by Garth Stein
I hated the idea of selling off Riddell House to make room for McMansions. I hated it because it wasn’t what Ben wanted, and because Riddell House was so important to Grandpa Samuel.
But my father was my father! And I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to love me. And I wanted him to be happy with my mother and me, like we were happy before. Because we were happy once. I know it sounds sappy, but picking pumpkins on a brisk fall day, or following a creek deep into the Connecticut woods for hours and hours, or throwing rocks into an angry winter ocean . . . I remember these things. I remember looking at my parents and then knowing what love really was. I remember it so clearly! In their eyes! Between them! I saw an energy that was going back and forth between their eyes, and in that energetic stream the entire universe existed!
I sighed heavily, and Grandpa Samuel stared at me, waiting. Sad and lost.
He was waiting for me to tell him what to do.
“Let’s go down to the barn,” I said, and I touched his elbow. “We’ll make some chair legs. So they’re ready when the customer comes to collect them.”
“Someone’s coming to collect them?”
“He’s coming,” I said. “I’m pretty sure. One day, he’ll come.”
Grandpa Samuel nodded once and let me help him up. And then he let me lead him down to the barn.
– 29 –
A FIGHT OVERHEARD
I wrote in my journal until late. Just past eleven o’clock, I got up to use the bathroom and I heard voices from the kitchen. Serena and my father were talking; I moved quietly along the hallway to the servants’ stairs; I eased my way down to the first floor and stopped inside the door. I perched on the bottom stair, and, from there, I could hear everything.
“It’s like he has an instinct for it,” I heard my father say. “He knows exactly what to say to drive me crazy.”
“Patience, Brother,” Serena said. “It’s a matter of timing. Seeing the opening and taking it. You’re letting your frustrations get the better of you.”
“I don’t care anymore,” my father said. “Forget it. Let him stay here and rot. Who cares?”
“I care, Brother Jones. I care. You need to take some deep breaths and center yourself. You need to focus.”
I heard some movement, a chair, someone sitting.
“I’m still skeptical of the legality of this scheme,” my father said.
“It’s not a scheme, it’s a plan,” Serena said sharply. “And of course it’s legal. The lawyers explained it all clearly, didn’t they? These are professionals, Jones. Really.”
“I guess it doesn’t seem like it should be legal.”
“Why in heaven’s name not? He’ll get fair market value for the house. The money will be put in a trust for him. It will carry him through his years of decline and decrepitude until death finally claims him. We will also make our share—which we deserve! We deserve it! And Dickie’s company will make its share on top of that. I mean, really, Brother Jones. It’s a stunningly simple yet brilliant plan of my devising. I would think you would be celebrating me, not doubting me.”
There was shuffling in the kitchen, then the sound of a heavy glass being set on the table.
“You’re getting awfully friendly with that bottle,” Serena said.
“I’m self-medicating. For stress.”
“It’s a rather all-purpose medication, I suppose. It heals any ailment, like castor oil.”
“Just like that.”
There was silence then. Shuffling around. I heard the refrigerator open and close, then another door. Then beeping and the sound of the microwave oven fan.
“I suppose I should have guessed that Dickie wasn’t your type,” my father said. “You just go and hang out in their offices?”
“I’m interning.”
“You don’t get paid?”
“I’m investing in my future. And I told you, I’m receiving ‘good faith’ money. It keeps us in carpaccio.”
“I should have known that he was just part of your plan,” my father said. “Obviously on a deal this sophisticated, you would need a real estate expert on your team. Why shouldn’t you barter expertise in bed for expertise in the real estate market? You make a fine concubine.”
“That’s a bit harsh. I have needs, too, Brother Jones. My choosing Dickie was simply killing two birds with one stone. But then, I’m the one who sees opportunities when they are presented to me, unlike you.”
“I can’t imagine spending more than five minutes alone with him.”
“There’s not a glimmer of romance between us?”
“Not a glimmer.”
“Who is my type, then?” Serena asked.
“Someone smarter. Someone stronger.”
“Someone like you?”
