A White Room

by Stephanie Carroll

  We docked at the edge of the little town, nestled between two bluffs that gave it the appearance of a hole in the side of the world. I had lived in the city for my entire life, and now my best option was to live in a hole. We plodded off the boat, and John led me to our surrey, a plum-colored boxy carriage with a fringed canopy top and bench seat. The gray-haired driver made sure the horse clopped through town quickly.

  “Just wait until you see the window molding.” John went on and on about the house he had found. “Oh, and the parlor. It truly is an architectural wonder!” He had explained that the previous owners had left all their furniture and decorations. I didn’t know why anyone would abandon their furnishings, but I imagined it was a sad story. Still, if the house was lovely, I knew I could be happy. The town was tiny and my husband a stranger, but I could be happy running a beautiful home. It was the one thing I would have authority over. I’d always detested my mother’s décor. Whenever I complained about it, she reminded me that when I got married, I could decorate however I wanted and I didn’t have to use a single thing she had chosen. It wasn’t as if I could—those things were all gone now.

  “We’re getting closer.” John held himself up to see how far away we were, but the rocking surrey pitched him back onto the seat.

  I observed him as he grinned, bobbing around to see past the horse and driver. At least he was twenty-five. Women in my situation had often found themselves married to fifty-year-old widowers. I hoped he thought well of me. We hadn’t had much time to become acquainted during a brief engagement that got swept away with moving arrangements and the holidays. I hoped he didn’t find my apparel unappealing. Unlike those who might mourn the queen for a few weeks, I would wear blacks, purples, and eventually white mourning garb for almost another year because of my father’s death.

  “We’re here! We’re here!” John shouted and unsuccessfully tried to stand again.

  I lifted my head and sat taller to see, struggling to glimpse through trees flashing past. When I finally laid my eyes on it, I saw a structure that was not what any home should be. The driver veered right at a break in the trees and took us on a straight path toward the monster. When we stopped, John jumped off to fiddle with something before offering his hand to help me out. If he had offered it immediately, I wouldn’t have taken it because I’d been stunned into stone, staring at the bizarre construction before me.

  “It was built in 1880,” John said. “A gothic revival, I believe.”

  I unfroze and remembered that it was supposed to be a happy day, but the only thing I could say reflected my disenchantment. “It looks…dark.”

  “What do you mean? It’s white.” John reached out his hand, and after a brief hesitation, I grasped it and stepped out, drawing up my skirt to prevent a snag.

  How could a white house seem so dark? The entire building, apart from the russet wood-shingled roof, was red brick painted over with a pasty white. The red base seeped out from beneath the blanched masquerade. It was overbearing, like a fortress. A fortress bloodied by war and then disguised as a house by some conspirator or…perhaps…the house itself.

  A ring of broad-and slender-trunked trees circled the house and then thickened into woods. Winter had stripped the trees naked and covered the forest floor with a rug of decay. I imagined a splash of sunset color in the fall, the broad leaves turning orange, yellow, and a blazing red before blanketing the ground with a sea of fire. But now skeletons lingered all around.

  John raved about the structural design, but it wasn’t a marvel—it was a catastrophe. Structurally sound at best. The anterior stuck out farther than the rest, and the sides jutted out like broken, lopsided hips. The front doors were abnormally located to the right rather than in the center. My gaze drifted above the front doors to a slender and strange gothic window with intricate crown molding on the right hip of the house. Its twin faced out of the uneven left wing. The front had two windows so close together that they could have been one if there hadn’t been a thick piece of frame between them.

  “Is that the parlor?” I pointed at three-paned bay windows on the bottom floor.

  “Uh, yes. The two tall windows above it are our chamber.” John lugged a trunk off the surrey with the help of the driver.

  “And the other windows?”

  They eased the trunk to the ground. “More rooms.”

  “The porches…they’re peculiar.”

  “I think they were additions.”

  The Greek-revival columns on the porches would actually have been quite attractive if they’d been a part of another house, but they didn’t match a gothic revival—they only amplified its awkward state. The right porch had a few steps leading up to a small landing and the front doors. The bay windows completely interrupted the porches, separating them from each other. The left porch sat higher and stretched farther back, but because it had no steps, there was no way to reach it. I pictured some awkward little man deciding to build the porches and columns on a whim, having always desired a Greek revival and it being popular to remodel to one’s own desires. People generally did so with the aid of a professional to guide them, though.

  “All right, let’s go inside.” John picked up two bags and led the way.

  I walked behind, staring in wonder.

  John opened the front double doors, releasing light into a long narrow hallway with a door directly to the left and a door facing us at the end. I’d assumed the awkward little man’s whim had been applied only to the exterior of the home, but once inside, I realized he’d had more vigor than that. I peered down the hallway. “Where are the stairs?” In most homes, the stairwell was the first thing you saw, and many people took pride in the magnitude and luxury of theirs. It was a mark of station.

  “They’re around the corner.” John dropped the bags next to the coat rack and hung his hat.

  I detected the musty smell of cedar, lamp oil, and dead flowers.

