by Kelly Harms
“I just heard someone lock the door. Open up! I know you’re in there!”
“Maybe we should call the police, Aunt Midge.”
“Did you hear that?” the older woman shouts. “My niece is going to call the authorities if you don’t open up right this second.” And tell them what, I wonder? That they broke into my house and I rudely refused to greet them?
The window within reach is painted shut. Damn these sloppy home giveaway people. If they were actually living here they’d have done a better job. I climb down and consider my options. It doesn’t take long, since I don’t have any.
“You have five seconds to open that door before we break it down,” yells the granny. “Five, four, three—”
I throw the door open and walk out as casually as I can, considering I’m brandishing a toilet plunger. “Jeez, can’t a girl take a private pee in her own house?” I ask, but when I see what I’m dealing with, all bravado falls aside. I don’t need it.
Two wide-eyed frumpsters stand in front of me. One is old as dirt, about four feet tall, pleasantly plump, and purple-haired. The other is closer to my age, skinny and tall, wearing a baggy Mickey Mouse T-shirt and mom jeans. I always wondered who bought those god-awful embroidered cartoon T-shirts in the mall, and now I know. I just wish she’d get out of my house.
“Your house? This is our house,” says the old one. “How did you get in here?”
“Through the door,” I say, feeling more detail would be cumbersome. “How did you get in here?”
“With the key that the producers from the Home Sweet Home Network gave us, when we won the house.”
I try not to process this tidbit of information. They’re lying; they’ve got to be. “You didn’t win the house. I won the house. They said my name on TV. I’m Janine Brown of Cedar Falls, Iowa.”
This strikes the women silent. Ah hah! I think, feeling victorious. These two are con artists or something.
Then the skinny one speaks to me for the first time, softly, meekly, a quiver in her voice. “I’m Janine Brown of Cedar Falls, Iowa.”
Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. This cannot be. “Prove it.”
She pauses and looks at me hard and then fishes out a Velcro wallet from her handbag. Out comes a driver’s license and I study it hard. Of course, we all know exactly what it says. I go into panic mode.
“It doesn’t matter. I got here first. The house is mine, fair and square.”
“Oh really?” asks the old one. “Did a camera crew come to your house and film your reaction to winning?”
“Yes,” I lie, but now I am starting to sweat profusely. I mean, I did have a moment when I wondered why there hadn’t been a camera crew. But then, I did talk to that girl at the office, and they knew I was here already … “Did you get an official e-mail from the network?” I counter. “Cause I did. Scheduling an appointment for me to sign the deed and everything.”
The old one glances at the other Janine Brown skeptically. “A likely story,” she says. “We can’t have both won the house. You’ll have to get out.”
I think back to a piece of wisdom I’ve gleaned from Judge Judy. “No way. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. I’m not going anywhere.” Take that, old bag.
“Well, neither are we,” the old bag barks back. “Tomorrow morning at ten a.m. we’re meeting with the lawyers who are signing over the deed. To us. They’ll send you packing.”
It’s the mention of this meeting, tomorrow morning at ten, just like the e-mail I got back in Boston, that gives me that horrible shiver in my spine and pit in my gut. This is not good, I think. Not good at all
“It’s you who will be sent packing,” I say, feeling stupid and hamstrung even as I make my empty threats. “So if I were you I wouldn’t get too comfortable.” But as I speak I am making contorted faces and squinting my eyes to try to keep back tears. Because now I am really scared. What if I didn’t really win the house? What if these horrible people did? What if my entry postcard never arrived? Or what if there was some sort of mistake in the contest, and the first Janine Brown to sign the deed will be the one to get the house? I have to be the first Janine Brown to the lawyer’s office tomorrow morning. It has to be me. But I don’t even have a car, and the office is miles and miles away. Up to now, I was just planning to try to hitchhike in whenever I could. Which, I now realize, could be too late.
Right then I know exactly what I have to do. And looking at the angry wadded-up face of the old woman and her bright-red-cheeked, stuttering friend, I don’t feel bad about it, not even for a second. “I’m going outside for a cigarette,” I tell the other Janine Brown in a weird, scrunchy voice. “Don’t even think about locking me out, because I have a key. And besides, I’ll call my lawyers and they’ll have you on the street so fast your head will spin.” With that I make for the kitchen, throw aside the dining room chair that was supposed to keep me safe, and slam the door hard on my way out.
