The Memory House

by Rachel Hauck

  “Then you’re blessed. I had a devil of a time with morning sickness. Anyway, I set saltines on the counter just in case.”

  Mama regarded her with a level of compassion Everleigh had not seen before. A sort of tenderness that said she understood what it took to bring new life into the world.

  “I’ve errands to run in town. When you collect yourself, please feed the chickens and weed the garden.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I won’t be back in time for lunch so help yourself. Spike and Rhett went into town about an hour ago to meet with a new breeder. Apparently he came into town a day early. Rhett said to tell you to go through the catalogs he gave you. He wants to finish picking out building materials tonight.” Mrs. Applegate reached to close the door, then paused. “Take care of yourself. Take a nap if you need.”

  “I will. I do get a bit tired in the afternoon.”

  The older woman’s eyes glistened as she nodded, a slow flush spreading across her cheeks. “I remember . . . Oh, can you peel the potatoes and carrots for dinner? And the apples for the pie. I made the dough this morning and put it in the icebox.” Mama Applegate lingered a moment longer. “Let’s make tonight’s dinner a celebration. The first Applegate grandchild.” She surveyed Rhett’s cramped boyhood room. “You’ll be happy to be out of here, I know. Well, I’d best be off—Oh, Spike gave one of the puppies away this morning. There are only four left. I told him this litter is the cutest Lola’s ever had. I’ve a mind to keep one.” She set her forefinger to her lips. “But, shhh, let that be our secret for now.”

  Everleigh locked her lips with an imaginary key.

  Her mother-in-law smiled, and the two of them shared another tender moment as the woman bid her final good-bye and closed the bedroom door.

  After her bath Everleigh dressed and made the bed, then used one of Rhett’s dirty T-shirts to dust the bedside tables and the old desk by the window where he examined the house plans each night.

  “I love this house more and more,” he’d say, crawling into bed next to her and patting her belly before turning off the light. “What do you think, son? Do you want to grow up in the house on Memory Lane?”

  “Stop, what if it’s a girl? She’ll think you don’t like her.”

  Rhett would kiss her, laughing. “She’ll be the apple of my eye.”

  Everleigh flinched at the stirring in her abdomen. Did she feel her child for the first time? The doctor said it was too soon to feel movement, but maybe her child was letting her know he, or she, was eager to live in this glorious new house where they’d create memories of family dinners, board games before bed, birthday and holiday celebrations, warm fires in the winter, and homemade ice cream in the summer.

  Well, enough daydreaming. She had chores to do. Wrapping her hair in a kerchief, Everleigh headed downstairs.

  First she’d tackled the kitchen, cleaning the iron skillet Mama A. used to fry bacon and eggs for the boys. Besides Rhett and his daddy, Uncle Floyd, cousin Mike, and three hired hands worked the ranch. Mama and Aunt Millie took turns feeding them breakfast and lunch.

  Next she peeled the potatoes, carrots, and apples, snatching cut pieces for her own late breakfast, and removed the dough from the fridge, before she headed for the outside chores.

  By the time she cleaned the chicken coop, weeded the garden, and played with the puppies, and napped briefly on the picnic table under the cottonwoods, it was late afternoon and she was starving.

  Inside, she took a loaf from the bread box, staring out the window, clouds mounting against the sunshine. How she loved an afternoon rain shower.

  After lunch, she’d play with the puppies, and when the rain came, she’d make the pie, then pick out the materials Rhett requested.

  Everleigh’s belly rumbled as she layered two slices with ham and cheese, then poured herself a cold glass of milk. Carrying her lunch outside, she lifted her face to the cooling, rain-scented breeze.

  The first bite of sandwich made her heart sing. She shouldn’t go so long without eating a proper meal. She had a child to grow. Meanwhile, Lola’s border collie puppies gathered at her feet, yipping, trying to climb her leg for leftovers.

  She’d already decided to take the runt of the litter with her to Memory Lane. Rocco, she called him.

  The wind tousled the tree limbs, flipping the leaves over to their paler underside. Sure sign of rain. Plus, the threatening clouds mounted higher and higher.

