The House That Lou Built

by Mae Respicio

  I pull out my phone and find a website to type in Peter Keller. An address pops up, and the map shows me I can easily walk there. Here I go.

  Mr. K’s house has a bright purple door with a line sawed through the middle, a Dutch door for keeping farm animals out, or kids in. Already it’s an interesting place.

  I ring the doorbell and a gong sounds. I laugh. He answers and looks surprised. “Oh my, what a pleasant gift! Why, hello, Lucinda!”

  I give a cheery wave. “Hi. I was in the neighborhood. Hope it’s okay I came by?”

  “Of course! Please, come in.” He peers behind me. “Where are Celina and Minda?”

  “Oh, it’s just me,” I say, but he doesn’t seem concerned.

  Once I enter, I notice something strange—that I’m still outside. I’m standing in an open-air courtyard surrounded by enormous sheets of glass panels. I’m not inside the house yet, but I can see right into it.

  “Where are the walls?” I ask, and he chuckles.

  “You like?”

  Mr. Keller slides open the glass and we step into the living room. On the opposite end is more glass, and my view goes straight to the backyard.

  “I’ve never seen a house like this,” I say.

  “People call them Eichlers, after Joseph Eichler, the architect. He built spaces that felt like you could be indoors and outdoors at the same time.”

  “Except you have to be careful not to run into the glass when you think it’s open but it’s actually closed, which I may or may not have done on occasion,” says Mr. Keller’s partner, Mr. Ko, who walks into the room. Mr. Ko has silver-and-black hair. He used to teach high school English, and Mom says he got everyone to love reading.

  “Hi, Mr. Ko, it’s great to see you again.”

  “Ed, you remember Lucinda Bulosan-Nelson?”

  “Yes, it’s been a while, but I remember you, your mother, and your beautiful names very well—Lucinda and Luzviminda.” He gives me a friendly hug.

  I got named to kind of match Mom’s. Hers is common in the Philippines. It’s a mash-up of the three island groups of Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao. Everyone calls her Minda.

  “I’ve heard about all the excellent work you did in class this year, Lucinda.”

  “Mr. Ko, you can call me Lou.”

  “Then you can call me Ed.”

  “My nickname kind of sounds like a truck driver, but that’s what I like about it. It’s different.”

  They both smile at me.

  “Speaking of Minda, where is she?” Mr. Keller asks. “Everything all right?”

  Hmmm. I didn’t think this through. I can tell the truth about how I went out to my land this morning, or I can lie about it. No matter what I tell him, he’ll probably report back to Mom. Either way, she’ll find out.

  “Oh, everything’s fine. She’s not with me right now. Letting kids do things by themselves is called free-range parenting. So we can learn to make good choices.”

  This is not a lie. It’s how Alexa’s mom thinks. Alexa gets to do all kinds of things without her parents worrying. In my family, none of us are even allowed to date until after college. Maribel had to beg her parents to let her go to Fall Formal, and they only said yes because she got into all AP classes.

  Mr. Keller pauses. “What an excellent idea to learn how to navigate the world, don’t you think, Ed?” he says. Phew.

  “Was this house built in the mid-century?” I ask.

  “You seem to know a lot about architecture,” Ed says.

  “I watch the Home Channel with Lola. It’s our thing. Plus, I have my dad’s old sketchbooks with all his house designs.” I’m glad I do. His doodles and notes helped me get to know him better.

  “Want to hear something else interesting?” Mr. Keller points to walls of solid wood. “This is luan, a type of mahogany from the Philippines. It’s what the original houses were made from.”

  I slide my palm across the warm reddish color and try to imagine the trees they came from. Filipino walls. My cousins will want to hear this.

  I think it’s true that dog owners can resemble their pets, like a guy with shaggy hair and a droopy face might have a dog with shaggy fur and a droopy face. It’s the same with people’s homes. Where they live can echo them. If your place is cluttered, well, probably you’re feeling that way, too—that’s happened to me at Lola’s.

  In class we always know when Mr. Keller’s mad (nostrils puff up and nose hairs stick out), curious (eyes squint), or happy (whistles while working). You see right into him. This glass house suits him perfectly.

  “Lou, may I interest you in some iced tea and a slice of my famous strawberry-rhubarb pie?” Ed asks.

  “No, thank you. But I was wondering…well, I stopped by because…”

  “Yes?” Mr. Keller peers at me the way he does in class when he’s calling on students, like he’s expecting me to say something good. I thought I’d ask for help on my land, but for some reason, I’m embarrassed. I stare through a glass panel—outside, the sun warms their yard.

  “I came over because Lola’s told me about your house and I wanted to see it. I’m glad I did.” I smile at them. “I should get going.”

  “Where are you headed?” Mr. Keller asks.

  “Back to the city.”

  “Let me give you a lift. I’ve got a few errands to run there.”

  “It’s okay. I like taking the bus.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Keller says, and soon we’re both in his car.

  * * *

  —

  We cross the Golden Gate Bridge with its wide span of reddish-orange cables, our windows rolled all the way down to feel the breeze. The air on my face is cool and swift, like a poem. When I was little, I used to think the bridge was literally made from gold. It’s actually painted in a color called international orange so it stands out in the fog.

