The House at 758

by Kathryn Berla

  “Be nice to Krista! Maybe she’s getting sick too.” She’s partially right. I’ve been sick for two years.

  “Now what?” Chad wants to know.

  “I don’t know. What would you be doing if you were at your own house?” I can’t even figure out what I want to do, let alone plan for Emma and Chad.

  “Playing with friends,” they say in unison and then burst out laughing.

  “And swimming and going to the water park and playing video games,” Chad adds.

  “And I have all my stuff at my house and nothing but one Barbie here.” Emma senses a grave injustice. “And we were supposed to go to Disneyland.” She draws out “land” into about three syllables.

  “Let’s go for a drive, I’ll bet you don’t get to do that very often when you’re at home.” The lights of the theater are on and two employees roll a large garbage can through the aisles. One of them tosses empty popcorn and soda containers into it while the other sweeps under the seats.

  “Yay! A drive.” Emma claps her hands together and hops up and down. “Can I sit in front this time?”

  “Yeah, sure. You guys take turns.”

  “Emma’s not allowed to sit in the front,” Chad says. “She’s too little. Mom will get mad.”

  “I am too!” Her face scrunches up like she’s about to cry.

  “Okay, okay. How about Emma sits in front until we get where we’re going and then you guys can trade again?” I hope this will put an end to the argument. I just want to get going.

  Emma seems surprised but happy, like she’s just pulled off a major manipulation. I worry that maybe Chad is telling the truth and not just looking for trouble. I’ll make sure to drive extra safely.

  “So where is it?” Chad asks.

  “Where’s what?”

  “Where is it that we’re going? You said when we get there we can switch seats.”

  “Oh . . . you’ll see when we’re there. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  Chad looks skeptical. I feel like a scumbag for what I’m about to do.

  “Why are we driving here?” Emma is nervous.

  “Obviously, this isn’t a real drive,” Chad says. “This is just someplace that Krista wants to go and she’s making us go with her.”

  Emma swivels her head to look at me. She doesn’t want Chad to be right but she knows he usually is.

  “Don’t be silly guys.” I look at Chad in my rearview mirror. He’s slumped in the back seat, his arms folded across his chest. “This is a sort of like a field trip. You can see how other people live. People who don’t have money like us.”

  “We don’t have a lot of money,” Chad sulks. “Not like your dad.”

  “We’re not poor like this, Chad.” Emma swings around in her seat to defiantly face down her brother.

  “No, not like this.” Chad is slightly on the defensive and has decided it might not be such a good thing to identify with this neighborhood. “Our house is a lot nicer.”

  I perform a U-turn in the middle of the street and pull into my usual spot facing 758 but on the wrong side of the street. Today the driveway is empty and no one’s outside.

  “Why are we stopping? I’m scared.” I detect a mild tremble in Emma’s voice.

  “Let’s just sit for a while.” I put on my most reassuring voice. “We’re safe in the Hornet.” I push the auto lock button and both doors make a clicking sound. “Just stay in the car and don’t get out.”

  “I’m squished back here. I don’t understand why we have to stay. We’ve seen what we came to see which is how poor people live.” Chad is too big for the Hornet’s back seat. I should have let him sit up front.

  “Okay, hang on. You guys can switch seats in a few minutes.”

  The front door of 758 opens, and the boy walks out with his ball. A younger girl follows him out and sits on the dried grass of the front lawn. She’s barefoot and wearing a faded pair of green shorts and a Barbie T-shirt. Emma and Chad are instantly mesmerized.

  “Are those poor kids?” Emma is wide-eyed.

  “Of course they are, idiot!”

  I give Chad a backward angry glare in the rearview mirror. “Cool it with the negative language or I’ll tell your mom.”

  “I’ll tell my mom where you took us,” Chad shoots back. I hadn’t said anything about not telling their mom but they’re smart kids and quickly understand this is something to be kept between the three of us. “And that you let Emma sit up front.”

