The Good House

by Tananarive Due

  But Angela wasn’t happy about everything she saw. The large bedroom upstairs that served as storage space—a repository for furniture, junk, and papers collected by Angela, her mother, Gramma Marie, and probably even Elijah Goode before her—apparently had not been aired out in some time, and the musty smell crept beneath the closed door before Angela opened it to show Naomi. The smell irritated her. Mrs. Everly knew she wanted those rooms aired out regularly. She did not like the smell of old, unused things. When Angela glanced inside, she felt a twinge as she realized that Corey had been in the midst of straightening this room as part of his assigned chores just before he died, and the memory of their arguments resurfaced before flickering away. The room was so dusty, she could see dust motes floating in the sunlight like swarms of tiny insects. The only attractive feature in the storage room was its closet door, painted a bright blue that matched the exterior of the house. The closet door was open, revealing more mess on the closet floor.

  The bigger problem was the upstairs bathroom.

  The bathroom’s appearance was soured by a narrow ring of dark residue around the claw-foot bathtub’s drain. There was a similar patch of black, grainy residue hugging the bottom of the toilet bowl. She also saw a soggy yellow-brown leaf Mrs. Everly must have carelessly dropped inside without flushing it away. Those kinds of sloppy touches weren’t like Mrs. Everly, and they shouldn’t be, as much as she was paid. All it took was a blast of water from the faucet to melt away the ring in the tub and a single flush to clear the toilet. Mrs. Everly was getting old too, she thought.

  Still, the bathroom seemed most unchanged of all to her, with its old-fashioned sink with brass double-faucets, authentic claw-foot tub of cast iron rigged with a shower spout, a toilet with a pull-chain dangling down, a rusting washboard decorating the wall, and Gramma Marie’s wooden shower stool still sitting in the corner from the days when it had been more difficult for her to bathe herself. The tall, rectangular mirror above the sink, with its regally designed ornamental brass frame, had reflected passing faces for a hundred years. Within this bathroom’s intimate space, Angela felt closest to the house’s past inhabitants, as if their voices were murmuring against the wallpapered walls.

  Corey’s voice was in here, too. Her ears couldn’t hear him, but something inside her could.

  Angela taught Naomi the tricks and nuances of operating the house’s appliances and gadgets—always let the water mingle in the sink in the bathroom because the water heater is set so high you might get scalded otherwise, don’t use the hand-pump in the kitchen because it leaks beneath the sink, don’t leave any luggage in front of the wall’s electric heaters.

  It was after two before they knew it, and they hadn’t eaten lunch yet. With the arrival of the food, the visit felt like a slumber party. They both sat in their slippers in the living room on the Oriental rug in front of the fireplace, eating slices of a large no-cheese, all-veggie pizza from Pizza Jack’s, the only pizzeria in town that delivered. Angela found a bottle of Merlot in the kitchen cabinet, someone’s offering to the Fourth of July party, so they busted their diets and emptied it together. Soon, they were both giggling over the renditions of the songs on Gramma Marie’s piano rolls, so off-key they were unrecognizable. After they tired of the piano and Naomi turned on the CD player—where the same Coltrane CD from the party still sat—Angela didn’t turn it off even when the first song, “A Love Supreme,” brought a clear image of Corey’s face to mind, from the party. Music could do that. The intensity of the flashback nearly made her stomach lurch, but the feeling passed quickly. Angela finished off her glass of Merlot, feeling a wave of sadness as she remembered the problem with the walnut tree. And the worse news, which had come out of the blue.

  Happened a week ago Thursday, out on Main Street, in the middle of the day,Mr. Everly had said. Terry Marlow was taking a logging rig around the corner, you know, on his way to the Four, and Rick Leahy walked right into it. Crossing the street, you see. Marlow was in the right, that’s what Sheriff Rob Graybold says, and a half-dozen witnesses say so, too. Rick Leahy walked smack into the truck. It about near tore him in half. They say he had a bad ear on his left side, and that’s the way the truck came. Maybe he didn’t hear it. Shame about the kids, though. He left behind a whole trailer full.