“More like me than like him,” my father replied.
The microwave beeped and the door was opened.
“Do you want some of this?” Serena asked. “I can remove the tendons, if you like.”
“And what’s with the fucking tendon thing?”
“It gives him something to control.”
“Really? Talk about setting your sights low. A victory over tendons!”
“I’ve waited for this so long,” Serena said, her voice tired and dreamy.
Legs of a chair scraped the floor as she sat at the table.
“It’s been hard for you, I’m sure,” my father said.
“At first it wasn’t hard, it was just a lot of work. Work isn’t hard; it just is. But when your high school graduation date passed and I hadn’t heard from you, that was hard. And as I waited for you to return to me and you didn’t—weeks into months into years—that was hard. I won’t deny it. I fell deeply into despair. But when I felt the worst, I conjured your image in my mind, and your final words to me: ‘I will return for you.’ And my faith was restored.”
A long silence. I could picture my father and Serena so clearly: my father with his drink, Serena daintily eating her warmed turkey slices in small bites.
“What will you do with your share of the money, I wonder,” Serena said eventually.
“I want my house back and I want my life back,” my father said flatly.
“It was never your life,” Serena pointed out. “You just lived it for a little while. The drudgery, the blandness.”
“My life hasn’t been entirely bland.”
“No? Well, then, you’ve buried some of the excitement in your description. I would think teaching juvenile delinquents how to build wooden boats until you lost so much money you had to declare bankruptcy couldn’t be considered electrifying stuff. On the other hand, if you had gone broke in an explosion of fabulous globe-trotting, shopping sprees at Harrods with an American Express Black Card, and relentless sex and drug orgies on your private yacht, I could see your need for understatement.”
“Is that what excitement is?” my father asked.
“My point is that you’ve never reached for your true potential,” Serena said with some urgency to her voice. “After Daddy sent you away, you snuffed out your own flame. You know what your potential was when you were young: you could have done anything! But instead of doing anything, you did nothing. Why?”
“I’m a victim of circumstance,” he said.
“It’s not a matter of circumstance,” Serena snapped. “It’s a matter of weakness. A matter of pathetic self-flagellation. You need to set yourself free, and how you do it is by getting rid of this place. Giving it a kick so it tumbles over the edge of the precipice and plummets toward its destiny. You can’t care about what happens to Riddell House; you must turn your back on this place, like Orpheus leaving the shadows of hell: don’t look back or you’ll lose everything! When you finally let go, Brother Jones, you will be free to truly shine!”
I heard someone stand up. I heard water in the sink. I pictured Serena washing her plate.
“And what are you going to do with your share?” my father asked, which I thought robbed the moment of its poetry. Somethi
ng inside me—a spark!—reignited for Serena when she spoke like that. Such drama. Such power.
“I’m going to travel the world,” she said. “See things, go places. I’m going to be liberated from this hellhole, and I’m going to visit all the most fabulous places on earth, and maybe even some not so fabulous. You’re welcome to join me if you like. We could be traveling partners, take a cruise around the world with a cabin on the lido deck, wear formal clothes to the late dinner seating, drink champagne under the stars of the Southern Hemisphere.”
A cruise, I thought. An around the world cruise! The brochure!
“I have responsibilities,” my father said.
“Do you mean Trevor?” she asked with a contemptuous laugh, and I was startled to hear my name being invoked by her. “You have to be a good father like your father was? Honestly, Jones, your naïveté can be charming, but it’s tedious as well. Having a father who wanders through the house with dead eyes like you do, as if you’re a zombie, is no better than—and, in fact, one might argue worse than—having no father at all! Your ‘responsibility’ can be given to your wife. I haven’t heard the phone ring in the past few days. She hasn’t been checking in very regularly, has she? How is my dear sister-in-law, Rachel? Is she coping without you? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? Or absence makes the heart realize there wasn’t much there to begin with?”
“You’re a bitch,” my father said sharply.
