Her Own House

by Kim McCoy

  “But, but,” Bella said.

  After Sue and Joe left, Bella thought about the word “caretaker” again. She realized what Joe had been trying to do with the stupid earpiece. The crowd needed something different. So when a woman approached, Bella didn’t communicate through body language, this time she said hello. The woman responded pleasantly and the two made small talk. Others gathered around and started asking questions. She liked that people were interested in what she had to say, and not just what she looked like. Joe didn’t come back on the earpiece all night.

  Sue didn’t say anything on the ride on home. She was disappointed in herself that she had lost it, and mad that the old couple seemed to see beyond her façade.

  Rob patted her on the knee.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  That was the third time that evening that Rob had touched her. And Sue didn’t mind. She needed the comfort.

  Later that night, Sue and Rob lay on their mattress in the master bedroom. Rob got up and turned on the light. From his sock, he pulled the button that he had plucked from his shirt earlier that day. He handed it to his wife. He hadn’t bothered to give Sue anything in a long time.

  “I might throw it away,” she said.

  “I hope you keep it.”

  Rob patted his wife on the arm--the fourth time that night he touched her--turned out the light, and went back to bed.

  Her Own House

  Prisa had almost forgotten how to walk. In a hurry since the age of four, she sprinted everywhere, as if something large was chasing her. If someone called her name, she refused to stop or even glance over her shoulder and wave. Keeping her eyes forward, she would occasionally raise her wrist to eyelevel, so she could look at her stopwatch, which she used to tell time. She reset it every morning tracking the minutes, seconds, hours that passed.

  She was always rushing because she always had something to get away from. Bad things had happened to her as a child. Things she didn’t like to think about. When Prisa turned 18, her father died, and he was the worst father of all. Not everyone knew he was bad, so lots of people came to the house to console Prisa and her mother. That made it easier for her to slip out unnoticed.

  Prisa filled a duffle bag with toiletries, underwear, dried foods, matches and a blanket, and ran seven miles through the woods to an abandoned house she had discovered with a friend when she was little girl. She feared the little clapboard house that had turned gray from age and weather would fall apart but she was willing to give it a try. The roof still had most of its shingles, and all the windows were cracked, but in place. Prisa walked inside and discovered only one room. It seemed much smaller than she had remembered as a child. Against one wall was a wood-burning stove and small table and chair. An almost new looking white candle in a brass candleholder made the centerpiece of the table. Prisa wondered if someone else had already claimed this home as their own. She looked at the corners and ceilings decorated with cobwebs and the wood floor that hadn’t seen polish in decades.

  She didn’t know what to do. She jogged in place as she took in her surroundings. She decided to light the candle to make the place feel homier.

  “I’m going to keep you lit,” Prisa said aloud. “You’ll be my eternal flame.”

  Prisa felt embarrassed for talking to the candle, and placed it on the windowsill. She looked around the room, not knowing how to make it home. She spread out her blanket on the dusty floor and cried herself to sleep.

  When Prisa woke up, she was surprised that she felt rested, and much more comfortable than when she had first gone to sleep. Once she opened her eyes, she almost screamed. Someone had been in her little home and she didn’t even know it.

  She was now sitting on top of a mattress with soft white sheets and pillows. The dust and cobwebs were gone, revealing a fresh white coat of paint. Prisa got up and ran toward the little stove that had been joined by a sink and a refrigerator that was fully stocked. She saw a door near the kitchen and opened it to discover a toilet and shower.

  Prisa wondered how much time had passed. Hours, days, years. She waved her hands in the air and bounced on her toes to relieve some tension. She wasn’t sure if she was in the same house or if she had been kidnapped and carted off to some unknown land. Or maybe she was having a lucid dream. Or maybe her entire life had been a dream and now she was waking up to her reality. As much as she hated to go home, she thought that might be the only way to learn the truth. If her mother and the house she believed she had grown up in were still there, then she would forget about this little abandoned cabin in the woods that had the power to transform itself.

  She grabbed her duffle bag and stepped onto the front porch. But the sight of the outside made her want to go back in. Heat grabbed her body and smoke clogged her nose. Orange flames enveloped the house and seemed to be reaching for something. Prisa jogged in place, trying to still her mind and wondered why the house refused to burn. By the looks of the flames, the house and everything in it, including her, should have burned hours ago. Prisa ran from the home and into the woods where she paced back and forth as she watched the flames continue to engulf the house. After several hours, Prisa had fallen asleep again. She awoke and the house was still there, wrapped in flames.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked toward it. Prisa made it onto the porch and went back inside the house. Everything looked the same as before, and she felt strangely comfortable inside. She took some water and fruit out of the refrigerator and went back into the woods. And this is how she lived for the next several days, sleeping in the woods and only going into the house for food. She had forgotten all about her initial idea to go back home.

