad I hadn’t. I leaned over and peered down the dark flue.

She was the perfect size.

“There’s no ladder in there, you know. Let me show you.” I stooped and swung her up until she was standing on the edge of the chimney, looking down.

“What do you think?”

“Yes, Daddy. I can do it.” I was impressed by her confidence. Her determination made it seem less of a risk.

“Okay, here we go.” I lifted her from her armpits and lowered her into the flue. “Push against the bricks with your arms and legs. That’s it.” She braced her back against one side, wedging her sneakers against the opposite wall. She would do great. I released my grip. She shifted her small body down into the darkness and peered up at me once, smiling. Then she tucked her chin to concentrate. I felt a twinge of misgiving watching my child lowering herself down the flue, and then she disappeared.

After a minute I heard gravel crunching on the driveway. My wife’s car approached the house. She wasn’t supposed to be home yet. I stepped down toward the edge of the roof. Once she’d parked beside my pickup and opened the car door, I called out to her.

She stood, squinting up at me, though the sun was behind the trees and the sky had dimmed. “What on earth are you doing up there?”

I struggled for breath. If I told her, she’d be furious that I’d let Jenny climb onto the roof in the first place, and incensed that I’d let her go down the chimney. Then it occurred to me that maybe she didn’t have to find out.

“I was planning to clean out the gutters, but the ladder fell. Could you prop it up for me?”

The ladder was heavy and unwieldy, and it took her several wobbly tries, but eventually she was able to position it upright. I descended, pondering my course of action, then briskly rubbed my cold hands together. “Thanks. I’ll do the gutters tomorrow.” I maneuvered the ladder onto its side. I slid the sections together and leaned it against our home’s foundation. Then I looked at my wife. “Aren’t you home early?”

She turned toward the house, and I followed her. “Nobody finished the book except for me, so we just talked about the first few chapters. It’s the second time they didn’t read the book.” She turned on the lights in the hall. “It’s so dark in here. Where’s Jennifer?”

“She was playing with the puppy. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.” I wasn’t proud of my answer, but at least I wasn’t lying outright.

“Jenny?” my wife called, moving into the kitchen and flipping on the light. While she was in there, I hurried into the living room and switched on several lamps, thinking Jenny might have already reached the bottom of the chimney. The room was empty except for her puppy lying on the couch. I knelt down in front of the fireplace and looked up the flue. It was black. Then I realized the damper was closed. As I brought my head out from under, I sensed the puppy sniffing at my jeans. Tail waving, he came to investigate my hands and the ashes from last winter. I nudged him back into the room. Then I felt for the damper lever and pulled. There was a rusty clang. Black soot fell onto the grate.

“Sweetheart? Jenny?” I called.

I heard my wife’s footsteps in the hall. “I can’t find her,” she said. “Do you think she’s hiding?”

I stood, scooped up the puppy, and hurried to meet my wife at the doorway of the living room. She took the squirming terrier out of my arms. “That’s probably it. We played hide-and-seek earlier,” I said in a way I hoped was reassuring. “Why don’t you look upstairs?” She nodded and turned toward the staircase, holding the dog to her chest.

As soon as she was out of sight, I crossed the room and knelt in front of the fireplace. I was terrified she would figure out what had happened. If she did, I’d never hear the end of it. I leaned in and looked up, expecting to see my daughter a few feet over my head, diligently inching her way down or trying to keep her balance on the smoke shelf. I would tell her to make herself skinny like Santa. I would tell her I could catch her.

Peering all the way up, I saw a square of bluish-purple sky. Had she already descended and run off to the neighbors’ house? But there hadn’t been enough time, and besides, the damper had been closed. Had she climbed back up?

I rushed into the kitchen and yanked drawers open until I found a flashlight. Back in the living room, I shone the beam up the flue. I saw nothing but dark, scorched walls rising to the sky.

“Jenny? Mommy’s home,” I told the fading light. “Are you there?”

I stood up and headed toward the front door. “Looking outside!” I called to my wife.

In the dusk, I pulled the ladder onto the lawn—extended it, righted it, and climbed onto the roof. I examined the entire surface with my flashlight, both sides, still hopeful that at any moment I’d see my little girl sitting with her arms around her knees, waiting to be rescued. But the roof was empty, except for a few fallen leaves and the chimney. Again, I shone the flashlight into the flue. At that moment my body went numb with panic. Where was she? Where could she be? Had she climbed out of the chimney and jumped off the roof in the dark? Imagining her body in the grass, I trained my beam across the lawn. Had she leaped onto a tree? The flashlight revealed no small form dangling from a branch or slumped beside the tree trunks. Each possibility that occurred to me was more terrible than the last. She had to be somewhere, didn’t she? I had to find her.

And what would I tell my wife?

Then the answer struck me. I wouldn’t tell my wife anything, because there was nothing to tell. Our daughter had simply vanished. Sadly, situations like this occurred repeatedly, all over the country, to other families just like ours. Children sometimes disappeared without warning, gone forever. These kinds of cases were constantly in the news or on milk cartons. They weren’t unusual.

Shivering in the dark up on the roof, I considered the future. Like those other families, we would keep searching, and then we’d call the police. There would be an investigation, and local media coverage, and maybe, with all the speculation and no clues to follow up on, the case would go national. But in the end, no one would know how Jenny had disappeared and what had become of her.

It would be our eternal secret, Jenny’s and mine. My daughter had simply grown tired of crawling down the flue. After a few minutes inside that sooty, cramped shaft, she’d felt claustrophobic. Jenny was a bright girl. She’d chosen the only way out. The same as Santa Claus, my daughter had filled herself with air, like a balloon, and floated up the chimney. She’d hovered over the roof, and then she’d flown away. By the time the cop cars and the fire engine pulled up wailing and flashing on our lawn, she was long gone.

The investigation that followed turned up no traces of her. My wife and I grieved, as any parents would, each in our own way. I worked overtime on construction jobs. Eventually, she returned to her book club. A year ago, our son was born.

I miss Jenny, of course, but I know she’s safe. When I think of her now, she is drifting somewhere over Australia, heading toward Indonesia.