  Everleigh’s napkin blew from her lap and skipped across the grass. Rocco chased his brothers and sister as they ran after the linen cloth.

  Finishing her last bite of ham and cheese with a swallow of milk, she snatched the napkin from the biggest puppy, who wanted to play tug-of-war.

  “Give me that now, little darling.” Everleigh laughed as he sat his wee bottom in the grass, growling with all his might.

  But the tone in the wind had changed, and she was anxious to get inside. Scooping up the puppies—tucking Rocco and the other small pup into her apron pocket—she hit the kitchen door as the clouds broke, dropping a thick wall of rain over the ranch.

  Everleigh set her dishes in the sink and the puppies on the waxed linoleum floor before moving quickly through the house to close the opened windows.

  Mama A. didn’t permit the dogs inside—“They have a fine house in the barn.”—but Everleigh didn’t have time to run them back to their hay beds.

  Arranging the kitchen chairs as a barrier, she corralled the terrified puppies under the table and gave each one two cuts from last night’s chicken.

  “Now behave while I make the pie.”

  Rain splattered the window as Everleigh worked. More than once she glanced out the window as she rolled out the dough.

  The moan in the wind had morphed into a howl with an echoing screech.

  She’d just set the pie in the oven when a gust slammed the house so hard the windows rattled.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Everleigh snapped on the kitchen radio for a bit of news. But the only sound was crackling static.

  Again the wind howled and screeched, haunting and ghostly. Almost angry.

  The house shook so hard the chandelier swayed. Then a glass fell from the open shelf by the sink. Everleigh carried the larger pieces to the trash as another knock of the wind against the southern corner produced a loud shatter upstairs.

  With her pulse in her ears, she pulled the kitchen chairs aside and crooned to the huddled, trembling puppies. “Come.”

  Holding their wiggling bodies against her breast, she backed out the screen door, intending to go to the cellar.

  The gale drove the hard rain into her skin and knocked her into the porch post. She nearly lost her grip on little Rocco.

  The cellar. She must get to the cellar. Leaning into the wind, she stepped from the porch, but her foot slipped on the wet boards. She toppled backward, losing her hold on the big puppy. He cried out as he scampered in a frantic circle.

  She called for him, but the wind jerked her words away.

  Anchoring her arm around the porch post, Everleigh stashed Rocco in her apron pocket, and clinging to the other two squirming dogs, she stretched for the terrified big boy, lifting him up by the scruff.

  Then with a wild shriek, fear claiming her senses, she ducked her head and ran toward the cellar, soaked by water and wind.

  When she reached the in-ground doors, she gripped the rusty metal handle. But her fingers slipped and she stumbled, catching herself on the edge of a heavy gust, and lunged forward.

  Again she tried the cellar door, her soaked skirt clinging to her legs and the puppies wiggling and yipping.

  Adrenaline surged, then faded, leaving her arms trembling and legs weak, trapped by her heavy, rain-soaked skirt.

  The howl in the wind deepened, its dark, swirling finger snatching at the ground.

  For a moment Everleigh couldn’t move. A twister! Then she became Hercules, raising the cellar door against the tyrannical force. She tripped down the narro
w stairs and landed on the cold dirt floor. The puppies scrambled free as the storm slammed the door with a resounding clang.

  Shaking, she fumbled in the dark for the flashlight, finding it on the shelf where Rhett had set it six months ago. They’d come down here for canned goods and ended up, well, behaving like newlyweds.

  But there was nothing cozy and romantic about the space now. Clicking on the light, Everleigh waved it over the walls and floor, spotting the puppies huddled by an old horse blanket.

  Overhead the wind raged, stomping over the metal cellar door, causing it to rise just a bit before slamming shut.

  Joining the puppies, she huddled in the dark underground and with one long, anxious breath, released her fears with a scream that rivaled the fury raging above.

  * * *

  Beck

  She slept the first day of her suspension, trying to adjust to daytime hours. On day two, she was restless and searched online for a cheap ticket to Florida.

