The House of Dies Drear

by Virginia Hamilton

  I’ll not wave to them, Thomas thought to himself. I’ll not wave at the devil, nor the devil’s disciple!

  Folks moved away, got into cars and went home. Mr. and Mrs. Small and Thomas, carrying the twins, walked slowly to their own car.

  No one to come home with us, not even Pesty! No one to listen to Papa and hear about all the lives of history. What kind of place is this North anyway? What kind of a no-account place!

  Chapter 11

  MR. SMALL DECIDED they would combine lunch with dinner in the college dining room.

  “It will be a Sunday treat for everyone,” he said cheerfully. “Afterward, we’ll still have time to find a locksmith.”

  He looked anxiously at Thomas. The boy wanted to meet young people, and there seemed to be no easy way to go about it. Thomas would need time to become adjusted; he would have to take things easy until the town had got used to them.

  Mr. Small said nothing to Mrs. Small or to Thomas about the aloofness of the church members. He occupied them with talk about the college. Thomas forgot for awhile the mystery of the new house.

  Mrs. Small was interested first in walking the college campus and hearing about its century-old history. They made their way to the campus, and Thomas enjoyed walking under the great oak trees. The trees made the grounds dark with shade. Mrs. Small liked the stone benches placed over the whole of the campus, for she could rest often and allow the twins to play in the grass.

  “That’s the main building,” said Mr. Small, pointing out the twin towers of the oldest college building. “All the business offices are there, and a few of the classrooms. I have my office in the left tower—would you care to see it? You’ll have to walk up. There are no elevators.”

  Mrs. Small declined to climb so many stairs. But Thomas wanted to find out what it was like to sit in a tower. He and Mr. Small climbed up and up. Finally they entered a corridor where Mr. Small opened one of the closed doors with a skeleton key.

  “This will be a cool place in summer,” he said to Thomas. “Ivy covers the windows, keeping moisture close. Not much sunlight can penetrate. But come the winter, I’ll probably freeze here.”

  “Isn’t there any heat?” Thomas asked. He had not much heart for talk. The climb up to the tower had tired him; he wanted no more than to go home to rest in his room.

  “No heat that I know of,” Mr. Small said.

  “I thought colleges were supposed to be modern,” said Thomas. “I thought up North they’d at least be heated.”

  Mr. Small had to laugh. “Now don’t blame the North for everything,” he said. “This isn’t your state university with new buildings, sleek offices and central heating. Why this is history, son. Many of the buildings are much the same as they were a century ago. And if you don’t mind, I’ll dispense with heat any day for some good atmosphere.”

  I wish history would just die, thought Thomas. Why must Papa have it clutter up everything?

  Mr. Small’s office was not like any office Thomas had seen. It was like a watchtower, with garret windows and a musty smell. There were books piled everywhere, and bookcases lined the curved walls. An ancient desk by one narrow window had a small table on wheels next to it. Resting on the table was a typewriter that looked like an antique. The room was chilly, with a faint scent of cigar smoke.

  “Nothing much ever changes in places like these,” said Mr. Small. “Here there will be time to think, and time even to be bored.”

  “Papa, how is it you always know where to go so you don’t ever have to change?” Thomas said glumly. He went behind the desk to see out of the windows.

  Uncomfortably Mr. Small watched him, for Thomas had spoken in anger.

  “I’ve had to adjust myself, too, to these new surroundings,” Mr. Small said. He came quietly to the window. “It’s not always easy at my age to begin life all over again in a strange place.”

  “Then why do it?” whispered Thomas. “Why bother when it’s all the same anyway?”

  Out of the window, Thomas could see clear to the other side of town. “There are farms way out there, Papa. Look at that big one over there. They are plowing, even on Sunday.”

  A haze hung over the town and farms. If he stared a long time, the town would get smaller and smaller and then would jump back again in focus. Thomas tried to make it stay in place, but it kept on moving farther away and then back again.

