by Brandi Reeds
I curl up a corner of the orange-and-yellow shag in the upstairs hallway and find a gorgeous cherry parquet floor beneath it. Even if the floor is in desperate need of refinishing, which is likely, it’ll look better than this ugly carpet. It’s too late to start a project tonight, but I can’t help myself. I pull on the loose end of the carpeting, yanking it free from the staples, then begin to roll it up.
The odors embedded in the shag over the past forty-some years rise up in tufts as I make my way from one end of the long corridor to the other. It smells like an old, neglected fishing cabin: stale cigarette smoke, beer, even the faintest scent of cat urine.
The pad beneath the carpet practically disintegrates in my hands. It crumbles under pressure into a fine, grainy, gritty mess that actually makes my skin crawl.
Halfway down the hallway, I uncover a square plywood patch, covered with linoleum, directly in the center of the hall—probably where an old-fashioned heat grate used to be and was torn out. I swear under my breath at the bad luck of it but keep going, figuring I can pry up the square and fix it some other time.
When I reach the end of the hallway, I run a roll of masking tape around the trunk of the discarded carpeting and shove it down the stairs. I look back down the hallway and observe.
Already, it’s an improvement, but it isn’t enough. Not while the shag still lines the walls beneath the chair rail. Dust and grime accumulate beneath my fingernails as I rip the carpeting from the plaster. I cough and sneeze. Sharp staples bite into my hands and snag the soles of my shoes . . . so many staples, which I begin to yank out with pliers.
Pluck, pluck, pluck.
Some come easily; others need convincing.
I can’t leave any sharp edges exposed with Sabrina mobile, so I have to work diligently until every single staple is yanked, creaking and screaming, from the floor and walls. I sweep mounds of dust and shards of staples into the bin. The powerful stench of the rug still emanates from the walls and floor, however, so I run a sponge soaked with pine-scented cleaner over the space. Twice. By the time I finish carrying the whole mess down the stairs and onto the porch, my hands are blistered, I’m exhausted, and it’s after two.
For a moment, I stand on the porch, if only to draw in some good, fresh air. I look out over the vast stillness of the acreage. One day, when the dead trees are completely cleared from the property and sunlight inspires grass to grow again, and we’re well past the renovations of this place, Sabrina will play in the yard. Someday, it’ll feel like home.
I lean against the house, right next to the marvelous door Bill the Tree Man found buried on my property, and listen to the wind in the leaves. In the distance, I see the house where my husband grew up, a single light illuminating the attic. Maybe I’ll drop in tomorrow to say hello to my in-laws, invite them to see the place. It’s odd they haven’t stopped over to see the baby, or even called to see if I need anything, but maybe I should count my blessings. What would I do if Terese were here every day, sticking her nose in my business?
It’s late, and I’m too tired to debate the issue with myself. I turn to go back inside, my hand already on the doorknob.
But the knob won’t turn.
My heart instantly leaps into my throat.
I jiggle the knob again, but to no avail.
Have I locked myself out of the house? How could I have done such a thing?
It’s so late, and Sabrina is alone inside . . . sleeping on a bed, not in a crib. Suppose she twists herself in the blankets; suppose she gets wrapped up in the sheets and can’t breathe!
What kind of idiot does this?
I wipe tears from my eyes. “Please,” I say aloud.
After another attempt, the latch gives way, and I enter.
I exhale. It’s just old hardware, stubborn with years of grime and dirt. Tomorrow, I’ll pull the knobs off the doors and properly clean and oil them.
I lock the door behind me and practically sprint up the stairs, pass the linoleum square directly in the center of the hallway, and check my sleeping child.
She’s precious. All I really want to do is curl up next to her and sleep.
But I’m as filthy as the shag carpet, so I quickly shower before practically collapsing onto the mattress on the floor—I still haven’t found the time to assemble the headboard and frame—and take a few deep breaths.
I feel this house in my lungs, in my bones.