  “Don’t get Krista in trouble.” Emma twists her body in order to look directly at her brother.

  “Okay, okay. Everyone just settle down. Nobody’s getting anybody in trouble.” I put on my adult voice hoping to give them the false impression that I have everything under control.

  The boy stands in the driveway and begins to juggle the ball with his right foot. He’s skillful considering the lack of control one can usually exert over a ball that bouncy.

  Chad watches him carefully. “He’s pretty good,” he says after a few minutes. “Better than anyone on my soccer team.”

  He seems a little older than Chad. More mature.

  The ball has been kicked a little too high and it bounces into the street. It rolls almost directly in front of my car due to the slight downward angle of the road. With lightning quick speed, Emma unlocks the door and jumps out of the car to retrieve the ball.

  “Emma!” Chad and I both call after her at the same time. I get out of the car and Chad’s right behind me.

  But Emma has already picked up the ball. She smiles brightly at the young boy who’s come to retrieve it. She pauses for a minute and then tosses it to him with perfect accuracy. The boy returns her smile and then runs back to his front lawn. His younger sister watches the scene from the safety of her front lawn. She is wide-eyed.

  “Idiot!” Chad grabs Emma by the hand. “Krista said to stay in the car.” His voice is mean but I know he’s just feeling protective of her.

  The woman, who is obviously their mother, walks out the front door and calls to them in her language. Their faces register disappointment and the boy walks into the house with his sister right behind him. Then the woman turns and looks directly at me.

  “Go!” she speaks loudly in thickly accented English. “Leave the children alone! I know who you are.” She turns and walks into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  Chad and Emma are standing next to the Hornet with shocked expressions. I open the passenger side door.

  “Get in. Let’s go.” I avoid eye contact with them.

  “How does that lady know you, Krista?” Emma asks as she scrambles into the back seat. There’s no arguing about who sits where anymore.

  “Why did you get out of the car?” Chad is clearly upset and doesn’t know any other way to deal with his fear. He must now make this about Emma.

  Emma’s face scrunches up again but this time she really does cry. A man who lives next door comes out of his house and stands on his front lawn. He looks over at the Hornet and shakes his head.

  “Let’s go get ice cream,” I suggest. But there is no exclamation of delight or clapping of hands from Emma, and Chad merely grunts.

  When we walk in the door, Marie is waiting for us. She hasn’t seen the kids all day and she asks them if they’ve had fun. Emma runs to her mother and hugs her.

  “Are you feeling better, Mommy?”

  Chad wants to know if we have a soccer ball that he can borrow for a while. He goes off to the garage in search of it. My father is still in bed and has been sleeping all day.

  “How was your date last night, Krista?” Marie turns her attention to me. “We tried to wait up for you last night but, honestly we were both feeling so rotten.”

  “It was good.” I know this kind of noncommittal answer drives parents crazy, but it’s the best I can come up with. “We
had fun.”

  Where would I begin even if I did want to tell her how the date went? He’s the perfect guy. He’s nice. He’s smart. He’s interesting and seemed interested in me. It’s the first time ever that a guy’s asked me out on a date, and I still can’t believe it was Jake Robbins. And . . . oh yeah, I managed to completely screw everything up.

  “Is he a nice young man?”

  “Very nice.”

  “Well, I’m sorry your father and I didn’t get to meet him. Maybe next time.” This is her way of trying to find out if there will even be a next time.

  “Maybe,” I say and am about to excuse myself to do some reading in the tent when I notice that Chad’s back from the garage holding a soccer ball under his arm. I’m not sure how long he’s been standing there listening to me and Marie.

  “What was the name of the guy you went out with last night?” he asks.

  “Jake, wasn’t it Krista?” Marie asks.

  “Yeah . . . Jake.” I flash a warning look at Chad but his eyes don’t betray a thing.

