Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

  “A pool?”

  She nods.

  “A pool for swimming?”

  “Yep.”

  “We have a place to swim. It’s called a ‘lake’,” I smile.

  Her face slowly drops and she looks down at her empty glass. “I’m sorry … I wasn’t thinking about the house … I had brain freeze.”

  “No kidding.” I laugh.

  She’s embarrassed but not mortified.

  “Since you bring it up, what do you think of the house?” I ask. I realize that I haven’t asked her how she’s doing with everything, yet, and I can’t help but feel a little guilty.

  Now, she’s really thinking.

  “I like it,” she finally says. “It’s kind of big.”

  “It is, but we’ll get used to it.”

  She shrugs in a way that says she’s not convinced.

  “Do you like your room?”

  She nods, more certain of her answer. Then, she gets quiet. “Do you like your room?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Are you ever going to sleep in it?”

  “I … Yeah …”

  “… Okay.”

  She seems worried and I’m not sure where this is coming from. It might be from finding me on the couch the past two nights.

  “Daddy had some bad dreams, that’s all, and I wanted to sleep on the couch.”

  She runs her straw through the dregs of her milkshake.

  “You shouldn’t sleep in your room,” she says.

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Because then, you won’t have bad dreams.”

  I smile. “Bad dreams are nothing to be afraid of. They’re just dreams.”

  “Okay,” she sighs, as if to say I tried to help.

  *

  Stuffed with milkshakes, we wander a block off the main square and find ourselves among the stately houses. One maple-lined street is home to a row of bed and breakfasts with names like The Rosewood Inn and The Sleepy Hollow BnB, which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, seeing as the real Sleepy Hollow is hundreds of miles away in New York, but I’m sure it doesn’t hurt the business.

  We round a corner onto another street, and Caitlyn begins to make up story after story as we pass each house.

  “The family that lives in that one, they’re related to the Queen.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yep. I read about them in a book. And that one” – she says, pointing to a white house with red trim – “a witch lives there. She puts spells on all the kids in town. And that one over there” – she continues before I can get a word in – “the man who lives there robs banks.”

  “Caitlyn.”

  “He does. He got rich by robbing banks with his gang.”

  “Caitlyn, stop.” Stories of being related to royalty or magicians is one thing, but I don’t want her making up stories about people committing crimes, no matter how far-fetched they are. “You know you shouldn’t do that, right?”

  She gets quiet and hangs her head.

  “Okay.”

  At the end of the street there’s another grand Victorian-styled house. The wooden sign in the front yard reads “Kingsbrook Historical Society” in gold-painted lettering.

  “Want to check it out?” I ask Caitlyn.

  She shrugs, which is enough for me, because I definitely want to go inside.

  We walk up the path to the porch and I hold the door for her. We’re greeted by a display that proudly proclaims, “Welcome to Kingsbrook!”

  The paragraph and photos below the display briefly outline the town’s history, from its beginnings as a trading outpost, to a lumber mill, to a resort town, to present day. Beyond the display, the first floor of the house has been converted into a mini-museum, with display cases and memorabilia. In the corner, an elderly man with a beak-like nose sits behind a desk.

  “Hello.” He smiles.

  “Hi,” I answer.

  He moves around the desk. “Welcome to the Kingsbrook Historical Society. I’m Nathaniel Howard. I’m … Well, I’m pretty much the Kingsbrook Historical Society.”

  “I’m Daniel Price and this is my daughter, Caitlyn.”

  Mr. Howard’s face lights up. “Oh! You’re the new owners of the Nightingale House.”

  “Yes,” I say, unable to hide my slight surprise.

  He dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “I know just about everything that goes on in Kingsbrook. My family has lived here for generations. I know all the stories, and the Nightingale House is one of our prized jewels.” He shakes my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He turns to Caitlyn. “And you, as well. Kingsbrook welcomes you both.”

  “Thanks. We’re doing a little exploring today.”

  “Excellent! This is the place to start.”

  He leads us around the museum, giving a spiel he has to have given a hundred, if not a thousand, times before, but still takes immense pride in. He shows us maps and artifacts from when it was a trading outpost in the wild frontier of Maine. Then there are photos from when it was a lumber mill. I’m eating this up, but I can tell that Caitlyn is bored. Mr. Howard then comes to a display that showcases photos from when Kingsbrook became a summer getaway for the wealthy.

  “I think you’ll recognize this,” he says with a knowing wink.

  There are grainy black-and-white photos of the town square with a parade marching through it. A description off to the side reads, “Fourth of July, 1900”. There’s photo after photo of the grand houses of the town, decked out in streamers and bunting, with parties on the lawns.

  “People would open up their homes and show off a bit for the annual Fourth of July Celebration. They would have fireworks and picnics,” he says, and points to the bottom of the display. “And the Nightingale House was no exception.”

  I crouch down to get a better look. “Huh. Check it out, Caitlyn.”

  Suddenly, she’s very interested.

  There it is—the Nightingale House.