  “So…did you know your neighbor very well?” Naomi said, following Angela’s thoughts.

  “No, not really, to be honest. I met him a few times. He used to ride his horses on my property once in a awhile. His son was Corey’s only real friend here.”

  Naomi stared wistfully into the fireplace’s flames. “I’m sorry, but it sounded so casual, the way that old dude put it. Both of ya’ll looked like you were about to break down crying over that tree, and then he gives you this terrible news about your next-door neighbor like he’s talking about the weather. Like, ‘Hey, by the way, your neighbor walked into a logging truck, don’t you know. Guess he should look both ways before he crosses the street.’ ”

  Naomi was an excellent mimic, and her imitation of Mr. Everly’s nonchalant speech made Angela laugh. She’d pinned him. “Yeah, that’s Sacajawea for you. They like to gossip, and folks here can be cold when you’re new. Mr. Leahy hadn’t lived here that long before Corey met his son that last summer.” Angela realized that this was the most casual reference she’d made to the summer of 2001 in as long as she could remember, and also the most times she had mentioned her son’s name without tears. “I don’t think the town ever warmed up to him. He was probably just a stranger to them, so they consider it an interesting story to tell.”

  Angela wondered what had happened to Sean and his foster siblings now that their father was dead. Sean had lost his friend and then his father, a lot of loss for a kid. If the kids were still in town, she would have to see the boy and give him her condolences.

  “How are you feeling?” Naomi said.

  “Good. I hate to say it, but I don’t think I have too much room for other people’s tragedies today. I’m still working on my own.”

  “True.”

  “This visit is great for me, Naomi. I really owe you.”

  Naomi winked at her. She was about to say something else when she suddenly looked away, glancing around the room. “Where’s Onyx?” she said. “I can’t believe he’s not in my face trying to steal my pizza.”

  Onyx wasn’t in sight. It might be a half hour or longer since Angela had seen him. Naomi had sworn the little dog was house-trained, but Angela was convinced she’d find at least one soiled rug during this visit. Naomi whistled loudly. “Onyx?” she called.

  They heard a bark from nearby, but Onyx didn’t come. Naomi came to her feet, calling again. Angela felt slightly dizzy when she stood up to follow Naomi—too much wine, she chided herself. Naomi was in the foyer, where Onyx was before the front door, looking at them over his shoulder. He stood against the door on his hind paws, scratching in a flurry of black fur.

  “Shit. Naomi, don’t let him do that—”

  “Onyx,stop,” Naomi said, then she crouched next to Onyx. “He never goes to the door like that in a new place.” Angela examined the door for scratch-marks, and was relieved to see none. Her grandfather had built this door, and she’d hate to have to kill her friend’s dog the very first day. “Can I let him out front by himself? I don’t have my shoes on.”

  “I wouldn’t let him run free if I were you. There’s no fence and sixty acres,” Angela said.

  “You sure, girl? Onyx knows not to go far.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want a poodle out there running loose. The coyotes would love him.”

  Naomi fixed a devastating look on Angela at the wordcoyotes . Maybe it had never occurred to her that if there were deer and elk nearby, there would also be coyotes and other less cuddly creatures. Gramma Marie had always had cats for mousing, but she’d kept them indoors after losing her favorite tabby to a howling pack of coyotes. But Gramma Marie hadn’t begrudged the coyotes; she’d told Angela a story from Red John’
s grandfather about how the Coyote spirit made the Columbia River and protected men from monsters, and how he and a host of other protective spirits dwelled in her backyard. She said her land was a crossroads where all the spirits met.

  “Look, the coyotes aren’t going to come break the door down, sweetie,” Angela said, seeing Naomi’s face. “But I live near the woods, and that’s what woodsare, a place where animals live. Raccoons, bobcats, deer, coyotes. Nothing’s going to bother us, but Onyx needs a chaperone.”

  “What about bears?” Naomi’s eyes were comically wide.

  Angela laughed, shaking her head as she climbed the stairs to retrieve her shoes. “Oh, Naomi, stop. There might be a black bear or two around, but Gramma Marie told me they aren’t prone to attack people. It’s the grizzlies you need to worry about, and we don’t have those,” Angela said. “You forgot to ask about the lions and tigers, hon.”