“Am I?” Serena said, her voice cheery but strained. “A bitch? Or am I someone who speaks to you honestly, like no one has ever spoken to you in your life? Are you sure I’m evil? Or am I someone who has expectations for you, who sees your potential and wants you to reach it, who actually has a love for you that’s strong enough for me to tell you the truth you need to hear: you’ve pissed away your life until now, Brother Jones, and I won’t tolerate it. I won’t let you indulge in your pathetic pantomime any longer. Snap out of it, Brother! I’m not a bitch. I’m your savior!”
Silence then, long and deadly. And then three quick steps, a scuffle over something.
“Put that fucking bottle away,” Serena snapped, and a cupboard door slammed shut. “You’re a fucking drunk like your father. It’s a coward’s way out, and you are surely a coward. Buck up, boy. It’s time to stop cowering in the corner. It’s time to step up and take responsibility for your actions. You can’t hide from what you’ve done. You can outrun all the other boys on the track team and feel strong. You can feel sure. But you can’t outrun yourself, can you? That’s why you came home. That’s why you came back to Riddell House. Because whenever you stop running you have to face yourself. And you know what you did.”
I heard a slap. A hard slap—hand on face. I heard a gasp of surprise and a body collapse to the floor; it had to be Serena, because, after a moment, I heard heavy footsteps cross the room and pass in front of the door I was hiding behind. Those were my father’s footsteps. The footsteps paused, then continued down the hallway and out the front door. Moments later, I heard the spray of gravel as the rental car pulled away from Riddell House.
When my father was gone finally, I cracked open the door an inch and looked out. Serena was pooled on the floor, sobbing, holding her face in her hands. She wore a pretty dress, beige with a pale green and pink floral print. Spring. And her auburn hair. And her tears. Though I thought better of it, I couldn’t stop myself; I went to her, crouched over her, put my arm around her shoulder and felt her lean into me as she cried.
We stayed like that for a minute or more. I felt so awkward with the warm, quivering body of Serena pressed up against me. Her sobs slowed and then stopped. I went to the sink and filled a glass of water, which I brought to her. She sat back, pushed the hair from her face, and drank.
“You’ve been listening,” she said with a laugh of regret. She sniffed loudly.
“Why did Dad hit you?”
“I pressed on a bruise that’s still sensitive. It was a chance I took. I did it willingly, and I accept the consequences of my actions.”
I saw the scarlet mark on her face from the slap. I went to the freezer and wrapped some ice cubes in a tea towel; I brought it to her. She allowed me to hold it against her cheek.
“What bruise did you press on?” I asked. “Why did he get so mad?”
“There are certain things best kept private between a brother and a sister.”
“Like what things?”
She smiled at me gently. I felt strange being close to her when she was so vulnerable. I held her in my lap, for she hadn’t moved from the spot where she had collapsed. I held her, and her face was on my shoulder and I pressed the ice to her cheek and she looked up at me sleepily, reached with one hand, and stroked my face.
“In another universe, we would have been good friends,” she said. “You and I would have been very close. But I’m afraid this is the universe we’re stuck with.”
“I wish you would tell me.”
“It’s not for me to tell.”
We stayed like that for quite a while, until the ice melted enough that water dripped down her cheek. Then I helped her up and walked her down the hallway to her room. She stopped me at the threshold and did not allow me inside.
“There is part of him inside you,” she said. “Which is why you are so clever. But there is part of your mother, as well. Which is why you will survive this family. Of all of us, you will survive.”
She leaned in and kissed my forehead. It was soft and loving and I felt my soul shudder with the understanding that Serena and I were very much alike, as she said. But we were also entirely different.
“ ‘To sleep, perchance to dream,’ ” she said, and she smiled at my lack of reaction. “You didn’t roll your eyes, which means you don’t know the reference. You are still a boy and you have much to learn; I know you will learn it, and then you will be a man. Good night, my nephew, and thank you for your empathy. It means more to me than you can imagine.”
She closed the door.
– 30 –
BEHOLD, THIS DREAMER!