“It’ll be worth it,” I whisper to my sleeping child. “I see what this place can be.”
But for now, there’s no denying I hate it. I hate the way it looks, hate that nothing works, hate that it’s going to cost me muscle aches and splinters to make it only fractionally beautiful. I even hate that my mother-in-law is my closest neighbor, despite her respecting the distance, and I hate that Edison is living it up in some posh Times Square hotel while his child and I are here in this rat hole.
The house rattles with the strong winds whipping up the hill, and every once in a while, I hear a whistling, which seems to reverberate, as if traveling through the maze of old pipes hidden in these papered walls.
I feel this house in my lungs, in my bones.
I close my eyes and imagine the door installed at the end of the hallway. I pretend the home is gorgeous. If it were, maybe I’d be able to enjoy it.
And, oh, that wind!
I practically feel the breeze filtering through the walls of this old place. There’s probably no insulation. I wonder how unbearably cold it’s going to be come December. The walls shiver with the next gust, and a creak and a pop echo in the hallway.
Yet Sabrina still sleeps, her little lips puckered and sucking, as if on a pacifier. At least one of us will be well rested come sunrise.
I climb out of bed to investigate the now-recurring creaking, but one step into the hallway, I freeze and swallow a scream. The attic door is again standing wide open, and a breeze, slow and steady, rolls down the stairs in waves.
Cautiously, I make my way down the hallway, toward the high pitch of a whistle coming from the attic. My knees quiver with every step, but I manage to make it all the way to the attic access. I close the door, slamming into it with my shoulder to ensure it stays shut.
“Hey.”
I flinch when I hear the whisper behind me, but no one’s there.
I feel something, even though there’s nothing to see. It’s like the feeling you get when you know someone’s looking at you, watching you sleep.
“Ana.”
I turn around again, but find nothing but empty space.
“Ana.”
I hightail it all the way back to the master bedroom, to my baby.
She’s still there, still breathing, still perfect and pink.
The windows rattle in their frames.
I try to catch my breath.
It wasn’t real. Just the wind. Just my imagination. Just an echo in the hallway. Now that I’ve bared the floors, I have to expect unusual sounds.
But I heard it.
“Hey. Ana.”
Plain as day.
I’ll stay awake. It’ll be murder tomorrow, when Sabrina’s crawling through boxes and getting into everything, but I can’t fall asleep now.
“Hey.”
And if it were just my imagination, would I hear it again and again?
I gather my daughter into my arms. To keep her close. To keep her safe.
I listen hard, begging for another chance to rationalize it, but no whisper tufts in my ear.
The numbers on the clock morph from 3:11 to 3:12 to 3:13.
My eyes grow heavier with each breath I take.
Suddenly, seemingly seconds later, my eyes pop open.
It’s nearly eight o’clock. I must have managed to sleep.
Sabrina is giggling. “Zo.”
3
THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY
The Parker’s Landing historical society is located in an enormous Victorian house on the main drag in town. It’s a couple of miles away, and it’s
almost ninety degrees already. By the time I reach Main Street, my sundress is sticking to my legs, and my skin is moist with sweat. I regret not driving.
I roll Sabrina’s stroller up the ramp to the large, airy porch, then open one of the double doors to enter the cool two-story foyer. The place is a refuge from the heat, instantly relieving, but it’s also breathtakingly beautiful. My gasp echoes in the open space. Just the sight of it awes me—the marble inlaid floor, the majestic crown molding, the grand staircase. This is what I’d envisioned when Edison said he wanted to buy the house on Oak Avenue. All the detail . . .
I trace the lines of a white-painted wainscot.
“Good morning.” The elderly woman at the welcome desk—she’s such a tiny, frail-looking thing—looks up at me over hexagonal-framed glasses and purses her lips, as if she just tasted something sour. She glances at Sabrina, then blinks her way back to me. “Usually our patrons leave their buggies on the walk outside.”