  “This ain’t funny,” Naomi called after her. “And whatabout lions?”

  “This is Sacajawea, sweetheart, not the Serengeti.”

  Despite all references to uncivilized forest creatures, after Angela and Naomi walked the dog and drove into town to rent the mom-and-pop video store’s only copy ofHow Stella Got Her Groove Back (“I’m in shock that they even have this,” Angela told her friend, clutching the video like a brick of gold), she and Naomi slept well that night. Angela would soon come to regard the memory of that Friday night with Naomi as her most pleasant time since Corey’s death, in the most unlikely place imaginable. It was also her last lingering instance of tranquility in Sacajawea.

  Neither Angela nor her friend would sleep well for long.

  Six

  SATURDAY

  BY MORNING,Onyx was missing.

  Angela decided to postpone her early-morning run to whip up a home-style breakfast for her friend, using the recipe cards Gramma Marie had left in her strawberry-shaped cookie jar. Cooking had been like a religion to Gramma Marie. There were more than a hundred recipes in that jar, all of them unique to her: sweet potato biscuits she’d learned from a traveling teacher, oxtail soup and corn fritters she’d learned from her father, fried rabbit from a church elder, a salmon recipe from Red John, a recipe for a baked plantain loaf passed on from hergrandmère ’s African grandmother. Angela’s attempts to recreate her grandmother’s cooking were another way of keeping Gramma Marie’s spirit alive. By 9:30A.M. , the lower floor was steeped in the smells of buttermilk biscuits, scrambled eggs, cheese grits, and salmon croquettes.

  Angela heard Naomi calling for Onyx upstairs, her voice louder as she neared the kitchen. The dog would turn up, Angela knew. There were only so many places Onyx could go. She just hoped he wasn’t leaving a trail of piss and dogshit behind him.

  “If it’s not the right day for your cheat meal, that’s too bad!” Angela called out.

  When Naomi poked her head into the kitchen, the sight of her was startling. As much time as Angela had spent with Naomi, even at the gym, she’d never seen her without makeup. Fresh from sleep, Naomi still retained her own brand of prettiness, but her mouth seemed slightly drawn, her skin was dull, and her eyes appeared much smaller without mascara. She looked like Naomi Price’s plainer older sister. “I can’t find Onyx,” Naomi said.

  “He’s just exploring, I’m sure. There’s nowhere for him to get lost.”

  Naomi shook her head. “No, Angela, this is weirding me out. He was in my room, and our door was closed all night. When I woke up, the door was still closed, but there’s no Onyx. Did you let him out?” Her voice was thin and scared.

  “No, sweetie,” she said. Naomi’s face fell, and Angela remembered how pet owners regarded their animals as children. The dog had probably gotten out through a cracked-open bedroom door. Angela dried her hands on Gramma Marie’s strawberry-print dishtowel. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him. He can’t have gotten far.”

  Calling and whistling in chorus, they started their search upstairs. By the second sweep of the house, Angela found herself opening closed room doors—even Corey’s, where she caught a glance of her son’s Janet Jackson poster on the wall before she hurriedly shut it again. Not a whimper from the dog.

  After a time, the bad thoughts appeared. Had the dog gotten sick? Eaten something he shouldn’t have, like a cleanser or poison? She glanced at the door of the wine cellar, but she would not go there, not for anything, and Naomi did not think to look there either. But they looked everywhere else—under the sofa, behind the piano, in cabinets. They abandoned reason as it began to feel more certain that something was wrong.

  “Keep calling him inside. I’ll go look outside,” Angela said.

  Naomi’s head whipped around, her face worried. “Is there any way he could have gotten out by himself?”

  Angela was already pulling on the black wool coat she kept in the closet beside the front door. The coat smelled like a stranger’s, it had been so long since she’d worn it. “No way I can think of, but we haven’t found him in the house. Don’t panic, Naomi. Wewill find Onyx.”

