The roadside scenery, though, was less impressive: Ocean Beach was flanked by fast-food chains, grocery outlets, and strip malls. Taco Bell. Starbucks. Chinatown Restaurant. McDonald’s. Wal-Mart. Video King. The chains were more densely packed than Angela remembered, but the city of thirty-five thousand did not seem to have changed much, carrying on its existence without her just fine, thank you. She and Naomi would soon pass the more scenic portion—the historic affluence of the Old West Side and Lake Sacajawea—but Angela hadn’t come to Washington to spend time sight-seeing in Longview. In the most literal sense, she was just passing through.
She and Naomi had arrived at Portland International Airport an hour ago, picking up their rented Ford Explorer for the road portion of their trip after the two-hour flight. Getting to Gramma Marie’s town, as always, was nothing short of an expedition, and Angela always felt a little like the town’s Native American namesake when she set out for Sacajawea, as if she, too, were guiding Lewis and Clark through the wilderness. Once they had crossed the bridge from Portland’s airport to drive north, entering the state of Washington, most signs of settlement vanished, with a nuclear power plant and scattered highway signs interrupting the meadowlands, farmhouses, miles of greenery, and a town facing the highway called Kalama that evoked images of a 1950s movie set, with few other reminders that they were still in the twenty-first century. It was pretty, all right, especially on sunny days like today, with the fall leaves in full plumage, but Angela was a city girl at heart. Her eye was wary of open spaces, accustomed to man-made distractions. Longview was about an hour from Portland, and there were countless commutes in L.A. that took the same time—but for some reason, the drive here always felt longer.
Naomi was asleep on the passenger side, strapped safely into her seat, her black miniature poodle, Onyx, curled at her toes. Angela didn’t like that dog—she might be able to respect a small terrier, but apoodle? She and her friend had come close to their first real argument when Naomi insisted on bringing him. Angela had given in, remembering that people who spent as much time away from home as Naomi often needed security blankets, and Onyx was Naomi’s. No matter where she was, as long as she had her dog with her, Naomi could feel she was at home, and Angela envied that about her. Silly haircut or not, Angela understood the dog’s value. His purple collar was on the gaudy side, but at least Onyx wasn’t trussed with little pink bows.
For now, Angela was glad both pet and master were asleep. She didn’t want a single aspect of Longview to catch her friend’s eye—Ooh, girl, can we stop for a latte?orHey, is that a Thai food restaurant? orWhere’s that lake, Angela? Let’s pull over and take Onyx for a walk. In spite of how long as she’d been putting off her return visit, once Angela had made the decision to return to Sacajawea, she’d hardly been able to think about anything else. Nervousness still fluttered beneath it all, and she’d suffered through her usual hellish nights, but mostly she felt eager. She longed to see Gramma Marie’s house, the round attic window, the walnut tree, all the touchstones of her childhood. Even the pain waiting there intrigued more than frightened her. In the past few weeks, she had learned to view her return to the place of Corey’s death as any other challenge she had faced in her life—something she could vanquish. And even if she was wrong, if she could not salvage any of the joy she had once felt in Gramma Marie’s house, at least she would know, and that knowledge would be hers to keep. Knowledge would give her its own strength, an end to her limbo.
Thirty minutes to go. Almost there. Angela’s heart was already throbbing.
“I can’t believe I’m back here,” she whispered, amazed at her courage. “Bless you, Naomi. I owe you a big one. I’m gonna work my ass off for you. That first million is just the beginning.”
Naomi, still sleeping, offered a delicate snore in response.
City reverted to country in a blink of an eye. Ocean Beach Highway became State Route Four, shrinking to a narrow lane heading west out of Longview’s city limits. Immediately, the convoys of logging trucks began, some in pairs, some in fours, each strapped with a dozen or more thick, freshly cut trees with their sap-orange cores exposed, stripped of limbs. The trees were long and somehow proud despite their fallen state. The strip malls were replaced by swampy canals on either side of the road, until the land grew steep on the northern side, transforming into rocky ridges where small waterfalls of frothy rainwater tumbled down.ROCKS , a yellow highway sign warned. Fencing was draped high across some of the stony ridges to keep the rocks in place, to prevent them from escaping and smashing into the windshields of passersby. On the south side, the water grew less swampy, widening until it converged with the green-brown waters of the Columbia River. If she kept driving, Angela would end up at the Pacific Ocean, but that was a couple hours’ trek, and it wasn’t her destination. Sacajawea was only thirty miles from Longview. It was close.
As always, Angela gripped the steering wheel more tightly on the Four, looking out for tumbling rocks, stray wildlife, and a dozen other hazards that plagued this road. A speed sign warned her to slow to thirty miles per hour because of an upcoming curve. From now on, Angela knew, this road would require her full concentration.
Following one of the sharp curves in the road, Angela was uplifted by a new angle of the wide water before her, reminiscent of the ocean she would never reach. Across the river on the Oregon side, the waters were skirted by mountains that nearly blended into the clouds hanging above them. The clouds’ bellies were dark, bloated with unshed rainwater, but their edges still shone cottony and white, brightened by the sunshine prevailing in the noontime sky. Seagulls and other seabirds wheeled around each other, some of them so far away they were pinpricks. This was beautiful.