A quick look over my shoulder proves there’s no signage requesting such a thing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I move to roll it back out the door. “I can just put it right outside. On the porch.” It’ll surely awaken Sabrina if I take her out of the stroller, but if that’s the rule . . .
“Well, you’ve already rolled it across the marble floor.” She says it as if I’ve spit on it as well.
The wheels didn’t leave a trace of evidence of their passing over the marble tiles. My cheeks begin to burn with something between annoyance and embarrassment. Way to go, lady, I want to say. You’ve just offended the only person likely to walk through your doors today.
“What brings you into the historical society?” she asks.
“I just bought the house on Oak,” I say.
She narrows her gaze. “Eddie Clementine just bought the house on Oak.”
“I know. I’m his wife.” I offer my hand, which she shakes weakly. “I’m Anastasia.”
“Sophie Malcolm.”
“I’m wondering, Ms. Malcolm, about the house. About restoration. If there are any guidelines.”
“Such as?”
“The house needs new siding. Are there limitations on the materials I can use?”
“Good Lord, tell me you aren’t going to clad it in vinyl.” There it is again: the sourpuss expression.
“I wouldn’t, no. But I’m considering a cement board that looks like cedar. More environmentally friendly.”
“Here in Parker’s Landing, we don’t declare landmarks, Mrs. Clementine. You can ruin the house any which way you please.”
“Pardon me, but have you seen the house on Oak? What they did to it in 1976? I’m trying to restore it, is what I’m saying. I want to make it beautiful again.”
“That house belonged to the town’s first lawyer, you know.”
“No, I—”
“He used to preside over wedding ceremonies right there in your front parlor.”
“How charming.”
“And his grandson eventually bought the house from the estate when the senior Churchill was declared dead. It was his wife who oversaw the bicentennial renovation. That house has been in the Churchill family since 1898. A shame one of their children didn’t want it.”
“I can understand why,” I say. “It needs a lot of work.”
She busies herself with jotting down words in a spiral-bound notebook. “It doesn’t need vinyl siding.”
“Obviously I agree. Ms. Malcolm, I’m a historical specialist. Before Edison and I had our daughter, I worked for the Delacourte Restoration Society in Chicago, renovating, and in some cases replicating, what’s been lost in buildings of all kinds. Believe me, I want for that house all the things you must want for it, but I don’t want to kill cedar trees in order to side it.”
“You’re killing trees aplenty on your property as we speak,” she mutters.
“They’re already dead. I wouldn’t take them down otherwise.”
“What else can I do for you, Mrs. Clementine?”
“I’m wondering about the people who lived in the house . . . before.”
“The Churchills.”
“Have any of them ever reported anything strange about the place?”
“Other than Jeannie Churchill’s decorator stapling shag carpeting to the walls in the upstairs hallway?”
“So you have seen it.”
Sophie Malcolm offers a single nod in response.
“I mean strange. Unexplained.”
“The house isn’t haunted. I have that on good authority.”
“I didn’t say it was haunted, but since you mentioned it . . . you’ve had the discussion before? With previous owners?”
“No one but the Churchills have ever lived in that house.”
“Maybe I could talk to a Churchill to compare notes.”
“Big-city folks always think a house with a past is haunted.”
“First of all, Ms. Malcolm, I grew up in the country. Not this country, but certainly it wasn’t a city. Second, Edison and I have lived in several buildings older than this. I appreciate the home for its age, and I’m not afraid of, or overwhelmed by, old houses. But last night something strange happened.”
“My dear, you look tired. Eddie’s away, and you’re doubtless very busy, from the look of your hands.”
I close my blistered hands over the bars of Sabrina’s stroller.
“Perhaps you simply need some good rest.” Ms. Malcolm literally turns her back on me now, swiveling in her chair and taking her notebook to the credenza behind her.
“Perhaps I do. But I could’ve sworn I heard a whisper in the hallway last night.”