  Angela heard a yappy bark outside as soon as she opened the front door. Naomi heard it, too. The women ran out onto the front porch, their eyes sweeping the front yard and its clumps of hedges. No Onyx. “Onyx? Here, boy! Come here, boy,” Noami said, stooping to search the rhododendron shrub near the porch. But when the dog barked again, it was clear he was much farther than the front yard. The sound seemed to have come from the road.

  Angela didn’t see him until she’d nearly reached the top of the stone steps. From her perch, she could see Toussaint Lane below, and Onyx was in the tall grass beside Tariq’s abandoned van, running back and forth in the frenzy dogs usually reserve for mail carriers outside their gate. The dog’s tail wagged with recognition, but he didn’t come toward her. He ran and barked, as if a fence restrained him on the other side of the road.

  “You stupid dog! How did you get outside?” Naomi scolded Onyx after they had climbed down to retrieve him. He did a happy-dance around them as they stroked him, chasing himself in circles. Angela was happy to see him, and he was one happy little dog. Naomi wrapped her arms around Onyx’s neck, and the dog washed her face with his tongue.

  “Onyx, you scared the shit out of me,” Naomi said.

  The episode cast a pall over breakfast. Naomi didn’t talk about it, but Angela knew she had been shaken up. She had awakened to the idea that her pet was gone, that he might be hurt or dead or lost, with no warning or explanation. Angela knew that feeling of suddenness well. Although Angela was disappointed not to hear raves over her cooking, she let Naomi sort the morning out in her head as they sat and ate a silent meal together in the breakfast nook. Angela saw Naomi slipping Onyx pieces of her carefully prepared croquettes under the table, barely eating herself, and she understood. How long had the dog been out there? What if he’d met a coyote after all?

  Their true visit had begun, Angela thought. This was not a trip to a spa or a girls-only slumber party. Life’s meanness had brought them to Gramma Marie’s house—a death had brought them to this house—and that particular brand of meanness surfaced anytime it damn well chose.

  This would be their last full day together, Angela realized. Tomorrow, Naomi would go back to Portland to catch a sevenP.M. flight to L.A. By Tuesday, Naomi had to be in Vancouver, British Columbia, to prepare for her three-week shoot. Angela would be alone here for the next few days and nights, with her own trauma to sort out. She’d lost a hell of a lot more than her dog, and Corey wasn’t going to be waiting for her outside in the grass by Tariq’s van, no matter how much she wished for it. Corey’s absence was going to fill up every crevice of this old house, not just the bedroom she would soon have to be brave enough to face.

  Angela’s eggs were cooked to perfection, and Gramma Marie’s seasonings rang true, but that morning the food didn’t have the slightest flavor.

  Later, at mid-morning, with Onyx on a leash, Angela and Naomi made their way down Toussaint Lane, jogging west on River Drive, a road that slope
d steeply downward for a quarter-mile, then they turned north onto Main Street. Angela planned to run past town to the boardwalk alongside the river, maybe as far as the bait-shop. She was impressed at how well Onyx kept up, his small legs skittering like a caterpillar’s. “Onyx runs with Mommy four times a week. He’s my personal trainer,” Naomi said proudly.

  Naomi Price might be the more recognized face in Hollywood, but Angela was royalty in Sacajawea. They drew stares as they ran, mostly because people were surprised to see Angela fly past them in a jogging suit. Liza Brunell was in the window hanging a poster at Downtown Foods—CHILEAN CHERRIES! $3.99/LB—and her face glowed when she saw Angela. She made the universal telephone gesture, cocking her hand beside her ear, thumb and pinky extended:Call me. Angela waved and returned the gesture, a promise, although she never slowed.

  A passing pickup honked with two welcoming bleats, and Angela waved back at the driver’s extended arm even though she hadn’t turned around fast enough to see his face. And at the colonial-style Sacajawea County courthouse, Angela and Naomi jogged straight past Sheriff Rob Graybold sitting in his parked sheriff’s unit. Angela had a wave for him, too, and he leaned out of his window so his arm could billow more enthusiastically. “Hey, Angie!” he called, gifting her with a rare smile. He couldn’t have looked happier to see her if she’d been his own sister.