  On the seventh day, Prisa decided to move back into the house. She knew it was a risk. It could suddenly decide to burn to the ground if it wanted to. But the flames seemed to be reaching for her, asking her to come back in. When she re-entered after all those days, the home didn’t feel like a place to be afraid. She sat in the little chair. Motionless for once.

  The next morning when Prisa was eating breakfast she heard what she thought was a doorbell. She thought it must have been her imagination after all this alone time. But she heard the little ding two more times and decided to go to the door.

  On the other side was her mother, wiping her forehead with a cloth and studying the flames. Prisa thought she should be afraid, but she wasn’t.

  “So you’re here,” said her mother, Olga. “I can’t believe you’re here—living like this.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “You used to come here as a child. A mother knows where her children are at all times.”

  Olga fanned herself and then crossed her arms, as if trying to protect herself from the flames.

  “Except, it wasn’t like this,” she said pointing to the fire. “I didn’t even know if I should come near. But I had to find you.”

  Prisa thought it was odd that her mother seemed so concerned about her whereabouts. She didn’t seem so concerned about her when she was growing up. She had left her places, dropped her off and forgotten about her. Returning days later, and sometimes not at all.

  “You had to find me for appearances. Your only worry is looking like the right kind of mother.”

  Olga gasped. Prisa had been taught to keep her words few when speaking to her parents.

  “This place has gotten to you,” Olga said. “Why would you choose to live like this? To live in hell?”

  Olga pushed Prisa out of the way and stepped inside.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

  Olga had a way of reciting religious scripture to make herself sound more devout than she really was. She shook her head and mumbled, “Living in hell. My own daughter.”

  “I used to live in hell, but I don’t anymore,” Prisa sai
d.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  Olga went out the door, without saying anything else to Prisa. Prisa was surprised, but she knew she’d be back.

  Later that day, Prisa decided to try and learn more about her new place. She inhaled and stuck her right arm in the fire, just as someone might run a finger across a candle flame. She was pleased that not even a hair on her arm was singed. But it did feel stronger, in fact her whole body did.

  She turned her head to the side and stuck both arms into the flames and plucked five pieces of plywood and two nails from her new home. She took the materials into the yard where she started arranging them. She had an urge to build. She placed the plywood one on top of the other, and then side-by-side, trying for the best fit. She stood them up, laid them down, and used her hands as a hammer to beat the nails into the wood. After an hour, she had a second home that looked just like her own.

  Prisa had never done so much manual labor and was hungrier than she’d ever been when she finished. When she walked inside her house, a large hot meal was waiting on her. A roast chicken, three bowls of potatoes, two bowls of peas, a chocolate cake and a cold pitcher of water were laid out on her little table. Prisa never liked to cook and felt fortunate that something wanted to provide for her.

  Not long after she finished every piece of food on the table, she heard a scratching sound on her front porch. She opened the door and saw a short man in dirty jeans and no shirt rubbing his hands together by the fire. His stomach pooched from starvation. Prisa looked down at the top of the man’s baldhead.

  He jumped when he saw Prisa.

  “I didn’t think anyone lived here,” he said.

  “I do,” Prisa said.

  “You live inside? Inside of this place?”

  “Yes, how did you find me?”

  “I don’t know. I was walking. Just walking and something pulled me this way.”

  Prisa knew that feeling. Being pulled toward the fire.

  “I’m Solomon,” he said. “And I’m looking for a place to stay.”

  “I’m not surprised. I have a place for you.”

  Solomon followed Prisa to the newly built house. He looked weak, as he slowly followed on his bowlegs. She told him to go in and stay as long as he needed.

  “I’ve already been here longer than I ever thought I would stay,” Prisa said.

  That made Solomon feel good, as if he’d found a safe place. Solomon opened the door to the simple surroundings, a mattress on the floor, a small table for one, and a wood stove. Near the mattress was a chest. Solomon opened it and found shirts, pants, socks and shoes. He brought them to his nose and sniffed. They smelled clean, and he smiled.

  Olga came over the next day and was not pleased to discover Prisa and Solomon eating lunch together in Prisa’s house.

  “So who is this?” Olga said. “You’ve already found yourself a live-in boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “I’m Solomon.”

  “What’s your story? What do you want with my daughter?”

  “I was homeless and she was kind of enough to give me a home.”

  “Oh, god. No, no,” Olga shouted.

  Prisa thought her mother was too much sometimes, and didn’t understand why she would put her down for trying to help another human being.

  “I had chosen to be homeless for a while. But I got sick on the streets.”

  “You chose to be homeless. You hear that Prisa. That’s what the crazies do. And you’ve let this nutcase into your home. I’m going to pray for you, Prisa.”

  “Don’t talk about my guest like that mother,” Prisa said.

  “She’s probably right,” Solomon said. “I had been through some things, and couldn’t take it anymore. I quit my job, left my family, and headed to the streets just like that.”

  “Do you hear this Prisa? Are you listening?” Olga said. “You’re eating with a common vagabond.”

