Souvenirs of Starling Falls

by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  “Put your bag down,” said Barnaby. He pointed to a round table holding a vase of fresh flowers in the center of the foyer. “You can set it there, or better yet, let me.” He took the bag and set it on the floor in front of the table. “Let’s have a nightcap before you two get settled down for the night.”

  “Cognac?” asked Priscilla.

  “I’d like a nice Irish whiskey,” said Barnaby. “Irish whiskey for everyone, right?” he asked, blinking at Tom.

  “Sure,” said Tom.

  “Good. Honey,” Barnaby said, addressing Priscilla again, “why don’t you get those ready, put them on that nice mirrored tray you like, while I show our new friends the main floor.”

  He led us to a room that could have been a page torn from a sort of ramped up Pottery Barn catalog. The trim throughout the house was painted white. The walls in this room were a muted blue-gray. Their house was breathtaking. Immaculate. It was as large and old as ours, but with even higher ceilings, and it had been so thoroughly restored that it felt almost like a new home. Despite my agitation, a sleepy, Buddhist calm settled over me.

  Barnaby showed us a room with a grand piano, and then a living room with a huge flat screen television mounted on the wall and white linen sofas that felt practically beachy. Along the way he stopped to point out photos of them on a mission trip, and on their honeymoon in Portugal, and camping with friends. Next we moved on to a dining room, a bright white and yellow kitchen, and finally a sitting room. Priscilla was in there waiting for us, the tray of small drinks resting on the large leather ottoman, a fire burning in the converted gas fireplace. Her chopstick was gone now and her hair flowed down her back in long blonde waves. The clock on the wall showed that it was nearly one in the morning.

  “Ahh, this is the life,” said Barnaby. He plunked down beside his wife while she held up the tray to us. We each took one of the little glasses of whiskey.

  “To new friends,” said Priscilla. We all clinked glasses and took sips.

  Barnaby loosened his shoelaces, kicked off his shoes, and put his stockinged feet on the ottoman. The smell of his feet filled the room.

  “Gosh, I’m so tired,” I said.

  “So, who’ve you met so far?” asked Barnaby.

  “Hmm…” I looked at Tom. He shrugged.

  “Have you met George Humboldt? He’s the grocer,” said Priscilla.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “How about Nancy Prince?” Priscilla pressed on. “She’s the florist.”

  “I don’t think we’ve met her either.”

  “What about Carol Ann Robards? She’s got that nice little bungalow on West Street. She’s older. She has a terrier? No?”

  “We don’t know anyone,” I said. I would come to understand that Priscilla delighted in making comments like these. In pointing out the banal about Starling Falls. The fact that there was someone in this town who called himself a grocer and made a living at it, was worth drawing attention to, but only if it was said like it was a normal thing. For Priscilla, this was the essence, the fun, of Starling Falls.

  “What about the Michaelsons?” she asked. “Have you met any of them? Everyone in Starling Falls seems to either be a Michaelson, or married to one.”

  “We really don’t know a soul yet,” I said.

  “This is Powers,” Barnaby said, holding up his whiskey. “Can you taste the chocolate?”

  “You know, I think I can,” said Tom, as his eyes focused half-crossed on a knot in the woodwork of the pocket door across the room.

  “What about Frank Bilson?” asked Priscilla while she stroked her neck and shoulder in long, absentminded strokes that suggested she didn’t even know she was doing it. “He and his partner Joe run the bed and breakfast on Fourth Street.”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said, stifling another yawn. I looked at Tom for help but he just turned away from me and took another sip of his whiskey.

  “Bob and Cindy Phelps?” asked Priscilla.

  “No,” I said. “I’m telling you, we really haven’t met anyone yet.”

  “Chris and Margaret Feedler? They live on the corner of Seventh and Georgina Street. They have a standard poodle.”

  “Sorry, but no.”

  “My goal is to know everyone in Starling Falls,” said Priscilla. “With Deuce having such a prestigious position at such a recognized academy, I think it’s important for us to get to know everyone, and for everyone to get to know us. Since Deuce will be busy working, I’m taking it upon myself to handle the social side of our responsibilities.”