“Naomi,” Angela said. “Wake up. You’ll want to see this. We’re almost there.”
Blinking, Naomi stared at the panorama. “Oh, yeah, girl, this is so pretty.This is where your grandmama lived?”
“Pretty close.”
“No wonder she didn’t mind being isolated up here in the middle of nowhere.”
“It has its moments,” Angela said.
Naomi squirmed like an excited child. “This’ll be like going to a spa, huh? Toussaint Lodge.”
Why not? Angela loved the claw-foot bathtub in the upstairs bedroom, the living room’s picture window was perfect for deer-watching in front of the fireplace, and she and Tariq had installed a hot tub on the backyard deck, one of their last home improvements. People paid good money to visit a place like that. “Yeah,” Angela said, smiling. “I hope so.”
Her mother used to say that hope was nothing but a heartache that hadn’t happened yet. But Angela was still addicted to it. She had never learned how to give it up.
Tariq’s VW van was parked on the roadside at Toussaint Lane, waiting.
“Jesus,” Angela said, jamming the brakes. Her heartbeat fell mum.
“What?” Naomi said. Onyx had been gazing out of the window with a dog’s euphoric devotion, and only Naomi’s hug kept him from toppling to the floor after the sudden stop.
“Tariq is here. That’s his van,” Angela said. She stared hard, as if she thought the van would disappear if she gazed at it long enough. It didn’t make sense. “What thefuck is he doing here?”
“Slow down, Angela. Look at the van,” Naomi said with uncharacteristic calm. “Tariq isn’t using that van unless he’s been driving with two flat tires. See?”
Angela’s eyes followed Naomi’s pointing finger. The van favored one side: Both the front and rear tires were flat on the side facing the road. The ground near the doors was littered with aluminum cans and food wrappers. Local kids were treating the van as an abandoned vehicle, probably using it for a clubhouse, make-out den, and God knew what else.
When Angela exhaled, she felt as if the three-hundred-pound man who’d decided to sit on her chest had moved on. Now, her heart was racing again. She wished Mrs. Everly had warned her that the van would still be parked outside.
“You’re right
. He must have left it here. It’s probably been here…” Ever since the Fourth of July, her mind calculated. She might have been the last person to drive this van, when she went to the grocery store to get more ice for the party. She hadn’t even reached the house yet, and the memories were potent enough to startle her.
No, this was not going to be like staying at a spa.
Naomi suppressed a laugh. “I wish you had seen the look on your face just now when you thought he was here. I know it’s not funny, but I would not have wanted to be that man if he’d really been sitting up in your house.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Angela said, rememberingSoldier of Fortune . Her voice was venom.
Naomi’s lips turned up playfully, but her eyes shone with concern. She gave Angela a quick hug, engulfing her in Giorgio. “You gonna be all right now?” she said.
Angela nodded. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t wish the way I feel about him on anyone. It eats you. There is nothing worse on this earth than a liar.”
“I heard that.”
The two of them struggled up the stone steps with their rolling flight bags, while Naomi kept Onyx from scurrying free by keeping a tight grip on his leash. Despite being in good shape, both women were breathing heavily by the time they reached the top. This was the hardest part about visiting Gramma Marie’s house, just making it up the twenty-one steps, especially with luggage. Angela remembered looking up at the house from Toussaint Lane as a child and feeling as if it would be like climbing to the top of Jack’s beanstalk.
“Those steps areserious,” Naomi huffed, slumping onto the white wooden porch bench. Onyx, barking manically, tangled his leash as he ran around her leg.
“Sorry about that. I…shit—”Angela nearly dropped her pocketbook, where she’d been searching for Gramma Marie’s key.
If Angela had just taken a courtroom oath at that moment, she would have sworn that she was seeing Tariq’s hulking shoulders appear from the corner of the porch on the right side of the house, where a garden path led to the backyard. She would have sworn that she could see his face, intent on her as he approached. But instead, her eyes overpowered her imagination and she realized it was only white-haired, balding Joseph Everly, dressed in overalls, with a small stepladder balanced across his shoulder. Mr. Everly wasn’t nearly Tariq’s height, but maybe the ladder had thrown her off. A moustache of perspiration was perched above Mr. Everly’s top lip. Freckles or age spots, she wasn’t sure which, dappled his bald crown.
No wonder Onyx was barking, Angela realized. He’d heard him coming. Or smelled him.
“Sorry, Angie, didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Mr. Everly said. He had bright new dentures, and they fit his mouth so well that they seemed to take years off his face, although his walk had a halting quality that bespoke his age. “Welcome home, little gal. We’ve missed you.”
“Missed you all, too, Mr. Everly,” Angela said.
“I see you brought a watchdog with you this time. How you do, miss?” Mr. Everly’s half-bow in Naomi’s direction was polite, but he clearly had no idea who she was. Freed by Naomi, Onyx raced to Mr. Everly’s ankles, sniffing them furiously. Once introductions were over, Mr. Everly rested his ladder against the house and wiped perspiration from his face with a grimy towel from his front pocket that was so dirty, Angela expected it to leave stripes on his face. “I wanted to catch you as soon as you got in, Angie. I hate to greet anyone with bad news, but I don’t think this can wait.”