JANEY
“Keep your knives sharp.”
—JULIA CHILD, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, volume 1
“Quick, put something heavy in front of the door.” Aunt Midge is already moving toward the kitchen before the screen door has even stopped banging. I am bent over at the waist, elbows on knees, trying to get a good breath of air.
“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” I tell her, straightening up and putting my arm out to clothesline her before she gets much further. “Sit down. Let’s think this over logically.” I steer her over to the long, narrow three-seasons room that extends the full length of the back of the house. Maybe the gorgeous ocean view will help us think more clearly. Already I feel the dizzying spin of panic start to slow.
“What’s to think over?” she asks, as she plops down on a plush red and white loveseat, utterly unmoved by the scenery. “There’s a con artist squatting in the house that we won, fair and square. Either we lock her out now, or call the police, or both.”
“Maybe she’s telling the truth. Janine Brown isn’t the most unique name, and Cedar Falls is a big enough city that she could have been living there her whole life and I might not have ever run into her. Maybe she was the real winner of the contest and I was some sort of mistake. Like, a clerical error.”
“Hah! If her name is Janine Brown, then I’m the Queen of Sheba. Hang on…” Aunt Midge struggles her way out of the cushy chair and disappears back into the main part of the house for a second, then reappears holding a battered-looking string purse. “Here!” she says victoriously. “She left her purse inside.”
“Please tell me you’re not going to go rustling through her things,” I say, knowing full well that’s exactly what she’s planning to do.
“You better believe it,” she answers with a wicked grin. She starts digging in the purse. It’s not exactly vast, but it is stuffed to the brim. A couple of used tissues fall to the floor, and a can of mace topples out with a clatter. Then Aunt Midge pulls out her hand triumphantly holding a rubber-banded stack of cards. She drops the purse with a thunk on a side table and pulls the rubber band off and starts sorting through them.
“Bruegger’s Bagels, CVS, Walgreens, Hy-Vee,” she says, reading the names off of the plastic affinity cards as she sorts through them. “No credit cards,” she says to me. “Seem a little suspicious?”
“No, it doesn’t, Sherlock. Plenty of people don’t use credit.”
“Plenty of people who don’t want to have a traceable record of where they’ve been,” she says. I silently vow to cut her off from Law and Order reruns.
“Aha!” She pulls out a mangled driver’s license. I recognize the look of it instantly. It’s from Iowa.
“Here, you read it,” says Aunt Midge, forcing it into my hands though I want no part of this sordid business. “I left my glasses in my purse.”
I hold the card up close and scrutinize it. It looks like she’s been using it as a crowbar or something. But it’s definitely the real deal, goldfinch hologram and all. “Janine D. Brown. 1851 Tom’s Terrace,
Cedar Falls, Iowa, 50613.” I ponder the address. Isn’t that a trailer park out by the interstate? I’m pretty sure it is.
“It’s a fake,” Aunt Midge says, even as she plops back into the loveseat looking a little taken aback.
“Looks real enough to me. And her birthdate makes her…” math, math, math, “twenty-four years old. Twenty-four. We’re not turning a twenty-four-year-old Iowa girl out into the street in the middle of rural Maine. She’ll stay here until we’ve gotten this all sorted out and she has someplace else to go.” I realize as I speak that I don’t need to summon my authoritative voice. It is already in use. I look out over the cliff and to the ocean in wonderment.
Aunt Midge looks at me a little wondering herself. Has she too heard the new resolution in my voice? “Did you hear that?” she asks.
“You mean, what I just said?” I think, eager to get some praise for asserting myself, something she lectures me about on a near daily basis.
“No, no, I’m ignoring your nonsense. I mean that sound outside. Sort of like an engine turning over.”
I flush with embarrassment and then train my ears for the noise. “It sounds like a car is pulling into the drive.”
“Or pulling out.” Aunt Midge blinks at me hard a couple of times, and then smacks her forehead. “Where did you put the keys to the U-Haul?”
“I think I left them in the truck when I hit the mailbox. Why?”