  Chapter | 11

  The shadow of the oak is over my tent, and it’s starting to cool down, so I go straight to the lounge chair. I pick up The Great Gatsby which is one of the books I’m supposed to read before school starts but the words make about as much sense to me right now as a column of marching ants. I’m worried about Chad and Emma. I shouldn’t have taken them with me, especially Emma who’s too young to understand and too old not to notice. I guess I shouldn’t have let her ride in the front seat either. Chad now has loads of ammunition he can use against me if he wants and I’m not sure how much I can trust him. And I can’t get the woman’s awful words out of my head.

  Chad has brought the soccer ball outside. I hear it bouncing on the driveway and it makes me think of the boy at 758. I walk to the edge of the roof and look down. Chad’s practicing his juggling skills with a fierce look of determination on his face. My stomach feels hollow, and for the first time, I consider it might be from hunger instead of nerves. Marie was still in her pajamas and my dad is asleep so if I’m going to eat I need to figure something out myself.

  I hear my phone chime and walk back to the lounge chair to see who’s texting me. It’s a message from Lyla with a tiny image I click on to enlarge. Two petite and perfectly formed feet—toenails shining with bright orange polish—centered in a grassy green frame. At the top of the image, ocean wavelets twinkle under a setting sun.

  Wish you were here.

  I wish I was there too. Lyla would know exactly what to do about Jake, even though I don’t think I could bear to face him and I’m sure he has no interest in seeing me again. It occurs to me she might not even believe me if I told her we went out on a date. It sounds crazy even to me. I know Lyla would help keep me out of trouble too. My track record isn’t great so far and there’s still a long summer ahead. With Lyla there’d be someplace to go right now and something to do.

  Still, there is 758, and I know I can’t stay away. Why should I? Life isn’t fair, so why do I have to be the one to move along and pretend like nothing ever happened? But now I know it’s something I have to do by myself. Lyla can’t make it easier, and Emma and Chad can’t either. I don’t know what I was thinking when I took them along.

  I hear a bounce when the ball hits the pavement followed by a series of lesser bounces and then silence. It’s a sign that Chad has failed to keep the ball in the air, but from the soft thumps that soon follow I can tell he keeps trying.

  My grandfather is coming on Tuesday, and then I’ll have my purpose, at least for a while. In a strange way, I’m looking forward to it. Being in the house with us he’ll be able to understand in a way others can’t. Marie is in his dead daughter’s bed. Her clothes fill my mother’s empty closet. Her voice presides over dinners that were once our family’s special time. Her hand never caresses the curve of my cheek. Her lips never touch the top of my head just before I climb into bed. Her questions, although friendly enough, never reach deep into the part that’s really me.

  How could Grandpa not be affected? It’s not exactly like I want someone on my side . . . it’s just that I want someone who can feel what I’m feeling. And miss what I’m missing. Someone who will instantly notice the gaps in my life. The empty places that used to be full. Dad used to understand. Grandpa will, I’m sure.

  When my mother was alive she kept notes about her father’s experiences in World War II Hungary. I know because I found them one day when Dad was cleaning out Mom’s closet in preparation for Marie’s arrival. They were handwritten into a journal and were in a box marked for the garage. I read through them that day and was surprised at the absence of emotion and pain. There were facts and even details, but nothing that matched the power of the word scrawled in black marker across the cover—HOLOCAUST.

  Once I walked in on my mother when she was filming an interview with her father about this time in his life. He chose his answers carefully, in a way that was polite but distant—informative without really saying anything. Eventually, my grandmother walked into the room and stood behind him. With her lips pursed together, she shook her head at my mother and waved her hands in a sign to put an end to the questioning. She was trying to protect him. My mother turned the camera off and the questions came to an end. I was young and not terribly interested in something an old man with a thick accent had to say.

  When I can’t hear the ball bouncing anymore, I look over the edge of the roof. Chad is sitting on the driveway, leaning against the wall with the ball in his lap.

  “What’s for dinner?” He looks up at me. “I’m hungry.”

