by Jan Gleiter
Pulling into the driveway, she stopped again to look more closely at the fence. The posts looked all right; the problem seemed to be simply one of missing pickets. If so, repairs would be easy. The house itself would probably present more difficult challenges, but this she did not mind. Her anxiety about moving to a house seen only in photographs had been based on the worry that, in real life, it wouldn’t be a house she felt anything for. That was not going to be the situation.
There would be furniture inside—furniture she had been warned she wouldn’t want—but the Salvation Army truck was scheduled for the next morning to haul away whatever she rejected. With any luck, it would arrive before the moving truck came with her possessions.
She eased the car down the driveway, which curved around the back of the house, and stopped. There was no door in the back except for cellar doors slanting up from the ground and held shut with a padlock through their handles, so she walked back around to the side. She gazed at the cracked cement of the kitchen stoop, seeing herself seated there in a faded cotton housedress, a crockery bowl in her lap, snapping the ends off green beans with competent efficiency. She smiled at the vision, in which her sturdy frame had attenuated and her skin had a delicate blush from the sun. No, five feet three was, at thirty, as tall as she would ever be, and it was no more likely that she would become as slender as her vision was than that she would begin to wear housedresses. A crockery bowl would be simple to get, however, and the beans were just a matter of digging up some piece of this suddenly acquired forty acres and recalling what she’d once known about planting vegetables.
She couldn’t decide whether to get out her key and go in the house or walk across the meadow and through the wooded section at the back of the property to find the creek. She knew there was a creek. Michael Mulcahy, the lawyer who handled her great-aunt’s will, had described the land in detail when she’d called him after receiving his letter, one from her great-aunt, and the photographs.
“It has live water,” he had said on the phone, and she had needed to ask what that was. “Sorry,” he said. “A creek, as opposed to a lake or pond. It’s your back boundary.”
“Rock bottom or mud?”
“Rock,” he replied. “Your property is generally level, but you’re close to the mountains.”
A rock-bottom creek! Her hesitations fell away. “So it babbles?”
“I guess.” His voice betrayed perplexity. “It curves up from the south to border your land. I only saw it the once, when Louise was making her will sometime back, and I wanted to know what all was involved in the real property part of her estate. Is babbling important?”
“To me,” sighed Meg. “Don’t sell it. I want it.”
The lawyer was silent a moment. “You mean you want to come see it.”
“No, I want it. I can’t afford to come see it. I don’t have the time or the money. My landlord is selling the building I live in, and the new owners want my apartment, so I’ve been looking. I have to be out in five weeks. I will be. I’ll move to my new house. Send me directions and a key.”
“Don’t you have a job?”
“It’s portable.”
“Look,” he said, “I wouldn’t advise this. You may regret it. If you want the place, it’s yours. Of course. But there are people who’d buy it, people who want the land. You could sell the place and buy something in Chicago. You don’t have to move here to benefit from this inheritance.”
Meg’s decision seemed not to fit with this lawyer’s plan. “Yeah, well, I can sell it next month if I hate it,” she said. “And I’ll know better what price to ask.” That was as pointed as she felt justified in being without having even met the man, but she wondered if he was one of the people who’d be willing to buy.
She thought for a few days that she was undoubtedly insane and then decided she didn’t care. She concentrated on the positives. She could plant flowers, get a dog, hear crickets. She could take her cartons and cartons and cartons of books out of storage and have room for them. She could live someplace she wouldn’t have to leave until she wanted to, if she wanted to. She could never run into Jim again. All because of a great-aunt she had barely known, a woman who had paid one visit to her family and sat for hours helping seven-year-old Meg expand her list of names for horses.
Meg’s mother had dreaded the visit, and there was a pervasive tension in their small apartment as she cleaned and waxed and polished. It had made no sense to Meg. If an aunt was visiting, surely it was an occasion for joy. Recently widowed, Great-Aunt Louise was on her first trip away from Pennsylvania, visiting each of her relations in one extended burst of familial devotion, which, Meg’s mother told her later, was out of character. Still, she had been kind to Meg and endlessly agreeable to the task no one else had time for.
