“So, you’re saying I saved the day by sleeping in?”
“If that’s the case, then we owe it to the McGhees, because you wouldn’t have slept in if you hadn’t stayed at their place.”
“Hilarious. Do you remember what the last name of the family that used to own our house was?” I asked.
“Something like Strassmore. We got a packet at the closing that has information about the family and the house.”
“Really? Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” My heart jumped at this piece of news as a light, shimmery tickle of electricity brushed over me. A packet of secrets about our house. How exciting.
“I thought you knew.”
“I don’t remember any packet. I would have been all over that. Where is it? I want to see it.”
“Uhhhhh. Hmmm. I think… the last time I saw it… it was on the mantle in the dining room.”
“Well, let’s look at it!”
He didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm, but at least he followed me and made a small show of scoping out the nearly empty room.
There was no packet.
“I guess it ended up in some other room,” he said.
“I need it. All the answers to our house’s secret soul are in it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just feel like… I don’t know. This urgency to read through it. Were there photos?”
“Probably.”
“What if the McGhees stole it?” I asked. As illogical as it sounded, it seemed like the right answer because it had erupted from my mouth in such a convincing, rational tone.
“They didn’t steal it! It will turn up again once we get settled in,” he said.
“Want to help me find it now?” I asked. “Where’s the last place you saw it?”
“No. Maybe later.” He realized he was still holding the old calendar, and he handed it back to me. “That’s a pretty interesting find,” he said, yawning. “I’m going to keep unpacking.”
I sighed. I’d have to look for the packet later on my own. “Did you notice that it’s Teddy’s birthday today?” I asked.
“Weird.” He yawned again. This one didn’t even seem real.
“We should do something to celebrate. Let’s get a little cake and eat it.”
Tom laughed a little. “Yeah, why not. Hey, I was thinking, I’m going to use that big room at the top of the stairs—the one with the kitty-corner door—for my writing studio if that doesn’t interfere with the way you were thinking we’d arrange everything. It’s really important that I have a specific writing studio, like a legitimate writer. You know, a designated space for serious work.”
“That’s fine.” As long as the room with the nursery ended up being our master bedroom, it didn’t matter to me which of our other bedrooms he used as his studio.
“So long as you really mean it. I don’t want to get all settled in and then have to change things,” Tom said. “I need a room with good light. The setting is really important.”
“You won’t have to change anything. Why are you worrying so much about this?” I asked as I carefully checked the calendar dates again. If this calendar was this fascinating, I couldn’t even imagine how mesmerized I’d be when I found that packet.
“Because this is what I do now. I’m a writer. I need to be able to focus,” he said. I looked up from the calendar to see if he was kidding around. His voice sounded so whiny I thought maybe he was joking. I could tell by the vein sticking out of his temple that he was serious.
“Okay,” I said. “There’s nothing to get worked up about.”
He shook his head, took a deep breath, and then exhaled dramatically. “Put that calendar down and listen to me.”
I set it down. “I’m listening.”
“Let me try this again. I’m not getting worked up. See, I’m smiling.” He pointed to a maniacal grimace that had taken over his face. “See? I’m calm! I’m relaxed. So, Court, did you or did you not want that room with the little room connected to it to be the master bedroom?”
“You mean the one that’s got, like, a nursery attached? So now that’s the one you want for your studio?”
“No. No, Courtney. Listen. I said the room with the corner door is the one I want for my studio.”
“Pick any room you like,” I said. “We can always change our minds later once we’re more settled in.” After all, setting up his writing studio meant putting a rickety Target desk he’d had since college in the corner of a room and setting a laptop computer on top of it.
“Quit saying you’re going to change your mind once I get settled in!”
“I’m not saying it to upset you. I’m telling you that I’m flexible. What’s the matter with you?”
“You’re trying to be difficult about this,” he said.
“I am not!”
“Well then, you’re being a bitch.”
“Really? You’re going to talk to me like that?” He’d never used this word to attack me before. It felt a little surreal.
“Sorry,” he said. He crossed his arms poutily and kicked at the floor with his toe.
“I hope you are sorry!”
“I am. I said I was, okay? And something else,” he said. “Don’t close all the doors upstairs.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, someone did.”
I tried to keep my voice as calm as possible. “Any room you want can be your studio. Any room. And I won’t change my mind later. Okay? Once we buy a bed and move upstairs, we’ll pick out our master bedroom from whatever is left over.” At this point, I didn’t even care if he stole the room that was clearly meant to be the master bedroom. It was the most asinine conversation we’d ever had and I couldn’t stand another minute of it.
“So you don’t care if I take that sunny corner room for my studio?” The vein in his head kept throbbing and twitching.
“I don’t mind one bit,” I said.
“That’s all I needed to hear!”
I plastered a smile on my face and for a moment we just stood there in silence, me smiling crazily and him glaring at me. Not our finest moment.
Just then his phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked it. “Oh, great. The locksmith can’t make it today. He wants to reschedule for Monday at noon,” he said.
“If he can’t make it, I guess he can’t make it. According to the McGhees, this town is such a utopia that locks aren’t even necessary.”