  He rubbed his eyes. “It keeps jumping at me,” he said. “The whole town just keeps jumping around!”

  “That’s because you don’t have a point of view,” Mr. Small said. “Pick out a landmark and it won’t happen.”

  “No, it’ll happen if I was to pick out a landmark. I don’t want to … it just doesn’t like me looking at it. It just doesn’t want me!”

  “Thomas, that’s childish,” Mr. Small said. “You’re tired. Things have happened too fast. Just hold onto yourself. Give the town time.”

  “I don’t care anything for it,” Thomas said. “You can keep it!” He spoke bitterly, and Mr. Small saw that he was close to tears.

  “What is it, Thomas? What have I done to make you so mad?”

  “I’m tired of everything being always just the same,” Thomas couldn’t help saying. He felt a sudden relief, as though somewhere inside him he had let fly a rock. “Always colored churches! Always white churches somewhere hidden! Why is it folks never get together? We didn’t have to leave home at all. We could’ve stayed with Great-grandmother and had the very same change. We wouldn’t even have to go to church, because there isn’t any church left to go to!”

  “Oh, I see,” said Mr. Small. He looked out over the town. “I do see… . But you can walk any part of that town down there and nobody will stop you. A few folks might look at you hard, but no one will be vicious with you. No one will call you names.”

  “How do you know?” asked Thomas. “As long as there are hidden churches, how can you be so sure?”

  Mr. Small was silent. He knew this town. He knew that Thomas, his whole family, was safe in it.

  But for how long? he wondered. And what about all the other towns, everywhere?

  “You will have to try it,” said Mr. Small. He knew what he said was not good enough. “You will have to walk it and see what happens.” Nothing he could say would ever be good enough.

  “Thomas, I wanted to take you to that church this morning because I thought it would be familiar. I thought it would be a good place to start to meet people and to make friends. You will have to give it time.”

  “Let’s go eat now,” Thomas said. “I’m hungry, I don’t want to do anything but eat.” He could not look at his father.

  Thomas had turned from the window away from his father, when his eyes fell on something below one bookcase, where there was wood paneling. The thing glinted, and Thomas thought it no more than a pinpoint reflection when it jumped at him the way the town had seemed to. He sucked in his breath and stared. A cold fright passed over him.

  “Papa,” he said softly, “Papa, look there …”

  Mr. Small looked and saw. He reached around Thomas for the object stuck in the wood.

  “They are bold, aren’t they, coming here like that through my locked door?” said Mr. Small.

  “Another triangle!” Thomas said.

  “And they knew we would come here,” said Mr. Small. “They knew I would show you my office.”

  “They who, Papa?”

  “Whoever knows what I’m going to do before I do it. Whoever it is that has figured out my moves as though we, all of us, were pieces in a game of chess!”

  “They could’ve been watching us for a long time,” Thomas said. “Anyone hanging around up here in these towers could see anybody coming or going almost forever. It wouldn’t take an awful lot to jimmy that door.”

  “You’re right, of course,” said Mr. Small. “I let the atmosphere, this whole morning, carry me off a little. Probably they have watched us from the time we left church. They may be close by even now.”

>   “I don’t like them,” Thomas said. “I don’t like them at all!” But his spirits lifted. At least folks cared enough about them to try to warn them out of town.

  “Let’s look at the triangle,” Mr. Small said. He held it in his left hand while taking from his pocket one of the three they had found in the house.

  Moving the new triangle around, Mr. Small fitted it above the triangle he had taken from his pocket. Then he took from his pocket the last two triangles and fitted them to the first two.

  “Papa, now we have all of it,” Thomas said. “We have all four triangles and it’s a Greek cross! But what kind of warning … what kind?”

  “What kind indeed,” Mr. Small said. “A cross made from four interchangeable triangles.”

  “Do you think there is danger?” Thomas asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Mr. Small. “In any case, danger usually doesn’t come in the light of day. We won’t worry about danger until nightfall.” His manner was confident, and this pleased Thomas.

