Souvenirs of Starling Falls

by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  “I would have preferred to buy that house,” he said, even though he’d never set foot inside it.

  Things got worse when he raided the flier box and discovered they were asking $30,000 less than what we’d paid for our house.

  The bubbling irritability that had taken hold of him ever since we’d moved to Starling Falls metastasized then and there in a sputtery eruption, right in the front yard of 312 Hawthorne Avenue. “Nine bedrooms?” he read off the flier. “Fuck no. No way.”

  “Shhhhh! Tom, let’s not talk about this right here, please,” I said, taking his arm and pulling him away from the flier box, back toward our own house.

  I’d been battling my own demons since we’d moved to Starling Falls. Having strange fits of anger and sadness that felt powerful enough to level me. Usually, it was this new miserable, cruel version of Tom that triggered them, but other times they came out of nowhere. From the start, unless I was alone and could cry and scream into my pillow, I snuffed them down, down, down, until they finally died like a fire smothered by a wool blanket. It was just stress, I knew. And I knew enough to control them, and, most importantly, to hide them from the rest of the world.

  “Nine? Nine? Why would someone even need nine bedrooms?”

  “Sweetie, please,” I whispered, hoping he’d follow suit. “We have a lot of bedrooms. Seven, right?”

  “This place has nine.”

  “Seven and nine are both a lot. You’re taking the whole ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ thing a little too far. Don’t trip on that flattened squirrel,” I said, pulling him back across the street, helping him dodge the animal carcass in the road, and getting him up our porch steps and in our front door where we would both be safely out of view of the ever-present watchful eyes of Priscilla and Barnaby McGhee.

  “Our place isn’t even close to this big,” he said, glaring at the statistics sheet before him. “Twelve fireplaces? Are you fucking kidding me? We only have five.” Maybe it was something in the water, but Starling Falls had turned my husband into quite the swearer.

  “We have eight bedrooms if you count that room off the kitchen. The little room where the cook probably slept,” I reminded him.

  “I guess,” he said.

  “And if you count the nursery, we have nine bedrooms. And that little attic off the second floor? That could be a bedroom. I mean, back in the day when people didn’t care much about things like insulation, it probably was one. So, we have ten. See? We’re better than that house.”

  “Or,” he said, “we have just five bedrooms if you don’t count servants’ rooms and attics as bedrooms.”

  “Why wouldn’t we at least count the servants’ bedrooms as bedrooms? Let’s not be snobs about it.”

  “I wonder if they’re counting servants’ rooms as bedrooms,” he said, waving the sheet in my face.

  “We could sell our house and buy that one,” I suggested.

  “Very funny.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  “So now you want to sell our house?” he asked me, comically appalled that I’d even suggest such a thing. “Aren’t you attached to this place? It’s our first home.”

  “Of course I’m attached to it. Aren’t you? After all, you’re the one who’s all upset about the grass being greener on the other side of the street.” I didn’t mean for that comment to be about Priscilla McGhee, but I instantly imagined her as soon as I said it and I knew Tom had, too. Not that either of us would acknowledge it. I sighed and added, “I’m perfectly content right here.”

  “I guess I’m attached to this house too,” he relented.

  “That’s better,” I said, “because you wouldn’t want to hurt our house’s feelings.” It sounded like a joke, but I got a yucky little shiver running down my spine after I said it.

  “I just can’t believe that this house,” he whacked the sheet with his hand, “directly across from us, and bigger, is so much less than what we just paid. If their asking price is any indication,” he said, waving the sheet in my face again, “we wouldn’t get half of what we just paid if we tried to sell our house.”

  “So then let’s stay here and relax.”

  “I haven’t been relaxed since the day we moved in.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I said.

  “Thanks a lot. Maybe if I didn’t have anything to worry about except decorating, I’d be relaxed too.” He crumpled up the flier and threw it across the room. “I’ll be in my studio,” he said, heading up the stairs.