“It is… what… it is,” he said, texting the words as he said them. “See you… on Monday. And… send.” He shoved his phone back into his pocket.
“Can we please stop fighting, Tom?”
“That’s up to you,” he said.
“I’m done.”
“Done with me?”
“I meant that I’m done fighting! Of course I’m not done with you.”
He sighed. “Okay.”
“So…” I tried to guess what I was supposed to say. “Do you want to get some writing in?”
“Not right now.”
“Well, now that we aren’t waiting for the locksmith, maybe we should take a break and walk downtown,” I said. “Clear our heads a little. We could get some lunch and check out that bookstore and the boutique.”
“I’m still full from breakfast.”
“If we start with the bookstore and boutique maybe you’ll get hungry. Wouldn’t you at least like to stop in some place and grab a beer?”
“I guess so. But then we really need to make a dent in this place. I thought we’d be more settled in by now.”
“Tom, we just got here yesterday!”
“I know. But I want it to look good for my parents and be kind of comfortable for them. At the rate we’re going, there are still going to be boxes everywhere when they get here.”
“They’ll understand. Come on. We need to get some fresh air.”
“Fine, but once we get back, we’re getting to work.”
“You got it,” I said. I gave him a kiss,
even if he didn’t want it.
“Give me a minute to change my clothes,” he said.
“Sure.”
“Are you going to wear that?” he asked, looking pointedly at the cut-off jeans and old t-shirt I was wearing.
“Why wouldn’t I? We’re just going for a walk.”
“Our new neighbor was dressed up,” he said, clearly referring to Priscilla, since Barnaby had been wearing jorts. “Maybe that’s how they dress around here.”
“She was only dressed up because she had nothing better to do, but he looked like someone from a bad day in 1993.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it; I just wondered if you needed me to help you find any of your clothes since nothing’s in its place yet.”
“No, I’m good,” I said.
He went off to primp and I hung the calendar back on its hook. I put it on December since that was how I’d found it. Then I closed the dumbwaiter door, having to shove it a little to make it flush with the trim.
“Happy birthday, Teddy,” I whispered aloud, realizing he was probably still alive, somewhere out there in the world, celebrating his birthday today. An old man now. But here on Hawthorne Avenue, at least on that calendar hanging in our dumbwaiter, it was 1937 and he was just a little boy.
“Happy birthday,” I whispered again, hoping that somehow my wish and the energy and good intention behind it could make its way across the universe, and find him well.
And then I thought I heard the dumbwaiter moving. I pulled open the door, as if I was going to catch it in the act. All was still. But hadn’t this frayed spot on the pulley been lower a moment ago?
Down below, the washing machine was on its spin cycle. I closed the dumbwaiter door again, giving it a hard shove into place, and stood there in silence, my body tingling with cold energy. I imagined I might get some kind of response to my birthday wish, some kind of sign. A whimpery baby cry, or a small creaking sound. Anything. Of course, I heard nothing but the faint, distant chug of the washing machine and the slowing scrape of the calendar still swinging on the hook on the other side of the door.
Two months later
Chapter 6
Tom and I were settled in by the end of the summer. We hadn’t gotten to most of the projects we’d planned to tackle, but cleaning the house and filling it with furniture and our things had made it somewhat homey. Or lived-in, at least.
Despite my efforts, 313 Hawthorne Avenue wasn’t turning into the grand showplace I’d dreamed it would be. Nor was it the warm, welcoming, romantic sanctuary of love and security that I’d imagined.
Tom and I had been on each other’s nerves since we’d arrived. Even the dogs didn’t seem happy in our new home. When we all settled down together to watch a TV show or a movie, that old feeling of contentment we’d had back in Seattle never came.
I’d had no idea how much stress—fear, even—came in owning an old home of this size. During the day, in the middle of some should-be-pleasant Price is Right or Days of Our Lives break, just as we’d sat down to have some grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, some force that rode the edge of innocuous and destructive would sweep in, derailing our moment of peace and quiet. An unexpected leaky pipe, severe enough to cause a nightmarish stain of damage on our first-floor ceiling, that would then mysteriously fix itself by the time the plumber arrived. Or the almost weekly occurrences of lights that stopped working and toilets that stopped flushing. It all added up, both financially and emotionally.
And the woodpeckers. I’d never given woodpeckers a second thought before moving to Starling Falls. But now, if only for the effect they had on Tom, I hated them. They would tap at our window frames and Tom would jump to his feet, grab the sheet of aluminum foil he kept on the coffee table, and run to the window, waving it around, hoping the reflection would scare them away, screaming, “Quit ruining my fucking house, you little bastards!”
At night when the mice came out, he’d crawl around on his hands and knees with a hammer, destroying our wood floors, yelling for the dogs to catch the ones that were too quick to succumb to his blows.
Becoming homeowners had made my sweet husband into a crazy monster.
I could count on one hand the number of times we’d had sex since we’d moved in. Gone were the romantic cards and notes, Saturday night dates and Sundays in bed.