  “What did your mom say?”

  “She said that maybe we could go pick up some dinner and bring something back for Emma too. Your dad and my mom don’t want anything.”

  “Emma can come with us.”

  “She doesn’t want to,” Chad says in a way that lets me know it’s already been offered and refused. The way his eyes cast downward makes me wonder if I’m poison to her now.

  “You wanna come with me to pick up Chinese?”

  “I can help pay,” he says. “I just got my allowance.”

  “That’s alright. I have my own credit card that my dad pays for.” I’m actually beginning to feel sorry for this kid.

  He follows me into the Hornet. Neither of us makes any mention of the day’s events although there’s plenty to talk about. We’ve somehow arrived at a truce—or maybe an understanding.

  When we get home and walk through the door, it’s obvious to me that a black gloom has settled over the house just like the black, felt cloth that covers Charlie’s cage at night. Dad has gotten out of bed and he doesn’t look well. He’s sitting at the kitchen table with Marie who avoids looking up at me. Emma is also in the kitchen, but she leaves as soon as Chad and I walk in.

  “We brought dinner, Emma,” I call after her.

  “Krista, can I have a word with you?” Dad ignores the food that I set down. “In my bedroom, now, please.” Chad looks from my father to me.

  Dad gets up from the kitchen table with effort, and I follow him into his room, closing the door behind me as I’ve been trained to do when we have our private talks. The bed is a mess with sheets rumpled into balls and covers thrown off onto the floor. The blinds are still drawn. It has the look and feel of a room where people suffer from illness. The musty smell of fever.

  “Where were you today, Krista?” He turns to me with glassy eyes.

  “I took the kids to a movie. Then we went for ice cream.” I’m scrambling.

  “Please don’t disrespect our relationship, Krista. I need the truth from you.” He looks pained.

  “We went for a drive,” I add. How much more do I need to give him? What does he know? “And we stopped at a sporting goods store for a few minutes.”

  “A drive where?” he asks. Apparently, the sporting goods store is of no in
terest to him.

  “I wanted to show them how poor people—”

  “—Think about what you’re going to say,” he cuts me off. “Don’t commit yourself to a lie.”

  “If you already know what I did, then why are you asking me?” I realize that Emma must have folded. That’s why she fled when she saw me. But I don’t blame her. She’s just a baby and she had a scare today. I blame myself . . . but I don’t blame myself . . .

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing, Krista? Taking the children to that place. Why are you even going there—subjecting yourself to that? You need to go back to Dr. Bronstein. If you’re not going to talk to me then I’m going to insist that you get professional help.”

  “I don’t want professional help and I don’t need professional help.” The volume of my voice rises along with the pitch. “Why do you think I need help any more than you do?”

  “I’m not behaving in an irresponsible and reckless manner, Krista. I’m not lying around the house moping all day. I’m moving on with my life.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re moving on with your life. I guess I noticed that.” There’s so much I could say to him right now that would be supremely hurtful. I’ve gone over these things so many times in my head that it would be easy just to open the floodgates and let the words spill out. But somehow I manage to control it. I know that whatever I say right now, I’ll probably regret tomorrow. So I turn around and walk out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

  “Krista,” Chad has heard the door slam. He’s been waiting for me.

  “Not now,” I walk to the front door.

  “Aren’t you going to have dinner with us?” he asks. He looks hurt . . . and scared. He’s no stranger to family drama and this can’t be pleasant for him.

  “No, not tonight.” I head straight for the Hornet and the peace and solitude of a directionless drive.

  __________

  When I was in fourth grade I had trouble sleeping at night. I was convinced my teacher didn’t like me, and there were a few girls who had invited Lyla but not me to sleepovers and birthday parties, so I thought my best friend was being taken away from me. It all seems silly when I look back on it now, but it was so serious at the time. Whenever I’d go to bed, my thoughts would turn dark, and soon I convinced myself that I would never be able to sleep again.