  “That’s why you’re such a great wife,” Barnaby said to Priscilla, winking at her. He turned back to Tom. “So, do you mind if I ask how old you both are?”

  “I’ll be thirty next month. Courtney’s twenty-six.”

  “We’re both twenty-eight,” said Priscilla.

  “And where did you say you’re from?” Barnaby asked Tom.

  “Seattle,” he said.

  “Both of you are from there?”

  “Yeah,” said Tom.

  I appreciated him keeping it simple. There was no need to point out that I actually came from a family of poor coal miners in Pennsylvania, and that I hadn’t spoken to any of them in years. Or that his family lived in Spokane, had two different lake homes, and got professional family photos taken twice each year, even now that the kids were all adults. Or that we’d met in college, or any of the other thousands of details they’d never need to know.

  “So. Seattle…” said Barnaby.

  Please, God, I prayed. I only pray about once every three or four years, when I find myself in the direst of situations. Please don’t let a conversation about Seattle get started. I could not stop watching the clock. Somehow, another hour had slipped by and it was now quarter to two. We’d been up since six, working all day.

  “We just love it here,” said Priscilla, her dreamy self-stroking now focused on her collarbones.

  Tom and I had always had a way of communicating without words. A perfect understanding of one another. Yet on this night, for the first time in our whole relationship, there seemed to be a barrier between us. I didn’t want to drink these people’s liquor or sleep in their bed, yet there we were. Tom’s eyes were hazy and half-closed.

  Thank you, I told God. He had, after all, answered my prayer. Now I wished I would have used it for something bigger.

  “Why don’t we show our guests their room?” Barnaby said to his wife.

  “Sure,” said Priscilla.

  Tom’s heavy eyelids fluttered open and we stood up. We followed Priscilla, with Barnaby trailing a few feet behind the three of us, back to the foyer. “Would you like to see the rest of our house right now or should we save that for tomorrow?” asked Priscilla.

  “I think we’re both really beat, with all the moving and everything, right Tom?” I asked, my eyes pleading at him. He shrugged.

  “You look tired,” Priscilla said to me. She shook her head sympathetically. “Follow me.”

  When we reached the top of the stairs, she turned to the right and took us past a few other rooms until we reached what was to be our room for the night.

  “Here you go,” she said, giving us both a gentle shove into the bedroom. “You can see the rest of the house in the morning. Everything you need should be here, but if you need anything, we’re right across the hall. What would you two like for breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?” I asked. I hadn’t realized our stay included breakfast. “We have some food at our place,” I said, picturing a box of Pop-tarts and some bags of trail mix I’d thrown into a box of kitchen gadgets. “That’s nice of you, but you don’t need to make us anything.”

  “Nonsense! What do you like? Hash browns and bacon? Waffles?” she guessed, looking me up and down.

  “Umm,” I began.

  “What about you, Tom? A smoothie, maybe? Quichey casserole? Fruit?” Priscilla continued, ticking off the goodies on her menu on her long fingers.

  “Wow,” s
aid Tom, waking back up. I was afraid his responsiveness might be enough encouragement for us to receive the rest of our tour immediately.

  Barnaby peeked his head in over Pricilla’s shoulder. “I highly recommend the quichey casserole,” he said, licking his lips. I felt like I was a kid spending the night at some weird classmate’s house and these were her creepy parents.

  “You really don’t need to make us breakfast,” I said. “This is more than enough.”

  “I have to make something for us anyhow, so it’s no trouble for me to make enough for you two,” said Priscilla.

  “I won’t turn down breakfast,” said Tom.

  “Well then,” she said, “I’ll surprise you with something.”

  “The bathroom is right there,” said Barnaby, pointing to a door in the corner of the room. “There are towels in there and I think Prissy got some shampoo and soap ready for you. Right, Priss?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Just let us know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you both,” I said. “Good night,” I added.