Aunt Midge sighs dramatically. “You go look outside. I’ll call the cops.”
Like a ton of bricks the realization dawns. “Oh shit,” I cry and rush out through the great room, past the elegant limestone fireplace and the fifty-two-inch LED TV and the handcrafted driftwood chandelier, through the entryway, and out the big red front door onto the porch, where I see the very upsetting sight of our U-Haul in reverse, lights blaring, pulling out of the long, tree-lined driveway. I scream in horror, and the driver looks out at me with an absolutely evil smile and gives me the finger with a flourish just before she disappears from sight. I hear a squeal of wheels and the crunch of gravel, and then the unmistakable sound of the engine gunning up the main road.
I stand on the porch, powerless, clenching my fists and seething in fury. All this just moments after sticking up for that … that devious little bitch.
I turn on my heels and march back inside, to find Aunt Midge already on my cell phone giving a description of the other Janine Brown. “Mangy, scarily thin, about five foot four or so, hair dyed sort of purplish red. Burgundy. A gray T-shirt. No pants. That’s right, no pants. We just watched her pull away five seconds ago. Yes, that’s right.”
I tap Aunt Midge on the shoulder and she looks at me, holds up one finger to say hold on. Then she says into the phone, “Hang on, officer. What is it, Janey?”
But when I get the chance to speak, I’m speechless. I look at Aunt Midge in utter desperation. I feel like crying but I’m not much of a crier. Still, everything was in that U-Haul. Including my faith in humanity. My eyes stay dry but my throat swells up, and my face feels hot, and I know if I open my mouth no sound will come out.
“I know, sweetheart.” Aunt Midge says to me, wrapping her cool arm around my waist and pulling me close to her. She pats my hip with her hand and says again, “I know.”
Then she turns back to the phone, with just a hint of John Wayne drawl in her voice, and says, “Detective? Tell your men we want her dead or alive.”
* * *
It’s two hours before a pair of not-terribly-concerned police officers come and take our statement and then another few uneventful hours pass while we wait for word. I know we should be spending this time touring the house, taking in the wonderful décor and beautiful architecture of our new place, but I feel too shaken up and bitter to enjoy anything. Aunt Midge is banging around the house, saying things like, “This is where I’ll put my Elvis commemorative plate collection. If I ever see it again…” and announcing the names of each empty wine bottle she finds strewn throughout the house. “Lamothe de Haux Bordeaux Blanc,” she calls out, pronouncing the words “La Mothy dey Hoax Bore-doescks.” She sighs with enough drama to get her a role on one of her soaps. “I wonder what that would have tasted like. I guess we’ll never know.”
A few minutes of this has me headed for the hills. I tell her I’m going to check out the grounds of the house and slip out the front door, locking it behind me to be on the safe side. It’s dark now, but there’s just enough light from the porch lamps for me to step carefully down the stairs and around to the left side of the house. There, behind a thick row of piney hedges, I find the legendary endless pool, making a slight purring sound from under its heavy cover. Tomorrow, assuming we still own this house, I’ll try to cheer up Aunt Midge by setting up the pool.
I walk along the inside of the hedgerow, following it around the pool to where it meets a tall garden gate and the side of the house, which I open with a little jiggle of the old-fashioned latch. Through the gate is the backyard proper, about a quarter acre of birch trees and tall grasses that cover the distance between the house and the outcroppings of rock that form cliffs. Looking out past them, I hear the sounds of the ocean lapping and lunging, but see only darkness in every direction. And, I suddenly realize, I also see stars.
Enough light is leaking from the house to dim them a little, but the expanse of ocean stars still glows bright enough to enchant me. I sit down as close to the edge of the cliffs as I dare and begin to follow the brightest ones in circles around the sky, getting my bearings. I see the glowing haze of the Milky Way, streaming across the sky in a great arch, and down closer to the water I find Cygnus flying south, neck stretched out and wings extended as if she’s caught a nice thermal and is coasting her way to the nest.