  John grasped a small oil candle lamp with handles in the shape of snakes from the table next to the coat rack. It had a flat top and a rounded base that came to a point in front in the style of a genie lamp. John sparked the flame, but it was the middle of the day.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You want to stumble in the dark?”

  I shook my head. “It’s daylight.”

  “There are no windows in the hallway, and I would prefer we left the doors closed unless someone is in a room.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a big house, and we don’t want to lose each other. This way I’ll always know where you are.”

  I shuddered. “Yes, but what a horrible way to live.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find it quite convenient once you get used to it.” He glided down the corridor. “Besides, it’s only in the hallway.”

  I didn’t follow. I stood in the gloomy passageway with a heavy feeling in my abdomen and an urge to whirl around and run home. “What about gases? The rooms have to be aired to prevent toxins from building up.”

  “You can air them daily if you must.” He stopped at the first door on the left.

  “What about the cost of oil?”

  “Let me worry about the expenses.” He motioned for me. “Come along then.”

  I stepped forward, hesitated and then went to him.

  “This is the parlor.” John opened the door on the left to an oversize room. The bay window faced out front. Cobalt wallpaper darkened the room, which brimmed with outdated bric-a-brac. Little figurines, jars, bowls, and statuettes crowded every table, shelf, and ledge. Such clutter had been stylish in my mother’s day, but I intended to be liberated from it. I crept in and approached a bowl resting on a silver stand with four swirly legs and two twirling arms that rose over the basin and down slightly, as if intending to plunge into some life-giving liquid. My fingers followed the metal curves around and around. Most of the bowl was a tempting yellow, but it also had pink at the bottom left. The shade drifted upward like smoke, fading from pink to mauve to indigo
and finally to yellow. I supposed it was intended to mimic a flower, but the edges of the bowl rose at two spots and formed what resembled the ears of an owl. I touched two circular indentations buried in the yellow like eyes. There was a beak, too, where the silver stand came to a point in the middle. It was as if someone had plucked the head off an owl and mounted it on a metallic forest.

  My eyes dropped to the table that the bowl rested on, and I realized that the knickknacks distracted the eye from tangled table legs and bizarrely designed chairs of various sorts, none of which matched. Everything in the parlor was like that! The cabinets had winding appendages like tentacles. They burst out at all sides and darted back in toward the body but failed to make it before twisting all the way around and zapping back out again. Inanimate objects had hidden eyes built right in. Faces were embedded in every hunk of wood that could be found. The arms of chairs were carved with animal heads, paws, and claws. They gaped and smirked. Beady eyes peeked out from every crease and corner. Some were meant to be creatures, but others were just ambiguously lifelike. These peculiar things transformed the room into a murky woods filled with unknown beasts, and I felt lost in it all until I spotted another means of escape.

  On the wall to the right, opposite the bay windows, I noticed a second parlor door. “Where does that lead?”

  “You’ll see.” John motioned for me, and I weaved between the furniture to get back to him. He shut the door and led me down the hall. “The sitting room.” John opened the door, and I nearly leapt, shocked by the bright pink wallpaper. The room was littered with ornamental chairs and tables, along with a writing desk and a prairie cabinet. It, too, had bric-a-brac and ruffles sprinkled over every tabletop, shelf, and ledge. Thousands of white and pink doilies drowned every table and chair and the little pink sofa, too. It reminded me of an ocean of pink goo. I was certain that if I were to sit in it, I would suffocate in a warm flesh-colored swamp. Everything in this room must be sold, I thought.

  John closed the door. We turned left and faced another long corridor with two doors on the left and one on the right. The stairwell opened up like a cavern at the end, the first few steps exposed and then swallowed into the wall as they curved around.

  John went to the door on the right first. “This here is the library and my study.” He opened the door to reveal shelves of books, leather armchairs, reading tables, and a heavy wood desk with an overbearing chair like a dark throne. A narrow back rose to a point higher than any man’s head. The chair was fashioned from a strange wood that looked cold and hard like metal. It was painted a blackish brown and bore sharp, elaborate etchings.

  He closed the door and pointed across the hall at the first door on the left. “That is the parlor again, the door you asked about.”

  “We could have gone straight through?”

  “I don’t want to make a habit of taking shortcuts. These corridors are here for a reason.”

  I dropped my shoulders but tried to appear agreeable.

  He opened the second door on the left. “The dining room.” Inside was a narrow room with wood floors and wainscoting. The upper section of the walls had been covered in maroon wallpaper. High-backed chairs surrounded a long dinner table. A sideboard, a third the table’s size, sat against the right wall, along with a rolling server and a cabinet topped with green decanters. I would be especially keen on ridding the room of its unrelenting nature theme. The chairs had insects carved into them. The table swirled with vines. The silver and the servers were shaped like salamanders and leaves. The pitcher even had a leaf for a lid. The decanters were made of bright, glowing green crystal, as if each had its own little fairy imprisoned inside. John shut the door.

  Then he pointed to two doors to the right of the basement stairs. “That’s the bath chamber and the servants’ entrance, which leads to the outhouse.”

