The Tilting House
Page 12
Dad called the family into the living room and finally explained what all the meetings had been about. The museum wanted Dora. They knew Dora was the source of all their publicity and their rise in attendance. They also knew Dad owned her free and clear. Dad wanted the museum to have her, too, but he also knew the statue was really valuable. In their last meeting, both sides had finally agreed on a price for the statue. “Two point three million dollars,” Dad said. “With all the publicity, they said it would be well worth it. I could have gotten twice that at the bigger museums back east, but I want her to stay in Tacoma.”
The museum offered Dad his job back, but he said no. “I was as polite to that fink Stevens as I could stand to be,” he said, “since the museum is paying so much for Dora.”
“If you’re not going to work there, what are you going to do?” I asked.
“Stay home,” Dad said. “I like hanging around this old house, tilting floors and all. I may finally get around to photographing these walls. And I may finally get around to writing.”
“What would you write?” I asked.
“Your grandpa’s not the only one who’s got stories to tell. Heck, I might even write a few stories about this strange old house. Oh, and Josh,” Dad said, in his low, serious tone, “we have you to thank for all of this—you and Aaron and Grandpa. Don’t think I don’t know it. Your mother and I are setting aside a good chunk of money for you and your brother in a trust fund. But we both agree you deserve something now. Something significant.” Dad mentioned an amount of money he said I could spend as I wanted. I’m not going to say how much it was, but Grandpa used the same amount to buy a brand-new Cadillac. It was not black.
No one asked us to, but Aaron and I shared enough of our money with Lola to make her smile.
“So you’re staying?” Lola asked.
“We’re staying,” I said.
“Good. Because I like having you around here, Peshik.”
“I like having you around here, too, Dolores.” She punched me. She kept punching until I promised never to call her Dolores again.
The Talker still sat out on his steps, talking away, on sunny days and still sat inside, talking away, when it rained. I never completely figured out his life story, but Grandpa and Dad and I have what we think is a pretty good guess:
We know the Talker, Karl Hanson, was Tilton’s partner when they met Mary. Tilton’s journal said Mary was promoting her last movie, The Primrose Path, which we found out was released in 1933. That must have been when Tilton and Karl had their final fight. Karl did talk about Mary every now and then, but mostly he talked about the 187th. Grandpa had friends who had fought in World War II. He called some of his buddies, and one of them remembered the 187th as the division that fought at the Battle of the Bulge, one of the bloodiest battles in the whole war. Almost 100,000 German soldiers and 20,000 American soldiers died there.
Dad guessed that after Mary left, Karl went off and joined the army and he was still in the army when the war started eight years later. “Surviving something like the Bulge couldn’t have been easy,” Dad said. “Considering everything that Karl’s probably been through, it’s a wonder he’s not crazier.”
One night we brought Karl over to our house for dinner, but it turned into a complete disaster. Mom tried to act as if he were a normal dinner guest, but the guy never shut up, even for a second. It’s hard to eat when a crazy old guy with a mouth full of peas is talking about all the dead bodies he’s seen.
Sometimes Grandpa hobbles over and sits next to Karl to smoke his pipe. He says that every so often Karl will pause to take a breath and look over at him and smile. Grandpa figures that means he likes the company.
Soon after all the commotion, Aaron, Lola, and I went to visit Mr. Daga to tell him what had happened.
“You mean that old headless statue was worth money? You humans think the strangest things are valuable.”
“You knew it was there?”
“Of course, I did, young Peshik. I know everything there is to know about that old house of yours. Haven’t I told you that?”
“Everything?” I asked.
“Well, almost everything.” That was all he would say.
The Purple Door Man still yelled at us, but at least he stopped stealing our bikes. One day Lola accidentally left her bike in front of our house all through dinner, and when she went outside, it was still there.
Even with Dinky around, Mrs. Natalie seemed lonely. Once she mentioned hearing strange sounds in her kitchen during the night. “I wonder if Mr. Natalie’s ghost is fixing himself a sandwich,” she said to Dad. It was probably only Mr. Daga or one of his children raiding her garbage.
Sometimes when Aaron and I work in her garden, Mrs. Natalie talks about how alone she is now that Mr. Natalie is gone, but she seems to accept this with one of those grim smiles that belong only to old people. She does have one thing to cheer her up—she and Grandpa started going out for dinner once a week a few months ago. Now it’s up to twice a week. He drives, because his new Cadillac is an automatic and works fine with his wooden leg.
All the writing on the wall? I’m dedicated to figuring it out. I’ve compiled a stack of notebooks, broken down by subject. So far, I haven’t made sense out of anything, but I’m sure a breakthrough is not far off. And so far, Dad’s still managed to avoid painting over any of it. He still hasn’t photographed it yet, either, but he says it’s on his to-do list.
One last thing: We still have that sign next to the front door that says TILTON HOUSE. After he sold the statue and paid off our home loan, Dad added a little brass plaque right below it.
The plaque says HOME OF THE PESHIK FAMILY.
THANKS TO MY brilliant and patient editor, Abigail Samoun, for turning my pages of squishiness into a tight story. Abi, I only have one request: Could you be right a little less often? Thanks to my high school English teacher from a million years ago, Glenna Frederick, for making me love writing, even if she did force me to listen to Simon and Garfunkel records. Thanks to the teachers and students at Washington-Hoyt Elementary School for reading my manuscript and saying nice things. Go Cougars! And a special thanks to my kids—Ben, Abel, Bizayehu, and Genet—for asking me to tell them stories and then actually listening.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Three Degrees at 1418
The All-the-Way-Up Room
Mr. Daga
The Vultures
Grandpa’s Wooden Leg
The Attic
The Box
Moss
The Dimmer Switch
Mrs. Natalie’s Little White Dog
The Story of F. T. Tilton
The Mother Lode
The Black Sack
The Talker
Body and Soul
The Name on the Sign
Acknowledgments