  Prisa wanted to kick her mother out of the house, but wasn’t in the mood to stand up to her. She felt the only reason her mother was here was because she needed a project now that her father was dead. Prisa’s father was a taker. He knew how to get money from banks and governments and people. Even if he had to destroy them. And on a few occasions when he got bored with that he took Prisa’s dignity. She didn’t look at her father or any man the same after that. Olga always covered for him. That’s why so many people thought he was a good person, because of Olga’s brilliant lies. Prisa didn’t realize Olga was acting out of fear and Olga never found a way to tell her.

  “I’ll admit something else,” Solomon said. “When I came yesterday I had rickets. And I swear today it’s gone. Gone. Just like that.”

  Prisa noticed that his body looked healthier, the bowlegs had straightened and the pooch had shrunk.

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” Prisa said. “Every day I wonder what else this place can do.”

  “So, you’ve got a healing house,” Olga said. “Are you listening to yourself?”

  Olga went out to her car, and returned to the porch with a jug of water in each hand. Prisa stepped onto the porch.

  “Mother, what are you going to do with those?” Prisa said. “You shouldn’t even waste your time.”

  Prisa really didn’t know what the water would do to her home. It hadn’t rained since she lived there, and she had never tried to put it out. There was no reason to. Solomon came outside and looked at Olga then Prisa, as if he were asking Prisa whether he should step in somehow. But Prisa shook her head.

  Olga popped the cap off of one of the jugs and attempted to douse the flames. Nothing happened. She picked up the other jug and tried again. Still, nothing happened.

  “Hell, hell, hell,” Olga said, shaking her head. “When I come back, I’m bringing the fire department.”

  Prisa rolled her eyes. “Firefighters like fire. I’d be happy to have them,” she said.

  Then she watched her mother drive off, much faster than she should.

  Prisa asked Solomon to tend the lush garden between their homes. She felt compelled to build another house. Prisa repeated the process that resulted in Solomon’s home. She took five slats of wood and two nails from her own home and began hammering away with her hands. She worked in a trance-like state not sure where the urge to build came from.

  Once it was done, she invited Solomon to check it out with her.

  “This is amazing,” Solomon said as he entered the house.

  “Yes, it is,” Prisa was surprised to hear herself say.

  This latest addition was now the largest house on the property. It had two bedrooms and two bathrooms with real beds, not just mattresses on the floor. And there was plenty of pantry and cabinet space in the kitchen.

  “Here they come,” Solomon said.

  “Who?”

  Solomon nodded toward the window, and pointed at a pregnant woman and two small children. The woman had on a business suit, and the children had on school uniforms.

  “We heard about this place,” the woman told Prisa. “We heard our lives would be better here. I’m Latrice.”

  “I’m Prisa. Follow me. Let me show you your new home.”

  When they entered the house the children raced ahead and found their bedroom. They started laughing and screaming and their mother entered their room.

  “Look, mama! Toys,” the little girl said.

  Latrice looked around the rest of her place, admiring the dining room table for four and the four-poster bed in her bedroom. It had been a long time since her family had had a place to live. They had been running from her husband since she had the affair. He let her take one of their cars and said they could have a head start. With the kids in the backseat, Latrice drove 120 miles to a motel in a small town she had ne
ver heard of. The next day he showed up and gave her a black eye in front of the kids who locked themselves in the bathroom. Then he gave her gas money and told her to keep going. And it kept happening like this. They’d stop and stay somewhere, no longer than 48 hours, and he’d show up excited he’d found his prey.

  “How did you hear about this place?” Prisa asked.

  “Word is spreading that there’s help in the woods. And not only that, the people who need it can feel it.”

  “What does it feel like?”

  “Warm, like something warm is gently pushing you.”

  Latrice looked down at the floor and then back at Prisa.

  “Can I touch it?”

  “Yes, it won’t hurt you.”

  “Kids, stay here. I’ll be right back,” Latrice yelled.

  They went to Prisa’s porch and Latrice ran her hands and arms through the fire and then wiped them across her face. She sat on Prisa’s front step, pulled off her skirt and panties, and spread her legs far apart. She grunted softly a few times, and a crying baby emerged from between her legs. She formed her index finger and middle finger into a V shape, and reached down and snipped the umbilical cord.

  Prisa had stopped questioning the power of the fire a long time ago. But she had never expected to see anything like this. She wasn’t quite sure what to say or do. The woman dressed herself and wrapped her baby in her suit jacket.

  “Thank you, Prisa.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Solomon and Prisa watered the garden, admiring the healthy fruits and vegetables. Solomon picked an orange that fit nicely in the palm of his hand and cut it in half with his knife. Each fleshy half grew into the size of half a basketball. Prisa laughed and took a half from Solomon, and began nibbling.

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this,” he said.

  “Before long you won’t know any different.”

  The loud whir of sirens interrupted their break. A sound Prisa hadn’t heard in a long time. A fire engine pulled into the yard with Olga’s car close behind.