The Good House

by Tananarive Due

  Weyerhauser. Sacajawea Logging. Morrell. Crown.

  Angela didn’t know a thing about logging except that her grandfather John had lost his life to that tough work in the woods, but she heard the names of the companies often, even those that were gone. In Sacajawea, men identified themselves by their logging affiliations like combat troops identified themselves by their military divisions, especially the older loggers. The lastgriots of a bygone time.

  Suddenly, Angela missed Gramma Marie—not in the fuzzy way she’d settled into missing her in the thirteen years that had passed since her grandmother’s death, but reallymissed her, the way she missed Corey. The daily, empty kind of missing that made her life feel wrong, off-kilter. Stolen. What if the spirits of Gramma Marie and her grandmother before herhad lived in this tree? Where had they gone now that the tree had died?

  “Watch out below!” Gunnar shouted. His chainsaw screamed, and a large mass of wood from the rooftop fell with a ground-shaking thud. It landed with the sharp, pervasive smell of sap, the tree’s lifeblood. The men on the ground gathered around the thick, mossy five-foot mass of newly shorn tree trunk, admiring it. These men loved trees in their own way, even if it was only the special way a hunter loves his hunted. They loved trees more than most, she thought.

  Someone patted Angela on the back, and she turned to see Art’s eyes, bright with concern. “How ya’ doin’, Angie?” he said. He wrapped one arm around her, squeezing her close. Art’s kindness was another forgotten comfort of home. He’d given her a similar squeeze outside of their English class in the hallway of Sacajawea High School after he’d heard that she and Myles had broken up, a week after the senior prom.I dunno, Angie, I guess of all people I thought you two were made for each other—not just a high school thing, but a forever thing, he’d said, and she’d nearly burst into tears because she hadn’t known other people could see it, too. That forever knowledge was what had scared her. That, and knowing she could never be what Myles deserved.

  Back then, at eighteen, she’d had everything to look forward to, or so she’d thought. Now, Angela was growing accustomed to the certainty that the best of her life was behind her, the way these loggers knew their best days were behind them.

  “I hate to lose anything, Art,” she answered, watching her tree taken apart piece by piece.

  “Yep. Me, too,” he said in a voice that understood almost too well, a voice that might have sounded like a politician’s empty empathy if she hadn’t known him for so long. “Me too, Angie. I guess there isn’t a person alive who doesn’t.”

  “I about flipped when Art said he was coming over here to help,” Liza Brunell confided while she, Angela, and Mrs. Everly fixed breakfast for the team of men outside. They made fried-egg-and-bagel sandwiches in an efficient assembly line in the kitchen, echoing the routine of the loggers. “I hope nobody gives him a chainsaw. Art would probably cut himself in half.”

  “That’s a shame, Liza,” Angela said, laughing.

  “But you remember what a klutz he is. That hasn’t changed. Mrs. Everly knows.”

  Mrs. Everly’s face flushed red. Laurel Everly was a soft-spoken woman who wore her thinning gray hair in attractive French braids, exactly the way Gramma Marie had. Watching Mrs. Everly with Gramma Marie during their regular visits and card games, Angela had thought Mrs. Everly was unfriendly, but she’d come to learn that the woman was just painfully shy. Mrs. Everly rarely came to work when Angela was at the house, preferring to leave notes behind. Today, she’d made a special trip because of the tree.

  “Well, I wouldn’t use the wordklutz,” Mrs. Everly said.

  “Mrs. Everly’s too nice—he’s a klutz,” Liza said. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love him. Art’s a whiz at a million things, but I see him for who he is and who heisn’t . He’s just happy being mayor, so he can have an excuse to be into everything. He’s like a pig in shit out there playing lumberjack.”

  Mrs. Everly winced at Liza’s profanity, a game Liza liked to play with her. “He’s been one of our best mayors,” Mrs. Everly said diplomatically.

  “Best goddamn mayor in a long time,” Liza agreed, and Mrs. Everly winced again. Mrs. Everly touched the large silver cross she wore around her neck, as if to remind her Savior that she herself did not condone blasphemy even if it crept occasionally into the company she kept.