  Mr. Small spoke matter-of-factly to Thomas. “Let’s eat now and then find a locksmith,” he said. “I don’t like leaving that house all by itself for too long.”

  They ate, speaking not of the triangles or of anything that had to do with crosses or church or the house of Dies Drear. They’d eaten in the large, college dining hall. The hall had screened-in porches at either end, and they sat at a big, round table on the porch. There had been a pitcher of ice water on every table; Thomas had poured water for them all, even the twins. The twins had high chairs to sit in. The waitress had brought the chairs. She even brought the twins wood dolls to play with, since the hall was crowded with Sunday diners, and there might be a long wait for food.

  It was the first time Thomas had sat down in a private room such as this, where there were white families eating just like his family. No one seemed to pay much attention at all.

  Thomas felt so good he couldn’t speak. Mr. Small watched him anxiously, and Thomas grew shy. After awhile, he looked up at his father, giving him a big grin. Mr. Small cleared his throat, chuckled to himself and studied the menu.

  But they never found a locksmith. After a fine Sunday dinner of turkey with good dressing and gravy—Thomas had topped it off with Boston cream pie—they’d got into their car to begin the search.

  “We’ll go into the main part of town first,” said Mr. Small. “See if anything is open.”

  They turned onto an avenue lined with trees. Xenia Avenue it was called. It extended from the college all the way through town.

  “There’s a library,” said Thomas as they drove. He cradled the twins, one in each arm. They were tired now, hungry for the warmth of their bottles and their cribs.

  “There’s a drugstore and, look, a big church,” Thomas said.

  “That’s the white Presbyterian church,” said Mr. Small. “I know the pastor. He teaches a seminar on religion at the college.”

  “Can I go to that church sometime, Papa?” asked Thomas.

  “You can go anytime you want,” Mr. Small said. “We’ll all go.”

  “Are Presbyterians like Methodists?” asked Thomas eager to talk.

  “They are okay,” said Mrs. Small, “but they aren’t quite as good as Methodists.”

  “Mama!” said Thomas.

  Mr. Small laughed. “Your mother’s a Methodist from way back, Thomas. You’ll have to forgive it. She can’t help it if she’s prejudiced.”

  “I’m not prejudiced,” said Mrs. Small. “I simply have good taste.”

  Mr. Small threw back his head and laughed.

  “I just want to try it,” said Thomas, looking at the enormous, granite church. “Just to see what it’s like inside.”

  Mr. Small stopped at the drugstore to get a Sunday paper. He made Thomas stay in the car so the twins would not want to get out. Mrs. Small stayed in the car also. He came back with candy and news that there was no locksmith in the town. There was the hardware store, which sold locks, but it was closed on Sunday. You might try the filling station, the druggist had said. All the Carr boys, who owned it, were handy with all sorts of things.

  “It’s surely a small town,” Mr. Small said. “I love the flat way folks say things—not unfriendly but just flat, like maybe they all walked in from northern Kentucky in one big bunch.”

  “Where is the filling station?” asked Thomas. “I don’t see it.”

  “No, it’s on Highway 68 near the high school the druggist told me,” Mr. Small said. “We’ll have to go out there and talk to the Carr boys, whoever they are. Thomas, you’ll get to see the high school, if it’s that close by.”

  School, Thomas thought. I forgot all about it.

  “Do I have to go to school tomorrow, Papa? Can I wait a few days until we get more settled?”

  “They are still having Easter vacation here,” Mr. Small said. “You have a few more days.”

  They drove a short distance out of town, away from the college on Highway 68. They passed a police station. To Thomas, it looked like a cramped chicken coop. There was one light-blue patrol car parked in front of it, with one policeman, who leaned against the car and looked sleepily across the highway. He checked their license plate as they passed and stared after them down the highway.