  This happened on a Friday. The next day, for the first time ever, we noticed people at the house next door, on our side of the street, across our wide lawn, right across from the McGhees’ house, at 309 Hawthorne Avenue. These people loaded up a truckload of antiques, and then, the following Wednesday, a For Sale sign went up in that yard as well.

  That evening, once it got dark outside and while Tom was busy in the kitchen, I ran over to the flier box and grabbed one out of it, so this time I’d be prepared. Once I saw what the flier said, I grabbed the whole stack of them, shoved them under my shirt, ran back home, and hid them all in one of the drawers we never used in the library.

  “Maybe we don’t want to know the price,” I suggested to Tom the next morning over coffee.

  “You’re right. I’m not even going to take a flier this time.”

  “Good for you,” I told him.

  That evening he looked it up online.

  “No fucking way. Fuck me. Fuck me! This is unreal.”

  “What’s up, Sweetie?” I asked sympathetically, since it was impossible to ignore him.

  “Would you believe that they’re asking the same price for that one as they’re asking for the one across the street? And get this: It has eleven bedrooms. Not to mention, their lot is twice as big as ours. It’s over an acre.”

  “Eleven,” I said, doing my best to look like I cared.

  “I’m just going to read it to you: ‘First time ever on market! Grand mansion originally owned by Starling Falls founder Lawrence Covey and his wife Clara. This Richardson Romanesque home boasts eleven bedrooms, three staircases, formal dining, eat-in kitchen, and separate breakfast room. Original woodwork and light fixtures, seven functional wood-burning fireplaces, stained glass, built-ins galore, library with a hidden tunnel to the back parlor, and SO MUCH MORE. New roof 2006. New boiler and wiring 2007. Otherwise this home is untouched with all original features intact. A rare find, priced to sell!’”

  “Wow,” I said. Admittedly, it made me sick to hear all that.

  “So basically,” he said, “anything you’d want updated is updated, and everything you’d want left alone is left alone. For way less than what we just paid for this hunk of shit. Can you believe it?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t have a dumbwaiter,” I said.

  “That’s funny. I’m glad you see some humor in this.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” I asked him. “So it’s cheaper than what we paid. We got a good deal that you were pretty happy with, originally. Haven’t you ever heard that comparison is the thief of joy? I saw that on someone’s MySpace page and it’s so true.”

  “Shut up, Courtney.”

  “You used to be nice. I hate this new you.”

  “I’m pissed off is all.”

  “Don’t take it out on me. This is the way real estate works. It’s a gamble. There’s nothing we can do about it. Let’s not look back.”

  “You were in such a hurry to pick something. Just think: If we had waited a couple of months, we’d have saved all this money and gotten a better house.”

  “You can’t seriously be upset with me about this. We both picked this place. If you had doubts you should have said something before we bought it.”

  “I was trying to make you happy,” he said, sneering.

  “I’m going to bed,” I told him.

  Just then, despite that it was nearly ten o’clock at night, our doorbell rang. Muffinseed and Hopscotch jumped off the couch and went running to
the front door. Tom and I got up and followed them. We didn’t have to ask one another who it could be. It was, of course, the McGhees. One or both of them stopped by unannounced almost every day.

  “Hello,” Tom said. They took his opening of the door as an invitation and stepped inside.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to fluff my t-shirt a little so it wouldn’t be so obvious that I wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “We were out for a walk and saw all your lights on,” said Priscilla.

  “That’s a lot of electricity! You two aren’t that big on saving the environment, are you?” joked Barnaby.

  “Deuce!” Priscilla said, slapping him on the butt. She smiled at us. “We saw you were up so we thought we’d say hello.”

  “Do you want to sit down?” asked Tom.

  “Sure!” said Priscilla. We all went to the library where the sofas at least matched one another.

  “Would you like anything to drink?” Tom asked them, as he settled down onto the sofa.

  “Sure,” said Barnaby.

  “Grab me another one while you’re up, would you?” Tom said to me, without bothering to look my way.

  “Need any help?” asked Priscilla.

  “No, I’ve got it,” I said.