  “Where’s Myles?” Liza asked Angela suddenly.

  “Why are you asking me? He’s at work, I guess.”

  “You two looked cozy Sunday, is all.”

  Angela shook her head, smiling. “There you go again, in my business.”

  “Like I wasn’t always. So?”

  Mrs. Everly suddenly busied herself in the butler’s pantry, not exactly out of earshot but far enough away that they could all pretend she was. Angela sighed and met Liza’s hungry gaze. “I’m not picking up any vibes from him. I think he’s seeing someone.”

  “Not here in town he isn’t,” Liza said. “I’d know. There’s nothing going on with those nurses he has for his mom, in case you wondered. The younger one’s got a boyfriend, and the other one’s not into men, if you catch my meaning. She and her ‘special friend’ live in Skamokawa.”

  “You’re so nosy, Liza. It’s someone else, then, maybe in Longview. I just have a feeling. Either that, or he’s still mad about getting his heart trashed in high school.”

  “That’s ancient history, Angie.”

  Angela thought of Myles’s dark nakedness from that day at The Spot, and her stomach shivered. “I don’t know. I’m not so sure it is.”

  “I’ve got a plan,” Liza said. “How long will you be here? Art renovated the little theater for me, the one in the old hotel? They used to stage burlesque shows there back in the thirties. It’s really tiny—seats about forty. But we’re opening Friday night with my first play. Why don’t you invite Myles to come with you? For old times’ sake.”

  “You’re in a play?”

  “Yep. It’s a three-act. I wrote it, I directed it, and I’m starring in it. You won’t believe the cast we put together; one guy from here, a wonderful woman from Skamokowa, and a couple of kids from Longview. It’s my first produced play, Angie. Nothing to get excited about, but—”

  Angela hugged Liza, cutting her off. Liza had found a way to accomplish her dream, and with Art’s backing, no less. Hugging Liza, Angie felt waves of alternating joy and envy for her friend. Liza’s choices all seemed to have worked for her, and not a single one of Angela’s had. She’d lost her family the moment she decided to stay in L.A. rather than move to Oakland with Tariq. It hadn’t been fair of him to accept a job without consulting her—and she’d always known his offer from the Raiders was just an excuse for a fast flight away from her—but she should have gone anyway, law partner or not. She and Tariq were equally stubborn, and Corey had been caught between them.

  Tariq had made a series of wrong choices in his life, God knew, but Angela had to admit her own mammoth share. For the first time since Corey’s death, Angela thought about her ex-husband with something other than rage. Tariq had made a point of driving to Sacajawea in his old van, the one from college. He had touched her like a lover, seemed eager to discuss a future. They had comeso close to salvaging their family, that one irretrievable casualty of their separate dreams.

  “That’s so great, Liza,” Angela said, meaning it. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Yep, we’re lucky. We bought the theater space, and we’re naming it the Little Theater in Sacajawea. I’m surprised Art didn’t give you a flyer. He always has them in his pocket, passing them out like they’re reelection buttons.”

  “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “You’ll invite Myles?”

  Angela smiled ruefully. There was always the small chance Liza’s happiness was infectious. “Sure. Why not? He can only say no.”

  “Stick to the good thoughts,” Liza said with a scolding look. Liza had been heavily influenced by positive-thinking tapes even when she was in high school,
the indoctrination of her parents. Angela wondered how different her own life might have been if Dominique Toussaint had been capable of thinking about anything except her laughing demons.

  Something about the memory of her mother—she had no idea what—made Angela remember the bathtub upstairs. “Mrs. Everly, who’s your plumber? I’m having problems with the tub.”

  Mrs. Everly’s face appeared from beyond the pantry door, much more solemn than Angela would have expected. In fact, if her face had been red only a moment before, it looked nearly pale now. “The bathtub upstairs?”

  “Yeah. Have you noticed a problem with mud in the drain? Something was coming up last night. I think it was mud.”