Together, they had brought Meg’s list to two hundred names. Meg still remembered her feeling of triumph looking at the loose-leaf pages covered with handwriting. Some of her great-aunt’s suggestions were mysterious, but they had the right sound. She could hear the announcer calling them out as the horses pranced, manes tossing, to the gates to start the race. Years later, she found the list in a box of books and games and smiled at “Standard Deviation.” It still seemed a good name.
After that, there had been Christmas cards. The ones to Meg’s parents contained brief notes, but Meg always received her own, with longer messages and much more interesting news. “The doe I call ‘Lucky’ had twins this year, one much bigger than the other. Oddly, it was the smaller one who was more bold. Mama sometimes had a hard time keeping him hidden.”
Every year, Meg carefully chose a card to send—the only card she did send. She made sure it had a religious picture rather than Santa Claus and tried to write her own news in the correct Zaner-Bloser style. Aunt Louise had strong feelings about penmanship. In answer to her great-aunt’s request, these cards had always enclosed the most recent school picture.
That, as far as Meg had ever known, had been the extent of it. The news that she had inherited the bulk of her great-aunt’s estate—her house—had been a shock. Most of the photographs Michael Mulcahy sent he had taken himself. All exterior shots and taken in the wintertime, they had given her only the vaguest idea of what the property was like. The other photographs had been a complete set, carefully organized and framed together, of Meg from third grade through twelfth.
Now that she was actually at the house, she felt a qualm about the all-important creek. What if it turned out to be just a gash in the land, a deep and sluggish ribbon of wetness or a patchy trickle? She took a deep breath and set off across the meadow. The grass and assorted plants that grew there were turning green, but it was not yet the knee-high expanse it showed every sign of becoming. Before she even got to the woods she heard a sound, a gentle murmur that hurried her steps.
The path continued to the edge of the woods and then, less obviously, through it. Maples, oaks, and hickories dominated, but mountain laurel and honeysuckle shrubs had taken hold at the edge. Walking through the trees was a simple matter, although the dimness and utter quiet, save for the gentle noise of running water, made Meg feel suddenly vulnerable.
Near the creek, a few pale purple hepatica, with their distinctive dark green foliage, were growing. The water ran swiftly but it was shallow, accounting for the noise it made. She could have crossed its twenty-foot width without wetting her feet, simply by jumping from rock to rock. Instead, she sighed with satisfaction and turned back to find out just how bad the inside of the house was. It could be pretty bad without making her regret her decision, given the creek.
As she walked back through the trees, a rustle to her left pulled her gaze in that direction. She would need to get used to the small sounds of rabbits and squirrels. But the shape that suddenly separated itself from the trees was neither a rabbit nor a squirrel. It was a dog, an ugly, mud-brown dog that stood silently, watching her with a baleful look, and then turned and loped away.
Meg whistled. The dog gave no sign of
having heard.
* * *
Her key turned smoothly in what was evidently a brand-new lock. She let the screen door slam behind her and set her purse down on the closest cabinet. She was standing, as she had expected to be, in the kitchen. There was a wide old sink under a window that looked out onto the side yard and wooden cabinets—once glossy white, now the color of French vanilla ice cream—lined two walls. Plain glass-fronted cabinets bordered the window above the sink. A huge stove had a griddle between the left and right burners and two ovens side by side, and there was a refrigerator with a rounded top, which was humming faintly. Everything except the linoleum floor looked as if it had been there since the 1930s. The floor was individual black and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern—pretty, but, to fit the feel of the room, it should have been one unbroken piece.
At right angles to the door to the yard was a large pantry with a wall of shelves on each side and a built-in cabinet at the back. The shelves were empty. Meg had hoped to find a canning jar or two or, perhaps, a bucket somewhere. Failing that, she put the rubber plug in the bottom of the sink, turned on the water, and went outside to get the daffodils. She propped them up inside the sink.