  They found the filling station easily enough, for it was a large, well-attended and modern place. Mr. Small eased the car up close to the office. He didn’t have to get out, for a big man came forward to see what he wanted.

  “Afternoon,” said Mr. Small, “Walter Small’s the name—we’ve just moved here, in the old Drear place outside town. I need some locks and someone to install them. Can you help me out? Druggist said you might.”

  “I’m Carr,” the man said. “The oldest boy. I have a few locks I can give you at a good price. Can’t put them in until Monday though. All the boys is home with their families. Will that do … Monday?”

  “Monday will have to do then,” said Mr. Small. “Monday early morning, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “All the same by me,” said the man. “You have some vandalism out there?” he wanted to know. He was curious about them. His broad, white face was serious and intent on them.

  “No,” said Mr. Small. “No, nothing like that. My son didn’t realize the kitchen door was locked when he stormed through it. While I’m at it, I thought I might as well change a few other locks.”

  “You intend to stay awhile then?” the man said. “The place has been empty for such a long time … I mean except for the old one called Pluto.”

  Mr. Small was cautious. He didn’t want to tell the man too much. News spread like wildfire in a town such as this one. At the same time, he didn’t want to give the impression he was hiding anything.

  When he did speak, his manner was casual. “I’ll be teaching at the college,” he said. “We wanted space for the children. I thought I might do some farming on the side.”

  The man seemed to become more friendly. “You picked yourself a good piece of land for farming,” Carr said. “Along that stream, the soil is rich as can be. I know, because that same stream meanders onto my father’s land. Do you know his farm?”

  Mr. Small said he didn’t.

  Carr continued. “Well, you can recognize it by the catalpa trees. There’s a whole woods of them. Lots of berry patches in between them. Kids like to pick the berries. Get a good price for them, too, these days.” He smiled at Thomas. “I know, I picked the same bushes when I was a boy.”

  “That right?” said Mr. Small. He started up the car, hoping to ease away without appearing impolite.

  “Oh sure,” said the man. “Kids love playing there in the trees. My father, he’s old now, and he never did mind them, except for the Darrow boys.”

  Mr. Small switched off the ignition. Thomas leaned forward.

  “Darrow, you say?” Mr. Small said. He tried to appear only slightly interested.

  “Do you know them?” asked Carr. “They have the closest spread to my father’s. They�
��re all around you out there. Mean ones, sometimes. Use’ to bother that other old man—Pluto he’s called. That Pluto and my father were young about the same time. My father, he was born in a log cabin in this town. But Pluto, he come here as a boy from somewheres. Seems to me I heard something about there being bad blood between the old man Darrow, the grandfather, and Pluto when they was young.” Carr looked pleasantly at Mr. Small, pleased to talk on this slow Sunday. What he had to say appeared innocent enough. Of course, you never could tell about strangers, Thomas thought.

  “The grandfather still living?” asked Mr. Small. He took out his handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his neck, then folded it neatly and returned it to his breast pocket. The gesture was slow and easy, giving the impression that he was tired and willing to sit a moment to talk.

  “Oh no, indeed,” Carr said. “He’s been gone now, oh, seven, eight, maybe ten years. But he was a mean one. I know, I use’ to play with one of the older boys. Old Wilbur Darrow. Haven’t seen him in a couple of months though. They can stay out on that farm of theirs for six months at a time without folks seeing them. Always digging up trees and putting them back. When the grandpaw was living—he was River Swift Darrow—they moved the whole house a few feet to one side, looked around under it for about a week and then moved it back again where it was in the first place.” He chuckled to himself, looking off down the highway.

  “Sure, me and Wilbur Darrow were all right. The father, he was River Lewis, didn’t seem to mind me. But the old grandpaw didn’t like it. No sir, he didn’t like me hanging around one bit. He’d come tearing out of that house calling me all kinds of rednecks. Now you know that can’t be right. My family, we was always the same with everybody. We played no favorites and saw no difference.”

  “That’s the best way,” said Mr. Small.