The rest of the night sky is a blur to me, but a beautiful blur. A transporting blur. I forget about the house and the U-Haul and the woman who stole it and let myself remember the last time I saw stars so bright. It was on a camping trip with Ned in the Ozarks. I close my eyes tightly, and when I open them, I am there, on a bluff with a campfire at my back. I feel Ned’s hand where it always came to rest, right at the top of my neck, cradling the heaviest part of my head, hands buried in my hair.
“Ned,” I ask him. “What am I doing in Maine? Did I really even win this place, or is it all some colossal mistake? And if it is, what am I supposed to do now?”
I wait a beat, somehow expecting him to reply. But instead of Ned’s voice, I hear soft squishy footsteps coming up the lawn toward me. The gait is fast and confident, definitely not the short-stepped shuffle of Aunt Midge. I stand up so fast I get a little dizzy and shout, “Who’s there!” like a crazy person. My heart is racing and I feel my armpits go damp. It’s the goddamned social anxiety, made worse by the fact that just a second ago, I was with the person who knew me better than anyone.
In the distance I see a figure open his arms wide and make a sort of shrugging gesture, like a zookeeper approaching a wild animal. “Hey there. Sorry I scared you,” he says as he moves in closer. His voice is cool and relaxed, one step away from singing, and my shoulders drop down an inch and my heartbeat slows slightly at the sound of it. “I’m Noah Macallister, from up the road? Are you Janine?”
I blink a few times. The stranger is standing between the light that’s coming from the three-seasons room and the dark of the ocean, and it gives him an eerie halo. It also makes it entirely impossible for me to make out anything more than his solid shape.
“I’m sorry…” I start to say. My palms are sweating. I don’t know what to say. I start to stumble backward.
“Janine?” he says, and moves closer to me. I feel my eyes bulge. “Wait, be careful.”
Suddenly I remember that I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. A slippery cliff. I look for a way to move forward, away from the ledge, without walking straight into the strange man. It will take a little sidestepping to the left, but I’m not above a little creative sidling to avoid contact. I hold my arms up in front of me, palms out, th
e international symbol for “stay back,” and start making my way in a wide leftward arc.
The man looks at me curiously but doesn’t move closer. “You okay?” he asks.
I’m scared of him, as I’m scared of every stranger I run into, but for some reason—maybe his low singsong voice—I don’t feel truly threatened. Just in danger of humiliating myself. “I’m just going to go inside,” I say warily. I know this poor man will think I’m a lunatic, but I just don’t care, that’s how badly I don’t want to talk to him. I keep edging my way around the lawn. I’m getting closer to the light of the house, ever so slightly.
“Um…” he says, clearly registering my lunacy, “all right, that’s fine. But you might want to see who I have with me before you go…”
Puzzled, I drop my arms and start looking around for another person.
He sees this as an invitation and takes a small step in my direction. “Did you lose track of a U-Haul truck at some point today?” he asks.
I whirl back around to face him full-on. Now I can make out his shaggy dark hair and broad, straight shoulders. He’s wearing blue jeans and an unbuttoned chambray shirt over a light-colored T-shirt. On his feet is a pair of serious-looking work boots.
“Because if you did, I think I know where you might find it. C’mon up here,” he says casually, like it’s no big deal. Now I am starting to get truly worried.
I lower my head and take another big step to the side. He takes two toward me. I freeze in my tracks, shaking a little.
He tilts his head, like he’s having a think. Then he tilts it the other direction, and says, “It’s so dark out here, and you don’t know me from Adam. Why don’t you go on up to the porch, where there’s plenty of light, right near the door in case you want to go inside. I’ll get my friend and meet you up there.” He pivots his body so I have a safe path to cross past him and get to the house.
“Okay!” I say too loudly, relieved to get away from the crashing waves and steep cliffs and my formerly private darkness. I make a beeline up to the house, climb those three porch steps, and sit on one of the rocking chairs, psyching myself up to talk to this guy, to find out what he knows about our U-Haul. He’s just a nice guy from Maine, I tell myself. He’s not an angry bride or a reality show producer or a moving-van thief. Still, I feel dizzy. I lean my head over, between my legs, and take deep breaths for what feels like a very long time, until I’ve calmed down quite a bit and replaced most of my terror with curiosity. It is only then that Noah Macallister rounds the corner and comes into the light. Behind him, still lingering in the darkness, is another figure, a slighter one.