She opened her purse and took out the letter that had been such a surprise. The envelope bore her name in beautiful, swirling handwriting. Inside, there was a single piece of paper, covered in the same elegant hand.
Dear Meg,
I am leaving you my house. If you don’t want it, if your life in Chicago is a happy one, put it up for sale and do whatever you like with the money. I didn’t tell you I was leaving it to you because I didn’t know if I could or if I’d have to sell it. It has all depended on whether my savings or my time ran out first. Since you’re reading this, it looks like my time did. You probably wonder why I left it to you, so I’ll try to explain.
As you might know, since Lawrence died, I’ve had my books and the church and the house. I haven’t had close friends, though I got on all right with my neighbors. Your mother and I were not fond of each other. I guess I grate on most people. Heaven knows they grate on me. Anyway, after Lawrence died, I thought I should visit the family I had but wasn’t looking forward to it.
When I arrived at your house, your mother fretted and dithered, your father shut himself up in the bedroom, and you took my hand, sat me down, snuggled up, and said, “You got any good names for horses?” You were foolish enough not to realize that I was an unsociable, difficult old woman. You looked just like my sister Henrietta (Bee, we called her) when she was seven, small for your age and dark. (And, as the years have passed, you haven’t lost the resemblance.) You acted like her too. She was one of the few people I ever cared for. I didn’t like her husband (your grandfather), so she and I parted ways, and then she died. Your mother reminded me of my brother-in-law. You reminded me of Bee.
To get to the point, you’re the only relative I have any real fondness for. That, I’m sure, says more about me than it does about my family, but it’s true nonetheless. So, now you have a house if you want it. It’s a poor old thing, but I was contented in it. If you actually come to live in it, there are two things you need to know. You have to get the attic door shut just right, or it swings open. If the young brunette at Sanderson’s Variety waits on you, count your change.
Your Aunt Louise
Meg read the letter twice, refolded it carefully, and stood looking out the window above the sink. Across the driveway and, again, near the kitchen door, spirea grew. In another few weeks she would be able to stand here, doing dishes or washing vegetables, and look out at gracefully arched branches and crowded clusters of bloom.
“How did you know, Aunt Louise?” she asked quietly. “How did you know?”
A car was coming down the driveway. It stopped near the path to the front door. Craning her neck to see at the awkward angle, Meg watched a man get out of the car and walk around it to the flagstone path. She went through the dining room and into the living room to open the door, but as she reached for the knob, a key turned in the lock, and the door swung open.
“Hello, Mr. Mulcahy,” said Meg, jumping back to avoid a broken nose.
The man stared at her. “Ms. Kessinger?”
“Yes,” said Meg. “Whom did you expect?” She looked curiously at the visitor. He wasn’t much over six feet, but his broad shoulders made him seem larger than he was. He had wavy brown hair, cut short, and brown eyes. An attractive man, despite his startled look. He was wearing a thick pullover shirt and corduroy trousers.
“Nobody,” he answered. “I surely didn’t expect you, at least not yet. I thought you were getting here tomorrow morning.”
“Well, that’s what I thought, too,” said Meg. “But I left earlier than I’d planned. You are Michael Mulcahy, aren’t you?”
“Forgive me. Yes,” he replied. “Please, call me Mike. I wanted to make sure the men had come and ripped out the old carpeting like you asked, and that nothing dreadful had happened. Like the roof falling in.” He grimaced.
“Which is due to happen?”
“Don’t ask me,” he said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d get the place inspected if I were you.”
“For?”
He grinned at her. “Imminent collapse?”
“Come on,” said Meg, walking toward the kitchen. “Come look at this. I know, you’ve seen it before, but look again.”
She stood in the center of the kitchen and gestured. “Have you ever seen a more perfect room?”
“Well, the floor’s nice. Nicer than it used to be.”
