by Garth Stein
“Call the man,” Grandpa Samuel said again. “I want to sign the papers.”
And so I did. I called the man. Thirty minutes later, the papers were notarized. The deed was done.
– 34 –
HOUSE OF STONES
Riddell House was old and decaying. Anyone could see it. Listing to one side as if sinking into the soft earth. Downspouts broken, misguided rainwater seeping into the timbers and around the window frames until they bulged outward, swollen with moisture. It was falling down without any help from me, so what did it matter? And shouldn’t Serena be able to get something for it? Shouldn’t we all be allowed some of the wealth we had missed out on?
Riddell House was not meant to live forever. If you look at some houses made of brick and stone, like in the country near Danbury, or when we used to drive up through New England in the fall to see the leaves turn and to buy apples at the roadside stands, paper bags full of small crunchy apples, tart and sweet at the same time to make my mouth pucker, and we would stop at the corn mazes so I could run around and be a kid while my mother and father watched, laughing, grinning, holding hands (I remembered when my parents used to hold hands!). If you look at the houses we’d see when we stopped on the side of the road and we’d get out of the car to gaze across fields and over stone fences, and my mother would recite the Robert Frost poem she liked so much about the phantoms who didn’t like walls so they knocked them down when no one was looking, if you look at those houses you would see.
“How I would love to live in that house,” she used to say—without discrimination, I thought. As long as the house was built of stones and had a roof of shake or slate, and painted window frames. If there was smoke coming out of the chimney, she would say it for sure. But even if there was no smoke, she would say: How I would love to live in that house.
“I would love to live in that house with you,” my father would say. Every time.
“It reminds me of home,” my mother would offer with a shrug, not really to anyone.
I was little, so I didn’t understand why stone houses reminded her of our wooden farmhouse; stone houses weren’t like our home at all. But she meant her old home. Where she grew up in England on a thumb of land that stuck out into the ocean, where they used stones to build their houses so they could endure the brutal winter storms. She had a longing even then; I should have known she would go back there even then.
If you look at those houses, you see people built them to last. They were solid. Immune to wolf attacks, wind and rain and fire. Nothing could take down those houses. In contrast, Riddell House looked almost compostable. Like it was meant to crumble after a time and feed the earth with its remains, worms crawling through its hollow core, seedlings sprouting on its rich bark; an old tree becoming a nursing log, feeding the children of eternity. Yes, humongous and titanic in its scale and scope. But at the same time fragile. A house of sticks.
And what was it that I really wanted? What were my goals? as Serena asked me before. I wanted a family. I wanted my parents to be my parents, and not anonymous roommates in a shared living environment; I wanted them to care. I wanted them to be happy together. I wanted them to be happy with me. I wanted permanence in a constantly changing world.
I wanted a house of stones.
* * *
All was dark. I lifted my head from the desk where it was resting, nested on my folded arms. I lifted my head because I heard the low rumble of a car’s engine. I heard the crunching of tires on gravel. Doors closing with satisfying clunks. They were home. I took the folder from the desk and made my way down the hall. I hesitated before entering the kitchen. I could hear them rattling around the big room a little sloppily, as if slightly drunk; they shouldn’t have been driving. They were setting a bad example for me.
“They must have gone to sleep,” my father observed.
“Daddy has never been known as an early sleeper,” Serena replied.
“The house is dark. Should I go check on them?”
“What does it matter? It’s not as if there’s anything to fear out here, with the possible exception of our man-eating raccoons.”
“Man-eating raccoons?”
“They’ve been known to eat men,” Serena said, and then she made a fake growly sound.
“Really?” my father asked. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Believe!” Serena bellowed ominously, and they both giggled. Definitely drunk.
I cleared my throat and entered the room.
“How did your meetings go?” I asked.
Serena and my father glanced at each other with the surprised aspect of the guilty.
“Splendidly,” Serena said cheerfully. “How was dinner with Grandpa Samuel? Did you get him to sleep all right?”
“Everything was fine,” I said. “We had a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
I hesitated for a moment, feeling strangely anxious. It wasn’t too late. I could make something up quickly. A ghost visited us or something. I didn’t have to give it to her.
And yet I did have to give it to her. If only to protect my grandfather. I handed Serena the folder. She took it and looked inside.
“My, my, my,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Well, it goes to show that if you need a man’s job done, you’d best get a man to do it. Brother Jones, you should take lessons from your talented son.”
She handed the folder to my father, who studied the power of attorney inside.
“Look at what Trevor has done for you, Brother Jones. He has delivered Riddell House to you. Tell him how pleased you are.”
“I am pleased,” my father said.
“Delighted?” Serena suggested.
“At least,” my father agreed. “Delighted, at least.”
Serena came to me and took my face in her hands. She planted a big kiss on my lips. Her breath smelled like wine.
“I hope you are suitably proud of your achievement,” she said. “I hope you feel the monumental nature of your accomplishment.”