  When I came back from the kitchen with an armload of glasses of water and bottles of beer, she was gushing about how exciting it was that soon we might have not one set of new neighbors, but two.

  “Did you see the list prices of both houses?” asked Tom. “Don’t you think houses like these are worth more than what they’re asking?”

  “Well,” said Barnaby, “we certainly paid more than that, but ours is turn-key.”

  “It’s a nice night for a walk. We should have gone for one too,” I said, attempting to change the subject. “Was there anything interesting happening around town?”

  “Isn’t it a beautiful night?” sighed Priscilla. “We had dinner up on the hill at the Starling Falls Supper Club, and then we walked through downtown on our way home. Have you two eaten at the Supper Club yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “How was it?”

  “Oh, you know,” said Barnaby. “Standard fare. A charming salad bar with crocks of ham cubes, turkey cubes, hard-boiled eggs, and frozen peas on ice alongside a bowl of iceberg lettuce and some French dressing. What else did you have, Prissy? Oh, wait, I remember now: hard breadsticks in wrappers along with orange cheese spread.”

  Priscilla giggled. “He’s making fun of me. I like salad bars like that. They remind me of being a little girl.”

  “We’ll have to check it out,” said Tom.

  “Why don’t the four of us go?” asked Priscilla. “How about tomorrow night?”

  “Hopscotch has a grooming appointment, I’m afraid,” I said, doing my best to look disappointed.

  “Where do you take her?” asked Priscilla.

  “We’re going to try the vet up on Pine Street. I’d do it myself, but for what they charge, I figured I might as well have someone else do it.”

  “If you don’t like them, I’ve heard Nancy Peabody does a wonderful job. She’s over on Gates Street. I can find her number if you want me to,” said Priscilla.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “What about trying the Supper Club the day after tomorrow? I think they might even have a live band playing that night,” said Barnaby.

  “Oh, Deuce is right! There’s going to be a band,” said Priscilla. “The Mud Valley Quartet. Have you heard of them? I think they’re some kind of bluegrass folksy band. You know, I think Ramona Turner’s husband might be in that band. Isn’t he, Deuce?”

  Barnaby nodded. “So, T and C, are you two in?”

  I looked at Tom since it was now his turn to make an excuse to get us out of it.

  “Okay, that works for us. Right, Courtney?” He took another swallow of beer and smiled at me.

  “Um… Sure,” I said. Our plan to avoid the McGhees wasn’t going very well. Mainly, because I was the only one trying. We ended up going out to dinner with them once every week or so despite that we’d never once initiated contact with them.

  Barnaby began sniffing and looking around the room. I guessed it was the smell of our dogs, or our ancient hodgepodge of saggy furniture, but he said, “Royal Secret?”

  When both Tom and I just looked at him blankly, he continued, saying, “I smell Royal Secret. My grandmother used to wear that.”

  “Leave it to Deuce to know what perfume his grandma wore,” Priscilla said.

  “Sometimes it smells like perfume in here,” I said. “Actually, it happens a lot.”

  “That’s funny,” said Priscilla. She frowned and sat up a little more primly on the couch that was trying to devour her.

  “Not just any perfume,” said Barnaby. He seemed a little worked up about it. “It’s Royal Secret. I’m positive. I used to buy her a bottle every Christmas.”

  I coughed, unsure what I was supposed to say or do about this.

  “It’s a rather unique scent,” he added.

  “I guess I never gave it much thought,” said Tom.

  “You mean you’ve noticed it before too?” asked Barnaby.

  “Now and then,” said Tom.

  “It makes me feel a little… uncomfortable,” said Barnaby.

  “His grandmother has been gone a few years,” Priscilla explained, squeezing her husband’s hand.

  “It seems a little strange, that’s all,” he said.

  “Sometimes, out of the blue, it smells like cigars in here,” I said, either to change the subject or add some fuel to the fire. I was good with whichever way it went.

  “Would you mind if I used your bathroom?” asked Priscilla.