Mrs. Malcolm is completely engrossed in her writing now, but I have more questions. I try again.
“Might you have pictures of what the place used to look like? There’s pegboard on the kitchen walls. Pegboard, can you believe it? I daresay that wasn’t there in 1898.”
She emits a sigh of exasperation and swivels back toward me. Her hands are folded now atop her desk, and she regards me as if she’s in a nun’s habit and I’m a wayward teen at Immaculate Conception High. “You married Eddie Clementine.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Your father-in-law knows as much about this town as anyone. Perhaps he could help you.”
“I’m sorry. Have I offended you, Ms. Malcolm?”
“Of course not.”
“Should I have made an appointment to speak with you? If that’s the case—”
“I don’t take appointments.”
“I see. So I should ask my father-in-law for pictures of the house?”
“Please.”
I begin toward the door. “Sorry to have bothered you. It won’t happen again.”
“Mrs. Clementine?”
I stop in my tracks.
“Welcome to Parker’s Landing.” It’s a nice sentiment, but there’s an edge to her tone—taunting, sarcastic maybe. “I do hope you’ll enjoy our architecture during your stay.”
“I am staying,” I whisper, perhaps to convince myself as much as to prove it to this old bag. With the buds of tears rimming my eyes, I exit into the oppressive heat. Now I really regret walking into town on a day so hot.
The wheels of the stroller harrumph as they roll down the ramp.
“Mama.” Sabrina yawns as she stirs.
“Hi, baby girl.” Once we’re a few feet down the sidewalk, in the shade of an awning, I crouch beside the stroller and sniffle over tears. It’s ridiculous that I’ve let cranky old Sophie Malcolm get to me, but I’m honestly stunned over her chilly reception. “Let’s get home, sweet pea. Away from that awful woman.”
“Ma’am?”
I turn toward the deep voice.
A man, about my age, maybe a little older, leans out the window of an open-air diner called the Crescent Moon Café. “I’m Cody Granger.”
“Anastasia Clementine.”
“Ah. Eddie’s wife.”
“Anastasia,” I correct him.
“Just b
ought the place on Oak, huh?”
I’m about to affirm, when he continues, “Couldn’t help but overhear. Sophie Malcolm’s been an old bitch since long before she was an old bitch. You can’t take anything she says personally.” He sips from a sweating glass. Sweet tea, probably. “I would know. She was my fourth-grade teacher.”
“My condolences. Your fourth-grade year must have been unbearable.”
“That it was.” He chuckles. “That. It. Was. Hey, listen. You need anything—” He hands over a business card. “You give me a call, you hear?”
“You’re a contractor.”
“I am.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be hearing from us, then. Just as soon as I can pull together some funds for the renovation.”
“I’m also a cigar aficionado, believer in the harmony of life and craft beer, and one hell of a softball player. So if you’re in need of a friend . . .”
“Oh.” I can’t help but smile at his kindness. He’s the first person who’s treated me with an inkling of respect since I set foot in this ’ville. “Thanks. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around.”
“Looking forward to it.”
4
THE DRINK
“Look who’s home!” I balance Sabrina on my hip and open the front door for her father as he’s climbing the porch stairs. Instantly, the baby reaches for him.
Edison ignores her attempt and, once inside, tosses his carry-on bag to the foyer floor. He pins me down with an uncomfortable stare. “You met Cody Granger today.”
Word travels fast around here.
I shift Sabrina from one hip to the other. “Yeah. Nice guy.”
“He’s never been a nice guy.”
“Well, he was nice to me.”
“I bet he was. Is that what you were wearing when you ran into him in town?”
I look down at my sundress, now stained with a spattering of Sabrina’s mashed carrots, which is the only thing I see wrong with it. I bring a hand to the orange stain on my left breast. Maybe I should’ve changed before Ed got home.
“Do you think he would’ve gone out of his way to speak to you if you’d been wearing something a little more”—he sizes me up—“conservative?”