  The room went silent except for the growling of chainsaws outside. Liza had been slicing bagels a moment before, but she’d stopped in mid-chop, her knife hovering over the cutting board. Angela could no longer mistake Mrs. Everly’s complexion: Her face had gone pallid. Her lips pursed so tightly they nearly vanished. Angela looked at Liza, and her friend’s face looked strange, too. Thoughtful, slightly alarmed.

  “What’s going on?” Angela said.

  Mrs. Everly and Liza looked at each other with confusion. Liza went back to her chopping, and neither of them spoke. There was a secret in the air. Maybe two, by the look of it. Angela leaned close to Liza, watching her friend’s jaw tense. “Tell me,” she said. “Go on.”

  Liza shook her head. “I don’t know anything about a plumbing problem, Angie. When you mentioned the tub upstairs, you just brought something to mind….”

  Mrs. Everly drifted away from the pantry, intrigued. She wanted to hear more, too. “Something about mud?” the older woman prompted.

  Liza covered her mouth with her hand as she smiled. “You’re both going to think I’m nuts, and those guys are hungry. Let’s take them their breakfast.”

  “Breakfast can wait,” Angela said. “What do you know about the tub?”

  Liza sighed. “Okay, well, here goes. I’m warning you beforehand, it’s silly. There’s a story my grandfather told me—actually, he told me this story a lot—and it has to do with the tub upstairs.”

  Angela felt her heart leap, and the tiniest cold sensation tickled her fingers. If not for last night’s experience, she wouldn’t have noticed it. But she did notice, and her mind was primed to absorb Liza’s every word.

  “Grandpa was the sheriff in Sacajawea in the 1920s and 1930s. Maybe you knew that. He had lots of stories, but nothing like this one he told me about this house and that bathtub upstairs. I’ll start at the beginning: You already know about the mudslide on this side of town in 1929, right? All the other houses that had been built between here and River Drive, gone. Now, they weren’tstrong houses—some were shotgun houses put up by poor families with help from their neighbors, people who couldn’t afford land. Grandpa said the houses weren’t even legal, some of them, so the people were squatters. And this big, grand house was right at the end, the beacon at the top of the bluff. For a long time, this was the finest house in Sacajawea. Hell, maybe it still is. This entire street had been buried in mud, and all the homes were gone except this one. A couple weeks later, something happened. Grandpa used to tell me the exact date, but I don’t remember anymore. It may have been July Fourth.” At that, Liza stopped. She’d startled herself. “Yes, it was July Fourth…I remember that now. Independence Day. Grandpa got a call from a man named Halford Booth, who used to have a cannery here.” Angela’s ears had foamed over at the mention of the Fourth of July. Her hearing faded, then sharpened.

  “I remember Hal Booth,” Mrs. Everly said, smiling with a fond recollection.

  “One of his children was sick—Grandpa never would tell me which one. Grandpa always called the kid the Child, keeping it a secret. He said the child was feverish, convulsing, and Mr. Booth needed Grandpa’s help finding a doctor. I don’t know why there was no doctor in Sacajawea, but some doctors used to travel back then, dividing their practices between towns. Anyway, Grandpa took one look at the child and decided there was no time to go to Longview or Skamokawa to find a doctor. The child was near death, he said. I can hear him now saying it:near death . He said he knew as soon as he laid eyes on the child. He got a couple of men together and they all brought the child here, to your grandmother’s house. He said it was a hell of a struggle, finding a way past the mud, then having to carry the kid up all those steps, but he knew this would be the right place. He said he’d never felt more sure of anything in his life, like divine inspiration. You may not know it, Angie, but folks here didn’t like your grandmother too much back then. The real fact is, Grandpa liked her less than most. He’d been raised in Alabama, and…”

  Angie had heard Gramma Marie’s stories about Sheriff Kerr. About the guns and the buckshot that had marred the front door, until her husband built her a new one.

  “That was a different time,” Angela said simply, so Liza would move on. This was a story Gramma Marie had never told her about the Fourth of July, and that was more important to her than a discussion about racial politics in Sacajawea—even if times might not have changed as much as Liza would like to think. Corey had complained about nasty looks from local kids, too.