She returned to my father’s side, slipped her arm under his, and the two of them admired the power of attorney together proudly, as if it were their newly born child.
I wanted to cry. The idea that the development was within their grasp and was bringing my father and Serena closer together was completely antithetical to my own goal of reuniting my father and mother. The only shred of redemption I could find in the whole deal was that my grandfather would get proper medical attention, if he even needed it. Otherwise, it was just another broken promise to a dead person.
I muttered a good night and walked down the long hall to the foyer, up the front stairs. I could have sworn I heard a sorrowful sigh as I walked down the hallway to my room, but that was probably wishful thinking. I climbed into bed, turned off my reading light, lay back on my pillow, and waited. And I hoped. I hoped for the door to open in its ghostly fashion. I hoped for the spirit of Ben to enter my room and take a seat on the creaky rocker and let me know everything was okay. But Ben did not come.
– 35 –
A SEDUCTION
The following morning, the house was quiet as usual, but a different type of quiet. A quiet filled with dread. I imagined my father and Serena were at their lawyers’ office now, hurriedly filing claims and forms and permit requests. Environmental impact statements. A grotesque scene played out in my mind: fat old men with stiff collars, laughing and slapping each other’s backs, rollicking in the exploitation of The North Estate. Finally, the deathblow to the Riddell Empire would be struck. It was not enough to bring the memory of Elijah Riddell to his knees. No, Elijah Riddell had to be humiliated, violated. His great empire could not simply vanish, it had to be dragged through the muck and shit and piss of a thousand years. Flayed open and parted out. Twenty ten-acre lots for twenty ten-bedroom McMansions. Two tiny acres allowed to grow into a wild, untamed, unblemished forest. It was a travesty. A travesty of a mockery of a sham of a travesty.
I found cof
fee still in the coffee machine, and it wasn’t quite cold, so I poured myself some and put it in the microwave. When it was hot, I added ice cream. I tasted it, but the ambrosia had turned sour. There was no more magic.
I looked in the refrigerator for some breakfast, and found the leftover sausage pizza from the previous night. It smelled okay, so I took a piece and ate it cold while standing at the counter, which was something my mother hated. “The human body needs to sit to digest properly,” she once told me. I later discovered that wasn’t true at all: the human body is designed to digest while crouched over the warm carcass of a recently killed wildebeest or antelope or something, not sitting at a table. It turns out human bodies were designed long before the first table was invented. But my mother didn’t trifle with such details.
I put a second piece of pizza in the microwave. When it beeped, I made a plate and was heading for the porch to eat my pizza in the morning air, when I noticed a flash of light hit the wall in the front parlor, like the reflection of a mirror or a watch face catching the sun. Quietly, I slipped into the parlor to investigate, and I heard voices. Whisperings. Voices from the past? I saw the flash again. I looked out the front window. Serena and my father were sitting together on the porch swing. My father’s watch flashed in the sun, which crept around the edge of the house. I didn’t feel very cloak and dagger, so I didn’t bother hiding—I sat on the couch and ate my pizza at the coffee table—but I ate very quietly so I might not be detected. I could hear their conversation clearly.
“Sometimes things change,” I heard Serena say. “I read an article recently which quoted a marriage counselor who suggested marriage licenses should come up for renewal every seven years. It would avoid the messiness. And having to reevaluate one’s relationship would become a natural thing. You know, people get locked into a permanent contract and they don’t know how to get out. They cheat on one another, they act badly and they do it sloppily so they’ll get caught. Why not just put it out there? That was a fun time we spent together; it’s time to move on.”
“That doesn’t take children into account,” my father replied.
“Children are resilient,” Serena said with a pshaw. “They adapt. Look at me. My mother died when I was eleven. My father was basically an invalid, or at least an incompetent loser for most of his life. You were gone. I learned to adapt. I didn’t melt into a puddle the first time a bucket of water was thrown on me. I made it part of my story; I survived. A real-life Lieutenant Ripley.”
“From Alien?” my father asked. “Sigourney Weaver?”
“Yes, but, more significantly, from the sequel. The first was a better movie. The second was a better representation of a woman’s ferocity when pushed to the breaking point.”
“I didn’t think you went to the movies.”
“Why is that? Because I ride a bicycle? Really, Brother Jones, you must learn to be more creative in your thinking. I ride a bicycle, I chop wood, I churn butter by hand when I need to. I would milk cows if we had any. And not simply for the gratification of a job well done, to reap the bounty of my honest and clean effort, but also to keep myself fit, my arms and legs strong and supple. I don’t need to lace on expensive running shoes and press the start button on a treadmill to get exercise when I have a grocery store I can ride my bicycle to. What does Rachel do to keep fit?”
“Rachel?” my father asked, seemingly startled by the question. “Nothing, really.”
“Really? Yet she maintains her figure?”
“She’s softened a bit over the years.”