  This bridge always looks different. Sometimes the top’s covered by thick clouds and I can’t spot the city. It’s like traveling into nothing, a hazy dream. It can get foggy in the summer when the ocean air rushes in and pulls the mist across. Other times, like now, it’s so clear I can see across the skyline to the tip of the Transamerica Pyramid.

  Today, hundreds of people line both sides, cyclers on one, walkers and joggers on the other.

  “Isn’t it mind-blowing, the engineering behind something as grand as this entryway? It never ceases to amaze me, but particularly on beautiful days like this,” Mr. Keller says.

  “Mr. K, remember how I told you I’m building my tiny house?”

  “Yes, vividly.”

  “That’s what I was doing this morning, out on my land. Mom found a new job and we might have to move out of San Francisco, so I’m building it now.”

  Mr. Keller watches the road and doesn’t say anything right away—maybe I said too much.

  “I’m sure Minda’s doing what she thinks is best for your family, Lucinda. You know, my father passed away when I was around your age. Mothers usually make decisions because they’re doing their best.”

  He’s siding with her already. “How come you never had any kids?” I ask, and he laughs.

  “I do have between twenty-four and twenty-eight wonderful kids of my own each and every school year. And I’m lucky to have taught for so long that I get to see a few of them grow up, too—like your mom and aunt.”

  I like to think of Mr. K as my substitute grandpa, and I know Lolo and Grandpa Ted would approve. We smile at each other.

  * * *

  —

  We veer off the bridge, through the tolls, and into areas of steep streets and skinny houses smushed up so close against each other that no light can squeeze through the cracks.

  Lola’s house sits in a pocket not far from the ocean, in a neighborhood where the homes have the teeniest of front yards. My grandp
arents came to San Francisco when they immigrated. The way Lola tells it, they had relatives who found them farm jobs out in the Central Valley; then during off-seasons they worked in restaurants and hotels and department stores—cleaning, fixing, serving. They worked hard to buy a place of their own, with everything they needed to raise their American daughters.

  Our main street has shops and cafés and people Maribel calls “hipsters,” who like to eat expensive toast, all mixed with homeless people pushing shopping carts. The opposite of Mr. Keller’s quiet street.

  We pull into the driveway. Mom gets home in a few hours. I suddenly think: How am I going to explain this if Mr. Keller tells her I went to his house?

  “Thanks so much, Mr. K. You don’t have to walk me up.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” he says, and we get out of the car.

  * * *

  —

  Inside, Mom’s on the couch. She got home early! I walk in with Mr. Keller and she sits up, confused.

  “Peter? Lou? Is everything all right?”

  “Ummm…”

  “Oh, everything’s swell, Minda. We’ve been enjoying the beautiful weather and a nice chat. Lucinda popped by my place in Marin after she was out at her land. I think it’s fabulous you let her have some independence. When I was a kid, I rode the bus everywhere on my own.”

  Mom still looks puzzled. “You were where? By yourself?”

  “Uh…” I give a half-smile.

  “Lucinda told me all about her little house,” Mr. Keller says.

  I watch her react. I’m definitely in trouble.

  “Please, stay for some merienda. Lucinda, we’ll talk about your adventure later.” She’s definitely mad if she’s using my full first name.

  “Ladies, perhaps I should bid you goodbye and be on my way to run errands.”

  “You’re not getting off that easy, Peter. Come in. Hang out,” Mom says to him.

  * * *

  —

  In the kitchen, I fix myself a PB and J while they talk in the living room. I hear Mom say quietly, “She has this wacky idea to build a house out there.”

  “So?” Mr. Keller says. “She’s very capable, Minda. That takes planning, math skills, artistic flair….This would be a terrific project for her.”

  Mom sighs. “Oh, you woodshop people. I need Lou to get her mind on other things right now.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” I carry my plate into the living room.

  “I was about to give you ladies something that might come in handy,” Mr. Keller says. He grabs a pen and small notepad from his pocket and scribbles something, then rips out the page and hands it to me.

  “My number. You already have it, but this is for your fridge, a reminder to call me anytime. You can both come over. Lou and I can do some learning while Minda and Ed catch up.” He winks at me.

  “That’s kind of you, Peter,” Mom says as she shows him to the door.

  Once he’s gone, she stretches out her arms. “I could use a hug.” And I walk into her. She doesn’t seem mad anymore.

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Lou, whatever you were doing today without my permission, no more.”

  I nod. “May I go over to Sheryl’s for a little while?”

  “I was hoping to tell you all about Washington. I had a great trip,” she says, smiling. Not a good sign. What if I’m already signed up for a new school?

  “Sure, uh…that. Can we do it later?”

  Mom’s phone buzzes; she holds it to her ear. “Hey, sis. Yeah, just got back.” She looks at me and raises a finger, asking me to wait. I hide out in the only place I can.

  * * *

  —

  In my closet, on the top shelf behind stacks of books and shirts, I find Dad’s dollhouse. I slide it out and set it down carefully.