  “Yes, times were different,” Liza said, relieved to be past the subject. “But that’s just to let you know what a step it was for him to bring the child here. He always said, ‘Something else made me do it, a higher power.’ He swore that until he died. Mrs. T’saint had a reputation after the ’slide, when she helped those people and nursed all those animals, so this seemed to him like the right place to go. Mrs. T’saint and Red John didn’t want to let Grandpa and the others in at first, but they finally did. And your grandmother knew right away, just like Grandpa, that something terrible was wrong with this child. He could see it in her eyes. Mrs. T’saint was scared. And the way he put it, she wasn’t scared because she thought the child would die—it was like she was scared forherself . Grandpa told me he didn’t realize that right away, but he realized it later, after what happened.

  “She gave instructions, almost like she’d been expecting them. Take the child upstairs, she said. The kid was delirious, taunting her, calling her names. He was also burning up, so Mrs. T’saint and Red John wanted to put him—I’ll just call the damned kidhim, for God’s sake—in the bathtub. Mrs. T’saint filled that tub with ice-cold water, and Red John brought ice, too. Another thing you need to remember is, most people didn’t have indoor bathrooms like that in 1929, at least not around here. A lot of people, Grandpa included, were still using outhouses. So that bathroom stuck in his mind as something special—a sink, a bathtub, that mirror, a toilet with a pull-chain, and all of itupstairs, spanking new. He’d never seen anything like it. He felt like he’d brought the child to a real hospital, a modern place.

  “But there were other things he noticed he didn’t like. Candles burning. Unusual smells, probably incense. And a drum Red John had in there. That drum really made him nervous. Grandpa said the minute he heard Mrs. T’saint start talking in ‘swamp-nigger mumbo jumbo’—pardon the expression—he thought he’d made a mistake Mr. Booth would never forgive him for. Mr. Booth had put a sick child in Grandpa’s hands, and here was this lady practicing what sounded like hoodoo. Grandpa says he told Mr. Booth flat out they needed to go somewhere else, but your grandmother had a private word with Mr. Booth and Mr. Booth said they would stay here, and that was that. He really put his foot down. He said he believed in her, and nothing would change his mind.”

  “Hal Booth was a headstrong man,” Mrs. Everly added quietly.

  “Mrs. T’saint had a bowl filled with water, and she sprinkled some of the water on the floor in a pattern. Grandpa was paying close attention because he’d already made up his mind that if something happened to that child, your grandmother would have to bear the legal responsibility. Yessir, he’d made up his mind aboutthat. Once the child was in the bathtub, Mrs. T’saint used her fingers to spread drops of the water on the child’s forehead, on his neck
. The way someone would with holy water—but Grandpa said the water smelled like it had rum in it to him. The whole bathroom smelled of rum, he remembered that. She said a few words in a strange language that sounded like French to him and yetnot French.”

  “Creole,” Angela said, her mouth dry.

  “Exactly. She was probably saying some kind of prayers, that was what he thought. Praying towhom, he didn’t know—and that was the part that worried him. But she’d started in on her praying, doing whatever she was doing with the water in the bowl. And then, while they all stood there, something began to happen. Grandpa told me at first he thought the child was passing gas under the water. There were just a few bubbles from between his legs. But the bubbles didn’t go away. Instead, there were more and more. Grandpa swears the whole tub got to boiling like a stewpot on top of a stove. The water wasn’t hot, but it was churning like mad, splashing everyone. That took them all by surprise, he said—even Mrs. T’saint. She got that look on her face again, like she was seeing her own death. The next thing they knew, the water in the tub wasn’t only bubbling and churning, but it had turned brown. Then, it turnedblack . Grandpa always told me he was a monkey’s uncle if that tub didn’t fill up top to bottom with mud while they all watched it happen. Mud was flying all over the walls. He said he never forgot the sight of that child’s face just above the mud in the bathtub, grinning like a Cheshire cat—but with his eyes rolled upward so you could only see the whites.”