“Hmm,” Serena wondered. “She’s let herself go?”
“Is that the phrase?”
“It’s a phrase,” Serena said pointedly. “Is it your phrase?”
“No, it’s not my phrase at all,” my father said after a moment. “ ‘Softened’ is my phrase. And she’s quite attractive, thank you.”
“Men are visually stimulated,” Serena said. “That’s simply a reality; it carries no judgment. Men are attracted to youth and vivacity. May I be terribly bold and inquire into the level of intimacy you share with Rachel?”
There was a long pause, and I laughed to myself. Serena. She sure knew how to knock down a door without breaking the hinges.
“I don’t believe that’s any of your concern,” my father replied.
“Your welfare and happiness are entirely my concern,” Serena said. “Here, sit down in front of me and let me massage your shoulders; you’re very tense. Let me work on you a bit.”
To my dismay, my father did what she said. I heard the porch swing creak as he rose, and the floorboards groan as he sat down in front of Serena, and I heard him moan as she laid her hands upon him, and then, “Ah!” he complained.
“That’s some knot,” she said. “I’ll work it out. Breathe for me.”
And more silence, which I found disturbing because I knew the longer she had her hands on him, the deeper her hooks would be set.
“You have very strong thumbs,” my father said, his voice dreamy.
“You’re holding years of tension and anger in your muscles. It’ll take some work to get it all out.”
I stood up and went to the window to peek at them. My father was sitting on the porch with Serena behind him on the swing. She was leaning over and pressing the point of her elbow into his back. The image was so striking to me, even disregarding their sibling relationship. It just seemed the last thing on my father’s mind was my mother, or even me. I felt so stupid for being duped into thinking the money from the sale of Riddell House would resolve my parents’ issues.
“It hurts,” my father said.
“Those are the toxins. Your body creates toxins when it’s in stress, and then your muscles hold on to them. You need to have regular massages to clear yourself out. You’re carrying decades of toxicity in your muscles. All the anguish you had to endure as a boy. All the anger. That’s why you’re so tight and inflexible. We’ll have to go way back to get all the toxins. Back to when you used to run. Remember that? Your gait was perfect so you could run on the railroad tracks, your feet landing perfectly on the ties. You would run for miles following the parallel rails that extended off into infinity.”
Serena’s voice had taken on a melodic, hypnotic tone. She stopped with the elbow maneuver and began massaging my father’s scalp. Jesus. Couldn’t my father see that she was trying to seduce him?
“Oh, that feels good,” my father said sleepily.
“I’m sure it does. We’ll work back to that awful moment and clear you of the toxins and then we’ll work forward, and then into the future. Think of what it would be like to live like Elijah lived, with money for things and servants and food prepared by chefs. That’s what I see on our cruise. Nothing to do but relax and enjoy. Stroll around the deck with its weathered teak handrails. Swim in the saltwater pool. Nap in the sun and read books. Oh, the books we will read! Make port in an exotic land and hike up a mountain to a sacred temple. Pray with the people; pray to the gods! Feel the heat on our skin, the sun. Feel the sweat, slick on our arms and faces. Taste the fruit and the fish of the local village. Nothing has ever tasted as fresh. And then, returning to our ship, we will freshen ourselves and dress for a formal meal and, afterward, dance before an orchestra. Not a sad man with a Plexiglas piano and a drum machine. An orchestra! Dance so everyone sees how beautiful we are. How perfect.”
It took me a minute before I realized: the image Serena had conjured of the cruise included my father.
She stopped speaking, but continued massaging my father. Continued touching him.
“How does that sound?” Serena asked.
“How does what sound?”
“Our circumnavigation of the globe, Brother Jones. Together.”
I couldn’t take any more. It was just too much. She’d been planning it all along. I turned quickly, exited the parlor, marched through the foyer, and out onto the porch.
“Very funny,” my father said.
“Very wonderful,” Serena
corrected.
“What’s very wonderful?” I asked, startling them both.
“Trevor!” Serena exclaimed, standing quickly.
“What were you guys talking about?”
“Nothing, just . . . the development,” she replied. “How wonderful it will be when things are finally under way—of course, all thanks to you. Let me get you that glass of water you wanted, Brother Jones.”
She hurried past me and into the house. I thought it strange that she was flustered; it was the first time I’d seen her so.
“What were you guys doing?” I asked my father when Serena had gone.
“Nothing,” he said, standing up and dusting off the seat of his pants.
“It seemed like something.”
“Serena was showing me something she’d read about. A detox massage thing. She read about it in Cosmopolitan magazine, I think.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said suspiciously. “I think I saw that issue at the grocery store.”
My father nodded unsurely and stepped off the porch.
“I’m going to take a walk to the bluff,” he said. “You want to come?”
“I’m good,” I said.
He walked off. And, more significantly, Serena didn’t reappear with the purportedly requested glass of water. The truth will out, indeed.
– 36 –