  On day three, she went to her doctor’s appointment, rebuffing the scorn of the nurse who scolded her for neglecting her care.

  The ultrasound proved what she already knew. She was pregnant with a girl. The doctor prescribed prenatal vitamins and set up an appointment for next month. But Beck pushed it out two weeks.

  “I’ll be in Florida.”

  Guess she was going then. Why not? Even if this house business turned out to be a joke—which it most certainly had to be—a trip to Florida could be fun. Escape the New York winter. Escape Hunter.

  On the fourth day, she called Miss Everleigh’s lawyer, a Mr. Joshua Christian, and confirmed her inheritance was real. He said he’d be more than happy to pick her up from the airport, but she opted for an Uber ride instead.

  The afternoon of the fifth day Beck took the train to Brooklyn Heights and knocked on Phil Hogan’s door.

  Even though he had ratted her out to Internal Affairs, she needed his advice. She needed his fatherly shoulder. She needed him to tell her what to do.

  Though she’d already talked with Mom and Flynn—about the house, not the baby—who urged her to go.

  “Shoot, I might punch someone to get suspended,” Flynn joked, his eyes dashing toward Mom, doing what he always did. Easing the situation.

  Mom agreed in her pragmatic way. “Maybe being at the house will help you remember things, Beck. Miss Everleigh loved you. All of us really, but especially you.”

  “Why?”

  “Your dad always said you seemed like twin souls born sixty years apart. Of course, he was Miss Everleigh’s summer handyman. I ask you, who goes on vacation to do chores around an old house? But that was your dad. Spent most of his vacation with a hammer in his hand, or a paint brush. He loved it. I read books, helped with the cooking, took you and the neighbor kid, Bruno, to the beach . . .” Mom sighed. “It really was a lovely time in our lives.”

  The door opened and Hogan stepped aside, inviting her into his warm apartment. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

  “I should’ve called.” She inspected his bachelor pad, wanting him to have a cozy, welcoming place instead of one furnished like a man who lost everything and didn’t believe he deserved a real second chance. The furniture was sparse and secondhand but nice. There were pictures and paintings on the wall.

  “Were you sleeping?” Beck said, choosing the chair by the door.

  “I’ve been up for a while.” He moved to the small kitchen just off the living room. “I don’t sleep well without Claudia. Not sure that will ever change. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Water.” Beck set her backpack on the floor and slipped from her coat.

  Her old friend, her mentor, returned with a cold bottle of water for her and a pop for himself and reclined in his chair. Silent seconds ticked by as they pretended to slake a raging thirst with their drinks.

  “I need to leave for the precinct in an hour,” he said.

  “Yeah, of course.” Beck sat straight backed on the edge of the chair, hand tucked between her knees. “I just wanted to ask you—”

  “Look,” he said, sitting forward. “I had no choice. My body cam captured you punching Boudreaux.”

  “I know. I know—”

  “They knew the story before they asked. Then witnesses called to complain, all on Vinny Campanile’s payroll, make no mistake, but the boys at 1 PP weren’t letting this one go. Besides, you walked off the job, and I couldn’t cover that, Beck.”

  She nodded, the loose ends of her chestnut hair falling over her shoulder. “I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

  “You know my past. I can’t step out of line even once. I have to look like one of New York’s finest.”

  “I’m pregnant, Hogan.”

  He stared at her with his pop bottle pressed to his lips. “What?”

  “I’m pregnant.” She winced at having to repeat herself.

  “H-how? When?”

  “How? The old-fashioned way. When? Last August at Rosie’s after the failed bust.”

  “With who? Don’t tell me Detective Myron. He’s such a—”

  “Mryon? Ugh! Please.” Beck made a face. “You think I’d go for that—”

  “Okay, okay.” Hogan held up his hands, defending against her barrage. “So who? When I left the party you were playing pool with Lieutenant Ingram. Pretty lit up too.”

  “Who doesn’t matter.” He had stepped way too close to the truth. “It happened.” She’d said too much. Why’d she bring up Rosie’s? It narrowed down the field tremendously.