We were more than a week into our stay—ten days by the calendar—and I had taught myself how to walk down the long dark hallways without making a sound. I had familiarized myself with all the stairways that were obvious, and some that were not, back stairs and front, servant stairs and front-of-house. I had found linen closets with hidden panels to store things; what was stored in these places over the decades, I didn’t know. I understood Riddell House in a way I could only describe as fundamental. Sometimes, when I walked down the long corridor at night and ventured into the south wing, I felt as if I had become the house. The house told me when to turn, where to go next, what to discover. And when I stopped in a room during my nightly explorations, I always knew Ben was there with me, because I breathed with measured breaths and I didn’t move a gram of body weight; I made no sound. I waited until Ben’s shallow breath fell out of sync with mine, and I could hear us both breathing.
I didn’t want anything from Ben but the truth. He was there when my grandmother died. He knew what happened between my father and his mother and father, and he seemed to be the only one who was willing to tell me anything.
I stood in a room that was entirely empty except for a bare mattress on a metal frame. The moon shone across the water and tickled the ceiling and walls with flecks of light. I heard Ben’s breath, independent of my own, so I knew he was with me. He placed his hand on my shoulder and leaned toward me so I could feel his phantom weight, and he whispered my name.
“Tell me,” I said, but he said nothing.
That night, I had another dream.
* * *
Caked with mud and dirt, shivering in the cold rain that has soaked into his bones, Ben stands in the meadow, gazing up at Riddell House, the symbol of all that is right and all that is wrong in the world. The place built to shelter him from suffering; the place that is the source of his pain. The only thing he sees is Harry, looking up at him from the ground, his eyes blazing red,
and yet a peaceful look on his face, as if he had already reached a place where pain no longer existed.
Ben caused Harry’s death. In his rage against his father, he broke Harry. He broke him so he couldn’t save himself. The moment of Ben’s greatest joy—confessing his true love for Harry to his fiancée, and her accepting the truth of it—forever bonded with the moment of Ben’s greatest sorrow, the death of his soul mate. And now what does he do? And now where does he go?
Soaking wet and filthy, he enters Riddell House. Leaving muddy footprints on the rug, he goes to his father’s study and sits at the desk. With a shaky hand he scrawls a note to his father, an attempt to explain. He must go. He must find Harry, even if it means leaving this world.
He leaves the note on the desk and walks down the hill to the barn. The evening is falling on the meadow, and a cold wind blows, causing him to shiver even more, if that’s possible. He takes his equipment bag from the barn and trudges through the woods to the base of the tree. The tree.
With grim determination, he straps on his gaffs and slings his flip line around the trunk, like he’s done a thousand times. He digs a spike into the bark until he feels the bite; he sets his weight on it and mounts the tree. He stabs his other spike into the trunk and he is ready. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t ask the tree to protect him.
The climb is not fun for him; it is a chore. It is difficult. It is painful. He feels he is not climbing by himself but carrying the dead body of Harry with him, hanging from a rope tied to his waist. He feels the burden of Harry’s soul. The guilt of Harry’s death.
And so he climbs endlessly. He climbs so slowly, the tree seems to grow taller as he climbs; he may never reach the top. Fatigue racks his body, his core. He is cold and tired and hungry. He aches.
It’s hours before he reaches a familiar place, and night has fully fallen. He finds the perch where a branch had broken off in a storm years ago. He pauses on the perch and looks out to the silhouette of the Olympic Mountains, a distinct black line against the horizon. His vista gives him some hope that nothing can diminish the beauty of this world. The wind is blowing strongly, and he trembles so violently, he nearly loses his grip. But he holds tight. No, he thinks. Not yet. For a moment, overwhelmed with fatigue from the previous night’s events, he thinks he should return to the ground to meet Harry, because Harry has made some stew for him and is waiting in the cottage for his return. But Ben remembers that Harry is dead, and so he continues up, higher still, until he is holding on to a trunk that is so thin it is almost impossible. The resilient trunk sways under his weight and sways in the wind, and he sways with it. It is frightening to be so exposed, so naked, nearly three hundred feet in the air.