  I opened the bath-chamber door to find a claw-foot tub, but oddly the feet looked like those of a crow or a raven, not a bear or a lion. An equally dark washstand, basin and jug accompanied the tub, with black birds flying in spirals around the jug and spreading to the basin as if plunging to their deaths.

  “Shall we see the upstairs?” he asked.

  “The kitchen?”

  “It’s in the basement.” He pointed to the right of the staircase, where an even smaller set of stairs twisted down into a dark chasm.

  “Down there?”

  “Yes. You’ve seen houses like that in the city, I’m sure.”

  I had seen houses like that. Usually, the lady of the house never stepped foot in the kitchen because the family had cooks, butlers, and servants. My family hadn’t even that many servants, so a newlywed couple certainly couldn’t afford to pay poor souls to go down there.

  “It’s a marvel, really. Most homes around here don’t have them because of the high water table, especially being so close to the river. Apparently, this property is on a slant and there’s natural drainage. It is prone to leaks but stays cool for food storage. I’m told you can even keep ice down there in the summer.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Come now, upstairs.”

  We scaled the constricted staircase. It twisted right after the first five or so steps and disappeared behind a wall. Once it turned, there were white walls on both sides and a low ceiling. It felt as if they leaned inward. After two more rights, we reached the landing and another dark hallway so narrow it couldn’t be decorated with little tables or flower pots as most hallways were.

  We passed a door on the right and one on the left. “Those rooms are furnished, but we have no use for them.” A final door faced us at the end of the hallway. The staircase had circled around, and we were facing the front of the house again.

  “And this is our chamber.” John opened the door to reveal, finally, an agreeable room. It had pale wood floors and white walls. The furniture was plain, well crafted, and made of a nearly black wood. The white and mother-of-pearl statuettes and elegant wall hangings were also lovely. I tried to go in, but John closed the door before I could. “Let us get the rest of our things.”

  “Oh. All right.”

  We walked down the hall back to the stairs.

  “Well?” John asked as we crept down the stairs. He probably expected me to join him in his ravings.

  I forced a smile. “It’s…unique.”

  “That is why I chose it.”

  “It’s just not to my tastes. I’m sure I’ll feel better once I redecorate.”

  “Redecorate?” John stopped in front of me in the middle of the stairwell.

  “Yes. Redecorate.” I felt hot and uncomfortable halted in the cramped space.

  He turned around, scrunched his face, and shook his head. “No.”

  “Pardon me?” It felt as if the walls were creeping closer.

  He folded his arms. “I don’t think you should redecorate.”

  “But why?”

  “We were lucky to find a home furnished and decorated. That is why I bought it.”

  “But it’s—it’s awful.” I regretted saying it as soon as John’s expression wilted.

  But then his features hardened into a look of stern resolve. “I am sure you will come to like it with time.” He continued down the stairs.

  I felt the weight of disappointment. Not only was John forcing me to live uncomfortably in every way, but he was also wrenching away the one thing I controlled. We had descended all the way down the stairs and entered the hallway when I finally dismissed my mother’s warnings to keep complaints to myself. “John?” I stopped next to the dining room.

  “Hmm?”

  “I don’t think I will like it with time.”

  He turned at the end of the hall and rubbed the back of his neck. “My father and Mr. Coddington went to great lengths to find a home that would require little from us, as a wedding gift. We should be grateful.”

  “I am grateful, but decorating and making a home a sanctuary is a wife’s duty. I want to create a sanctuary for you.”

&nbs
p; “I’m already happy,” he said. “I don’t need you to do anything. You should be thankful to get so much when you hadn’t even a dowry.”

  My muscles stiffened and my mouth fell open.

  He motioned for me. “Come on.” He disappeared around the corner, and the hall went dark except for a tiny glow reflected on the wall where he’d just stood. I remained. I wanted to resist, refuse, but I had no dowry and nothing to stand on. He had accepted me when I had nothing to offer. He did me a favor. I had no right to make demands—a slave to circumstance. I never wanted to leave that spot and face reality, but I feared the sound of him calling for me when he noticed I wasn’t behind him. I missed my family. I wanted to go home. I blinked and fanned air toward my eyes. I couldn’t be upset by this, I told myself. My mother was right. I shouldn’t have objected to him. He was right—the house was finished, and I would be grateful. I would be happy with time. I would show John my thanks. From this point on, I was going to be a perfect wife.

  I swallowed hard, forced my feet to budge, and quickly rounded the corner. “Forgive me?”

  “Of course,” he said cheerfully while swinging the front double doors open and letting in the stinging white light.

  We spent our first night in our new house silent and awkward. John had purchased a few provisions, but I needed to visit the general store. We ate dinner in silence, probably because we felt so tired from our trip. I gave up trying to start conversation after one or two questions were answered with only a single word. I wasn’t in a mood to talk, either. John would feel more inclined toward conversation tomorrow. After dinner, John stood and I collected our dishes. He picked up the snake lamp from the table and moved in his stately manner toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  He turned back. “To the study. I’m meeting with Mr. Coddington in the morning, and I want to be prepared.”