  “Good night!” said Barnaby.

  “Sweet dreams,” said Priscilla. To Tom, just to Tom.

  “Good night,” he said, his face flushing.

  At that, Priscilla pulled the door most of the way closed. Tom sat down on the bed while I stayed frozen, listening to the two of them going back downstairs. When I was sure they were really gone, I went over to the door and clicked it shut, and gave it a tug to be sure it would firmly hold in place. I wanted to lock it, but there wasn’t a lock.

  “Tom. Tommm,” I hissed.

  “What?” he asked in his regular decibel of voice.

  “Shhh…” I whispered, clamping my hand over his mouth.

  “Why are you whispering?” he asked me. At least now he was whispering too.

  “What’s going on here? I feel like I’m in a bad dream. Why are we in these people’s house, about to go to sleep?”

  “Because we’re tired?”

  “I get that. But why are we in their house?”

  “Because they’re neighborly?”

  “Tom, they knew we were going to sleep here before they ever even met us. Look around. Look at this place.” There were fresh flowers in a vase beside the bed. A book called Welcome to Starling Falls was standing on display on the dresser, beside a wicker tray holding bottles of mineral water and glass tumblers. I picked up the small, African basket on the lower shelf of the bedside table and poured out its contents onto our bed: Travel sized packets of Advil and Pepto-Bismol. A mini book of prayers and meditations called The Traveler’s Spiritual Companion. A packet of Kleenexes. A sewing kit. One tampon. One condom. One portable wet-wipe. “What is all this?” I whispered.

  “Maybe they just keep it like this all the time, in case someone shows up,” said Tom.

  “That would be even creepier,” I said.

  “I don’t think they did all this for us,” said Tom.

  “Yes, they did. Those are fresh flowers. Everything’s all clean and not dusty at all. I don’t want to be here. I want to go back to our house.”

  “No.”

  “Please, Tom? I feel like there’s a camera on us right now. Do you think they’re recording this?”

  “No.”

  “I’m pretty sure they are. I can feel it,” I whispered, scanning the corners of the room.

  “You can go home.”

  “By myself?”

  “I’m not going to stop you, but I’m tired. I’m staying. This feels like a hotel.”

  “Don’t you want to go back to our place?” I asked.

  “No,” said Tom. He got up and went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  I turned down the dimmer switch and then went over to the window to look across the street. It was strange seeing our house from up here. I could see the entire front and side of it perfectly. Bathed in moonlight and one streetlamp, it looked like a looming monstrosity. After being in this perfectly finished project, the task of restoring our house now seemed particularly daunting. I had a dull sensation of dread, understanding for the first time the enormity of the project we’d taken on.

  Without meaning to, I listened to Tom brushing his teeth and running water. I could almost imagine for a second that we were staying at a bed and breakfast and that Starling Falls was still just some town on a map.

  Only, this wasn’t a bed and breakfast. It wasn’t some stop on a road trip. We were staying with our new neighbors, who were going to have to be our friends, like them or not.

  “I want to go home,” I whispered, picturing no actual place, but a feeling of safety and comfort that seemed completely out of reach. I wanted a way out of all of this.

  “They put out your favorite kind of toothpaste,” said Tom as he came out of the bathroom.

  “Spearmint?” I asked.

  “I meant that organic brand you can only buy at health food stores.”

  “Super,” I said flatly, brushing past him on my way into the bathroom.

  “They’re just bored and lonely,” he said softly, catching my arm and looking into my eyes.

  “I gathered that,” I said. “Tonight feels off. I think there was something in that pie.”

  “I’m going to sleep,” he said.

  “Wait. Look at our house first,” I said. I nodded at the window and watched while he pulled the curtain aside.

  “It’s so big,” he said.

  “I know. Can you believe it’s all ours? What are we going to do with it?”

  “Fix it up. Fill it with babies.”

  I smiled. The relief of reconnection washed over me. Tom kissed my temple and held me close for a moment. “Let’s just be happy about this, okay?” he whispered.