“What?” Angela said, her heart already sinking. Had something happened to his wife?
Mr. Everly beckoned her off of the porch. “Come on down with me a quick minute. This is something I have to show you.”
He stood before the massive, ropy trunk of the black walnut tree, which still had most of its leaves although less hardy trees in the yard had already begun shedding theirs. With garden-dirty fingernails, he pointed to the center of the trunk. “You see this? Come get a good look. This tree’s got to come down, Angie.”
A rotting V-shape sliced the tree’s trunk straight down the center, and there was nearly enough room for a grown person to fit inside the growing crevice. It was a miracle that the tree hadn’t simply fallen apart already. Once the tree split fully, one huge side of it would fall against the house. The tree was still standing, but it was as good as dead.
Shit, shit, shit.
Gramma Marie’s house would seem naked without this tree. Its leaves shaded the front of the house, littering the porch’s roof with green fruitlike casings that, once opened, revealed soft walnuts inside. Angela’s second-floor bedroom window had looked out on this tree when she was a child, and she’d thought many times about using the sturdy branches to stage a daring escape into the night. She’d never tried it, but she’d always felt reassured knowing that shecould . And once, after an argument, Myles Fisher climbed that tree at one in the morning to beg her to go to the senior prom with him. She’d said yes, and they had made love on prom night. This tree was her running buddy from way back.
Besides that, Gramma Marie used to tell her that the spirit of her grandmother lived in this tree, and that she herself would come rest there among its branches after she died. It had sounded like a fanciful wish at the time, but somehow didn’t anymore.
“I sure am sorry, little gal. I’m sure this tree means a lot to you.”
“What happened?” Angela said, running her fingers across the dark, moist area of rot.
“Can’t say it’s any one thing. Mostly, I think it’s age, Angie. Catches up to all of us. Trees live a long time, but they don’t live forever. And now that the rain’s started up again, this one can’t handle its own weight.”
“I want to have a few days with it. Can you wait until I leave to have it taken down?”
“Could be, but don’t dawdle too much. She would knock an ugly hole in your house. We don’t want the rain working on her too much longer. It’s already worse from the last time I was here, and the wind’s picking up to boot, especially at night.”
Naomi didn’t say anything about the exchange when Angela returned to the porch to unlock the front door, but Angela thought something in her friend’s knitted brow said,I can’t believe ya’ll were out there making that big a fuss over a sick tree.
City folks, Angela thought.
“By the way, Angie,” Mr. Everly called from the yard as she pushed the door open, “I don’t suppose you’ve been back long enough to hear what happened to your neighbor.”
Considering the bad news at the start of her visit, Angela’s return to the house went better than she’d thought it could. Having Naomi with her was a big help, a distraction. Serving as Naomi’s tour-guide, Angela was able to see the house through fresh eyes without dwelling on the memories of Corey preserved in each room. Naomi’s exclamations gave Angela new feelings of delight at each turn:Your grandmama looks like an Ashanti warrior princess in this picture, and just lookat that fine hunk of man next to her. Angela, this piano is wonderful!Is this all original furniture in the living room? Does this water pump in the kitchen really work? I bet some of these books in the library are a hundred years old. I love the little sinks in the bedrooms—I’ve never seen that before. Angela, you never told me this house was so big. If you sell it, call me first.
Naomi’s enthusiasm was contagious. She loved the cushioned window seat on the second-floor landing positioned to stare out the quarter-mile distance to downtown Sacajawea and the river beyond it, she loved the old-fashioned daybed in one of the guest bedrooms, the ruffled curtains, the carved designs that decorated the wooden bannister, the black-and-white checkered kitchen tiles, the porcelain figurines collection, the smell of cedar and lavender that sat in the house. She loved details of the house Angela had stopped seeing before Naomi reminded her: the coved ceilings in strategic spots, the Greek key mosaics built into the borders of the flooring in the living room and library, the large butler’s pantry beside the kitchen that evoked a different time, the sunny breakfast nook with so many la
rge windows it seemed more like a patio, even the faded old wallpaper against the staircase, patterned with bouquets of pink flowers gilded with tiny golden bows. Naomi did not miss a single manifestation of grandness in Gramma Marie’s house. Their tour took a solid hour.
Angela avoided the trouble spots, of course.
The wine cellar at the end of the foyer remained in shadow, its door firmly closed. Likewise, Angela was glad to discover that Mrs. Everly had closed the door to Corey’s room, and Naomi had sense enough not to ask her to open it. Angela felt an ache when they walked past Corey’s white door—the door to the room that had been hers in high school, but would be Corey’s forever. Again, distraction got her through the moment gracefully. She would go in there, she knew, but not now. Not today. Angela did show Naomi the room Tariq had been using, and she was glad to see that although his van was still parked outside, all other traces of his presence had been removed, either by Mrs. Everly or by Tariq himself. Just a made-up bed and wicker furniture. Thank God for small blessings, she thought.
The Good House Page 10