“The floor is not nice. It’s okay but it’s not nice. It’s everything else that’s nice. It just needs a big table and some curtains on the window. And a coffeepot. It definitely needs a coffeepot.”
“And a new stove, and a refrigerator that will freeze ice, and a dishwasher, and a microwave…”
Meg suppressed the desire to tell him he was crazy. If the kitchen were his, he’d ruin it. She didn’t want to admit that the idea of a refrigerator that wouldn’t freeze ice had given her pause. “I’d love to offer you some coffee, believe me. But I can’t.”
He waved a hand. “I’ve got to be going, but you’ve got my number if there’s anything I can help you with, right?”
“Yes. The phone, however, isn’t connected. But the guy’s coming the day after tomorrow.”
“Okeydoke,” he said. “If you need representation at a court appearance, give me enough warning to get my suit pressed. If you just need a can opener, come over to the house. We’re almost neighbors.”
He handed her the key ring he was still holding. “Here are the other keys. Like I said on the phone, I got both locks changed for you.”
“We’re neighbors?”
“Indeed. You have the Ruschmans to the west, and I’m the house past theirs.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Thataway. Well, I gotta run. Lost my secretary, and I’ve got piles of stuff to type at my blazing twelve words a minute.”
Meg looked down at the keys in her hand. “Is there another one? A small one for the lock on the cellar doors?”
He shook his head. “Sorry.”
Oh, well, thought Meg. Bolt cutters will make short work of it, if I ever put a washer down there and hang a clothesline in the backyard.
When Mike was halfway to his car, she called after him. “Hey! Do you have a dog? A smallish brown dog?”
He stopped and turned, a concerned look on his face. “She’s not mine,” he said. “She’s been around a few weeks. She’s one strange, spooky dog. Did she bother you?”
“No. I just saw her in the woods.”
“Stay away from her. She was hanging around one day by my place, and I tried to see if she was wearing a collar under that matted hair. She nearly took my thumb off.”
“Maybe,” Meg said under her breath, “she knew you were a lawyer.”
Five
As Michael Mulcahy’s car turned out of the drive, another pulled in. It was a well-rusted station wagon, and
it stopped by the kitchen door. A tall woman got out. She looked to be in her early forties, but the thick blond hair caught into a ponytail high on her head was not as incongruous as it might have seemed on another woman of a similar age. She was wearing faded jeans and a football jersey, and her smile was wide and friendly.
“Hey, neighbor,” she said to Meg, who was standing in the doorway and holding the screen door open with her shoulder. “Jane said you’d arrived, so I brought coffee and sandwiches in case you need them.” She reached into the car and dragged out a basket. “Want some lunch?”
Meg, whose coffeemaker was in the moving truck, nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, yes!” she said. “Mostly I want coffee, but I’ve never turned down lunch.” She stood out of the way to let her visitor in.
“I’m Christine Ruschman,” said the woman. “You must be Meg Kessinger.” She set down the basket and motioned toward the daffodils in the sink. “I brought some jars. Janie told me about the flowers, and I thought you might need something to put them in.”
“While I was drifting off to sleep in the Motel Six last night, I said a prayer,” replied Meg. “It went like this: ‘Dear Lord, Please let me like the house and give me a neighbor who anticipates my every need.’ I never had a prayer answered so fast. Except one time when I asked for a highway patrolman to ignore me, and he did. Your daughter is a darling.”
Christine poured from a large thermos into two mugs and handed one to Meg. “Cream? Sugar? No? Yes, she is, isn’t she? So, you do like the house?”
Meg smiled blissfully. “Coffee! I don’t know for sure, haven’t seen much of it.”
“But the kitchen?” Christine sighed. “The world’s greatest kitchen? I’m so jealous of this kitchen, I could spit.”
Meg looked around. “I love the kitchen. But how were you brave enough to say that? What if my burning desire was to rip out all this stuff and put in sleek, Euromodern cabinets and track lighting? Wouldn’t I be scared to tell you?”