  “Who’s the father, Beck?”

  “A man.”

  “A requirement. Does he know?”

  She nodded. “I told him, but I wonder if I should’ve kept it to myself.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “It’s complicated. I’m handling this on my own.”

  “Tell me who.” Hogan set his pop bottle down with force. “He can’t have all the fun and none of the responsibility.”

  “It’s handled, Hogan.” Beck gripped her water between her hands, rocking forward with nervous energy.

  “Guess it makes sense now why you punched Boudreaux. Hormones.”

  “No, that was all Boudreaux. Hormones or no hormones, he deserved it.” She bounced up, paced toward the kitchen, then leaned against the wall. “I don’t know what to do, Hogan. Every time I sit down to think about it, I go crazy. I feel like I’m going to cry, then I get angry because I hate crying. I’m a cop. A member of the NYPD. I bring justice to the world. I don’t crumble and fall apart. It’s my way of serving, of honoring Dad even if I don’t remember him.”

  “Everyone crumbles and falls apart now and then. Everyone needs justice, Beck. Don’t think you’re above wanting wrongs to be made right for yourself. Just because you’re a cop doesn’t mean you have to be callous and cold. You’re a woman first. It’s okay to act like one. You don’t have to be the Ice Queen. Or measure up to some idea you have of your father’s heroic legacy.”

  “Ice Queen? Who said I was an ice queen? Are people saying that about me?” From her first days on the force she’d been all fight and no finesse, but she wasn’t cold or uncaring. “And how can I not live up to Dad’s legacy? It’s all around me. The old guys still tell stories about him.”

  “But it’s okay to be you. We expect nothing more or less. As for the Ice Queen . . .” Hogan smiled. “I thought you knew that one. So, you’re going to be a mother?”

  “That one? How many are there?”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Just the one, and it’s not true, you know. You’re not as icy as you want people to believe.”

  “Maybe.” She finished her water in one gulp. “Hogan, I never saw myself as a mom. Not to mention, she’ll be without a dad, and I don’t want that for her. Every girl needs her dad.”

  “Then don’t let the father off because it’s complicated, Beck. Let him man up.”

  “He’s married.” There. Happy?

  “Ah.” Such a simple but wei
ghted word. “Then how can I help you?”

  A small tear collected in the corner of her eye. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Seems you’ve already decided. How far along are you? Got to be close to five months if it was around the time of the sting. Have you told your mom?”

  “Not yet. Not in the mood for a lecture.”

  “Come on, Beck, give her some credit.”

  “We’ve never been close, Hogan. Especially after Dad died. We lived to exist, then Flynn came around, and next thing I know she’s getting married and I can’t remember anything of my childhood.” Beck returned to her chair and unzipped the backpack. “What do you think about this?” She passed Everleigh Callahan’s will over to him. If she kept the conversation moving, her tears had to submit. “I inherited a house in Florida.”

  “You inherited a house?” Hogan reached for the document. “I didn’t know you had any relatives in Florida.”

  “The house isn’t from relatives.” Mom had finally spilled more details this morning over eggs and bacon. “Dad had an uncle, an aunt, and a cousin in Florida back in the late fifties, early sixties, but they moved to New York somewhere along the line. Anyway, there was an older woman across the street who was like an old aunt or granny to the family. Dad vacationed there with his family for a few years, I guess until his uncle moved, Mom couldn’t remember. Anyway, when I came along he wanted to go back down to this . . . this Fernandina Beach and give me the memories he had growing up. Apparently we stayed with this old lady, Everleigh Callahan. She died over Thanksgiving, left me her house.”

  Hogan looked up from reading the will. “Your dad tried to get a couple of us to go down for fishing one spring. Never worked out.” He passed the will back to Beck. “Do you have any memories of this place?”

  She shook her head. “Any memory Dad touched is gone.”

  The words were true, familiar, so much so she often forgot the depth of their meaning. Any memories associated with her father were wiped away eighteen years ago.