There were other things going on that I chose not to mention to him, since it only made things worse. Like the way the dumbwaiter creaked up and down on its own, like a tiny possessed elevator. What I’d thought I’d imagined on the day of Teddy’s birthday (Why did I think of the family that used to live here in the present tense?), had become a daily reality. I could see the dumbwaiter, possibly, finding its way to the basement, but how could it move up to the attic on its own? What about gravity?
Worst of all, Tom resented me for choosing Starling Falls. Because, of course, there was a reason we’d moved to this town, of all the towns in the world, and that reason was me.
Years earlier, back in Seattle, before I managed the pet shop, back when I was just a cashier there and then a groomer, an old woman named Mrs. Hill had been a regular customer there. I came to know her very well since she was in there all the time with her dogs. And we got to talking about her wonderful childhood in a beautiful little town called Starling Falls.
You’ve got to understand, I grew up in, literally, a one-bedroom shack. I shared the alcove off the living room with my three older sisters. We had a blanket hanging up in place of a door. Each one of my sisters was meaner than the other, but at least they usually directed their attention toward each other and left me out of it. My parents were never home, and if you knew them, you’d know that’s the nicest thing I can say about them. We never had enough to eat or anything new that was truly our own.
Even things like taking a shower were torturous at my house. The shower curtain was yellow and crusted in soap scum and mold. I’d never noticed these things until one day, when, suddenly, I did. Then I could never unsee them. Sometimes we had soap, other times we didn’t. The bathroom door’s lock was broken and there was a hole kicked in the bottom of the door, so there was no pretense of privacy. I didn’t know shampoo wasn’t supposed to be the consistency of water until the first time I spent the night at a friend’s house and took a shower there the next morning, only to be shocked at the slow-moving blob of heavily scented goop I’d deposited on the top of my head. The lather it produced! The fruity aroma! The hot water gushing out at pressure high enough to actually rinse it all away. I’ve never forgotten this experience. And, wow, did my hair look thick and shiny that day.
So, this old woman’s stories of her idyllic childhood and the avenues of Victorian mansions, so different from my own start in life, sparked a fire in my mind, in my soul, even. I could picture it all so vividly. I didn’t know it then, but I’d already decided that one day I, too, would live in Starling Falls.
Even Tom didn’t know the extent of this. How deeply rooted my desire to live in Starling Falls had become. But he knew I’d suggested it in the first place. He knew I’d pushed for it. He knew I was the one to blame, and he had no qualms in blaming me.
Our house really was a thing of beauty, though. I could still see its potential, even if we didn’t have the money or talent to uncover it. And at least it was nothing like that cramped, dark, dreary shack I’d grown up in. If anything, it was morphing into the co-op I’d lived in during college.
The first floor had filled with a mishmash of strangers’ junk, while the second floor and attic were nearly empty. It seemed everyone in town had old furniture they wanted to get rid of. This was how we met most of our neighbors. They’d approach us at some shop in town, looking like they felt sorry for us, and say, “So, you’re the kids who bought the old Strassmore place.” A day or two later they’d pull up in front of the house in a pickup truck, ready to unload some out-of-style home goods.
By the end of September, we’d inherited a piano, a clawfoot tub (its resting place the sun
room which I’d dreamed would be my reading room), two broken bookshelves, three styles of sofas, several dressers, and an inappropriate-for-our-environment Danish modern dining room table. As it would turn out, we never spoke to most of the previous owners of these castaways again.
We were still sleeping in the downstairs bedroom, and, aside from Tom using the front corner bedroom upstairs as his writing studio, we were living entirely on the first floor. The only room on the first floor that wasn’t filled with mismatched clutter was the music room. We’d put the piano in there, and hung up some new curtains, and I’d started refinishing the woodwork. I was taking it one room at a time, the theory being that once I completed a room, its beauty would be the motivation to keep me moving on to the rest of the house.
Besides writing, Tom’s project was supposed to be turning one of the servants’ rooms into a laundry room. So far he’d gotten as far as measuring the room, reading part of a book about plumbing, and leaving the book, tape measure, and an empty bag of Doritos on the closet floor of that room.
At this time, the mansion next to us and the one directly across from us were still vacant. Many of the other mansions in town were being used as bed and breakfasts, or a funeral parlor, or had been split up into several apartments. But, aside from the McGhees’ restored home, the houses on our street were practically the same as when they’d been built, with original kitchens, plumbing, wallpaper, and wiring. Only young, enthusiastic, romantic people were dumb enough to want them.
Our house and several nearby had been in holding patterns, unoccupied, as some distant family members had paid the taxes and occasionally stopped in to trim the hedges and do unavoidable repairs. It was as if all the old Starling Falls aristocracy knew enough to get away, yet couldn’t quite bear to cut their ties with the town.
In early September a For Sale sign went up in the yard across the street from ours. This home was mustard yellow with tall, square towers on either side of it and a wide, wrapping porch. It had double front doors and a carriage house in the back. Tom looked a little depressed as soon as the sign went up.
Souvenirs of Starling Falls Page 5