  “Okay. Fine. You’re right. I’ll try to relax.”

  Tom went to the bed and folded back the comforter, revealing matching sheets and fluffy goose down pillows. Everything looked brand new and of the highest quality. I went into the bathroom, finding the continuation of forceful hospitality I’d expected: An entire basket of Aveda sample-sized products. Turkish towels. Bottles of scented oils with little reeds stuck in them, the kind that were new and trendy that summer. When I came out a moment later, Tom was asleep, the dim light still on. He was snoring softly and drooling all over their fancy pillows.

  Chapter 4

  I couldn’t have been asleep for ten minutes when I was awakened by the steady pounding of something happening across the hall. The time on my phone said 2:18 am. Tom was still snoring but I was wide awake. Priscilla and Barnaby were having sex. Loud, moany, headboard banging sex. I wasn’t surprised that Tom was sleeping through it; Tom could sleep through anything.

  I sat up in bed and immediately noticed that our bedroom door had mysteriously reopened a crack. A keen hatred filled me. I felt like we were being molested.

  I got up, walked across the room, and pushed the door shut. It did little to muffle the show. Tom snorted abruptly in his sleep and turned over. For a moment, I thought we were in this together. But then he went right back to his rhythmic pattern of snores. I considered waking him and forcing him to share in my exasperation, my outrage, but I suspected he wouldn’t see through it like I could. Or worse, what if he liked it? Plus, I didn’t want them to have the audience they’d wanted. It was bad enough that I had to hear them, but I felt a smidge of satisfaction that Tom was sleeping right through their performance.

  As Priscilla reached a screaming, panting orgasm, crying out, “Deuce! Deuce! Deuce!” and Barnaby made a noise like a school bus of nerds reaching a science fair, Tom rolled over in his sleep, gave a little grunt, and awoke with a jolt.

  “What time is it? What are you doing over there?” he asked me, his voice thick with sleep.

  “Just playing a game on my phone,” I said. I was perched on the arm of a chair meant for reading, the kind you typically only see in catalog bedrooms or show houses.

  “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “Our new friends jus
t had sex,” I whispered. “And would you believe that our door, which I had firmly clicked shut, had been opened again? So we could hear them, obviously.”

  “I didn’t hear anything. Calm down and come back to bed.”

  “I don’t want to sleep in that bed. In fact, I don’t want to be here. Let’s go home.”

  “No. I’m sleeping. Just come back to bed.”

  “I hate these people,” I whispered with so much force that I accidentally spit on myself. “I hate this town. We’ve made a gigantic mistake. Tom, we need to leave.”

  “We can’t do that. You’re tired. Get some sleep and you’ll be happy and normal again tomorrow.”

  “Nuh uh,” I said, vehemently shaking my head. “Don’t you understand? I hate these people. We’ve just been molested!” I whisper-screamed to him.

  “We live across from them. We need to get along. What are they going to think if they wake up in the morning and we’re gone?”

  “I don’t care. They’ll think we woke up early and left, I guess. Who cares?”

  “Courtney, come back to bed. Let’s just get a good night’s sleep, as much as we can at this point, and I promise we’ll distance ourselves from them starting tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to come back to bed. This is turning into a nightmare. I really, really need to leave. Please come home with me.”

  “It’s too late. Just relax and come back to bed.”

  “They had sex!”

  “So?”

  “It’s the point of it. They wanted us to hear it. I know they did. That’s why I’m upset.”

  “Courtney…”

  “They opened our door first! And their door has got to be wide open. It was so loud! Not that I’m going to check.”

  “Maybe our door came unlatched. Old houses are like that.”

  “No. I heard it click into place when I closed it the first time and again now. It firmly clicked.”

  Tom shrugged and closed his eyes.

  “Don’t go to sleep,” I said. “Please? Listen to me, please? They were such goody-goodies all night, and then they pulled this? I mean, what’s going on here? This is too weird. I’m so grossed out.”

  “Aren’t you tired?”