  He designed a Victorian—very San Francisco. Mom and I look at real ones on house tours, and I love running my hand against the wooden railings, even though you’re not supposed to touch anything.

  I don’t play with dolls anymore, but I like to study Dad’s gift. It has a slanted roof covered in rounded shingles like fish scales, and a swirly gingerbread trim. It’s so detailed that if I squint, I can pretend I’m looking at something life-sized.

  There’s a knock at my office door.

  “No one’s home,” I say, but Mom opens it anyway.

  She squishes in and sits down, the clothes above grazing her head. “Got something for you.” Mom hands me a little booklet.

  I fan through pages of kids holding up hammers and amateur birdhouses, or shovels and dirty carrots they just dug up.

  “It’s a group in Seattle that gives woodworking classes. They have real tools and—get this—there’s a community garden you and Lola could visit.”

  Why would I build with those kids when I’ve got a project that’s a trillion times better? I might as well ask. “So you liked it there?”

  “I have to admit, it was pretty darn perfect. I saw some great neighborhoods and schools….”

  “We have those things here.”

  “I know, Lou, but I think you’d love it,” she says, giving me her biggest smile.

  “I already told you, I don’t want to move.”

  “But you’ll make good friends and have fun things to do there, too.” She hesitates, then says, “Honey, there’s no easy way for me to tell you this, but I’ve decided to take the job.”

  What did she just say? “Are you serious?”

  “I know this isn’t what you want to hear—”

  “But what about my friends? And what about our family? And Barrio Fiesta? What about my birthday…and my land?”

  “Oh, sweetie, you’ll still get to dance. We’ll move after Barrio Fiesta. That gives us time to get organized, and we can celebrate your birthday here. And your land will be here whenever we visit.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

  “Lou, you’re old enough to understand this now. I’ve been giving the decision a lot of thought, going over all the pros and cons—this is for your future. If we stay here, we’ll never be able to save for college or buy a house.”

  Mom tries to hug me but I snap myself away. She stays planted. We sit in silence until finally, she says, “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to talk.”

  Mom shuts the closet door quietly behind her.

  What now?

  I picture myself blowing out a candle, and exhale slowly. My head starts to clear.

  There’s a tiny stairway in my dollhouse. I slide my finger down the railing, its perfect little balusters. Dad wouldn’t want us to leave.

  Mom’s a softy when it comes to the Nelsons’ land. If I stick to the original plan of building my house, I think I can still convince her not to take that job. She just needs to see it to understand. I’ll need to build fast.

  There’s a picture taped to the center of my vision heart, of me and my friends on a hike in the redwoods. We’re acting goofy, flexing our muscles, sipping from water-backpack tubes and trying not to laugh. I stare at it.

  Okay, Lou. Step it up.

  Lola Day means an afternoon when Sheryl and I do different things with our grandma, like mani-pedis, even though I hate nail polish and always choose clear, or watching Lola’s Filipino soap operas and making bets on what’s going to happen.

  But normally we do “Filipino stuff,” like learning to cook new dishes or hearing about history, which means Lola makes her friends tell us stories about being in the Bataan Death March, or fighting for farmworkers with Larry Itliong and Philip Vera Cruz—they were Filipino American labor leaders. We always get good ideas for book reports.

  Today is Lola Day, but mega-sized. We’re taking over the community center to get ready for Barrio Fiesta.

  In the kitchen, I st
are into a giant stainless-steel refrigerator to find ingredients, but it’s impossible to focus.

  I feel an arm around my shoulders. I’d know that touch anywhere.

  “Hey, Lola.”

  “Let us get your mind off any worries.” She always seems to know when I’m feeling bad.

  Expertly, Lola yanks items from the fridge and pulls me to a long table, where other lolas roll lumpias. Someone’s frying them up, and the whole kitchen smells dee-lish.

  Sheryl and I have a thick square stack of doughy wrappers, plus bowls of meat-and-veggie filling.

  “Don’t forget to wet the wrapper so it sticks at the edge.” Lola dabs her finger into a bowl of water to show us—the way she always has.

  Mom and Auntie Gemma have memories of doing “Filipino stuff” with Lola when they were growing up, too. Raising them in America, Lola says, she needed to teach them such things.

  “Tell us again how you met Lolo,” Sheryl asks. My cousin could hear that story every day and never get sick of it.

  “He wooed me with a kundiman, a love song. It was the middle of the night, and he and his compadres stood outside my window strumming their guitars. But your lolo’s voice was so dreadful, like a squawking chicken, that all the roosters crowed and woke everyone in our village, so my father chased them away with his best machete!” She slaps her thigh and laughs hysterically. Part of why we love hearing this story is how lively she gets as she tells it. “Every single night he came back and sang me his love songs, and every single night your great-grandfather shooed him away. But one night, your great-grandpa simply invited him to come back in daylight. Lolo helped on our farm, convinced your great-grandparents of his love for me, and became a part of our family. That turned into our wonderful life.”

  “So romantic,” Sheryl says dreamily.

  “Ay nako! I smell something burning!” Lola says as she rushes to the stove.