  “Of course not. Go ahead,” I said. I didn’t need to tell her where it was; she’d used it dozens of times by this point.

  “Well, enough about that. How’s your writing going?” Barnaby asked Tom.

  “Oh, not bad.”

  “So, you got yourself on that schedule you were talking about?”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” said Tom.

  “That’s great. It must take a lot of self-discipline.”

  “Yeah, actually it does. It’s easy to get off track if you let yourself,” he said, giving me a quick, sharp look.

  “I guess I’ve never asked you,” said Barnaby to Tom, “and I hope it’s not too late for me to come out and ask now, but Prissy and I were talking and we realized we aren’t sure exactly what kind of writing it is that you do.”

  Tom took another long swallow of beer, nodding, waiting, letting the moment linger. Finally, he said, “I’ve had some of my articles on men’s health and fitness published in a few magazines in the past…”

  “Oh? Which magazines?” Barnaby interrupted.

  “Mainly regional ones,” said Tom.

  “Regional ones? Like what?”

  “Nothing from this area. Nothing you’ve probably heard of, since they’re not from around here. I’ve written a couple of financial investment pieces, you know, from the point of view of a young, average guy, not from an expert…” Tom had started out strong but already sounded confused and defensive. His face was getting red. “But right now I’m working on a novel.”

  “A novel!” said Barnaby. “What’s it about?”

  Priscilla came back into the room and sat down in her indent in the couch again. “You’re writing a novel, Tom? Ooh!” She looked at me and made an exaggeratedly supportive kind of face. Like, How about our Tom! Would you look at him! I smiled weakly and sighed a quasi-pleasant, bland little bleat.

  “By the way, I love your hand towels,” she whispered to me. “Where are they from? Sandi-Mae’s General Store? Right?” she asked, naming one of the little shops downtown.

  I shook my head. “They were a wedding present I just pulled out of a box.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed that she couldn’t go out and get her own locally-sourced matching set.

  “I’m kind of… superstitious about saying too muc
h. I don’t like to talk about my work so early on,” Tom said.

  “Aha, the method behind the madness,” said Barnaby. He nodded, impressed.

  “Are we in your book?” asked Priscilla. She twisted her blonde ponytail around her fingers, smirking at him with one raised eyebrow.

  Tom turned redder. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  “So that means we are!” she exclaimed.

  “Not necessarily,” said Tom.

  “How far along are you?” asked Barnaby.

  “Oh, well…” Tom squirmed.

  “What chapter are you on?” asked Priscilla.

  “I’m at about seven thousand words,” said Tom.

  “Seven thousand words. That sounds like an awful lot!” said Priscilla.

  “It’s not that much,” Tom said. He shooed the words with his hands like someone downplaying a great deed.

  This was more information about Tom’s novel than I’d ever been let in on. He refused to discuss it with me.

  Seven thousand words. I thought to myself that it really wasn’t that much.

  Nearly every day since mid-July, he’d been disappearing upstairs for about six hours. I did some quick math and realized that even if I subtracted a day or two off from each week, he’d still been writing for over fifty days. At this rate he was writing about a hundred thirty-some words per day. Maybe twenty words per hour. What would that work out to be? A sentence or two an hour. Was that fast? It didn’t seem fast. How fast could Stephen King write? At least a couple of paragraphs an hour, right?

  “I can tell you’re a real writer because you tell us how many words you write instead of how many pages,” said Priscilla.

  “Yeah, I noticed that too,” said Barnaby, nodding his usual guppy nod. Glup glup glup.

  He had no chin, I realized. No chin at all.

  And then I felt it coming. That hot wave of anger and contempt. A burning red planet, coming from some far-off outer space version of hell. A planet circled in faint, watery rings of despair and bright, dancing rings of evil laughter. A planet hurtling out of its usual orbit, flying straight at me.

  Barnaby McGhee, you’re an idiot and the biggest suck-up I’ve ever met. You deserve to die. I imagined his guppy head exploding gorily, accompanied by a pathetic little pop sound effect.