  It’s more than a picnic. Splendidly dressed people sit at the tables that cover the lawn. The men wear top hats and tails. The women wear white, except for a brunette who is wearing some darker color that I can’t discern, due to the photo being in black and white. Everyone else is looking at the camera, while she’s looking at something else. There are streaks and blurs around the edges where children are playing. It’s hard to believe that the regal house in the background is the same one Caitlyn and I woke up in this morning.

  Mr. Howard taps the glass. “The couple sitting at the table front and center—that’s Thomas Carrington and his wife, Abigail. They were the owners of the Nightingale House.”

  Thomas Carrington’s expression is hidden behind a jet-black beard and mustache. Even seated, you can tell that he was tall with piercing eyes. Abigail is a beauty. She has flowing blonde hair, and although she’s smiling, her face is careworn.

  Caitlyn is staring at the photo with a grim expression.

  “What do you think, Caitlyn?” I ask.

  “Neat,” she says, but her expression doesn’t change.

  Mr. Howard doesn’t see her face, but he’s thrilled that Caitlyn has described it as ‘neat’. It’s probably something he doesn’t hear very often.

  We make our way through the last few displays, but nothing sparks our fascination like the photo of the Nightingale House in all its glory.

  After completing the tour, we thank Mr. Howard as he sees us to the door and wishes us good luck on the rest of our exploration of Kingsbrook.

  “What did you think?” I ask as Caitlyn and I stroll down the path, back to the sidewalk while holding hands.

  “I don’t like him. He’s mean.”

  “Mr. Howard? Really? Why do you think he’s mean?”

  “Not him.”

  “Then … who are you talking about, sweetheart?”

  “… No one.”

  I want her to tell me. I feel like I need her to. I’m sure she’s nervous about a new school and she
might let her imagination run wild to deal with it, but I don’t want her going into school and telling stories about someone being mean to her. Just like I don’t want her telling stories about people robbing banks.

  “Caitlyn, who are you talking about?”

  She hesitates, and then answers, “Mr. Carrington.”

  “The man in the photo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he is.”

  Sure, I guess the guy looked like he may have been intimidating, and I suppose it’s better if she’s making up stories about people who are long gone, but I should still nip this in the bud before it gets out of hand.

  “Well, we don’t know that, okay? He might have been nice.”

  “No. He was mean.”

  “Caitlyn, you never met him and it’s not fair to call someone mean or names if you don’t know them.”

  “But I know him.”

  “Caitlyn, stop.”

  We take a few more steps towards the street.

  “But you called that guy a ‘jerk’ and you’ve never met him.”

  “What guy?”

  “The baseball guy. When you were putting together the TV thing. You called him a ‘jerk’ and you haven’t met him.”

  “I don’t remember saying anyone was— oh …”

  She’s talking about my little outburst at the Cubs’ relief pitcher who blew a two-run lead while I was putting together the entertainment center. Had she not been there, I would have called him worse.

  “Well, pumpkin, that’s … that’s different.”

  She stops and looks up at me. “How?”

  “Because … I was talking about …” My argument fizzles out and she’s waiting with those innocent, puzzled eyes.

  I sigh. “You’re right. I shouldn’t do that.”

  She seems content with my answer and we resume walking back towards the sidewalk at the end of the path.

  Now, I really hate that relief pitcher not only for blowing the save, but also for blowing my teaching moment.

  8

  Our next stop is Concord Elementary.

  The school sits on the outskirts of town, nestled against the forest. It consists of a large brick building and a handful of smaller buildings that have been added as the town grew, and are connected by hallways. It gives the school the appearance of a living organism.

  We find our way to the main office and a door marked ‘Principal’. A stern woman in her fifties is sitting at a large desk, going over paperwork. She looks up as I rap on the door.

  “Mr. Price, I presume,” she says.

  “That’s me.”

  She walks around the desk and extends her hand. “I’m Principal Jean Craig.”

  Her handshake is like her demeanor: firm. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And you must be Caitlyn,” she says, repeating the gesture.

  “Hi,” Caitlyn replies, also shaking her hand.

  “We’re very happy to have you here at Concord.” She then addresses both of us. “How are you liking Kingsbrook?”

  “So far, so good. We took a little tour this morning, didn’t we, Caitlyn?”

  Caitlyn nods.

  “And the Nightingale House?” Principal Craig asks.

  “We love it.”

  She slips momentarily into a wistful smile. “I love that Nightingale House. I grew up in Kingsbrook. Seems like everything has changed, except that house.” Her stern demeanor quickly returns. “You’re not planning on doing any renovations, are you?”

  I laugh. “No.”

  “Good. Now, Caitlyn, let’s go meet your teacher; Ms. Hancourt.”

  *

  Principal Craig gives us a brief history of the school as she guides us down the hall.

  “The school started with one building with six rooms, one grade in each room. Now, it’s one grade per hall.” We stop outside a door with a plastic plaque marked ‘Hancourt’.

  Principal Craig knocks. “Ms. Hancourt?”

  “Come on in,” a voice answers.

  Principal Craig motions us to go inside.

  Sunlight spills through the windows and across the desks. Books and papers are neatly stacked on shelves and cabinets around the room. The markerboard is a pristine white. At the markerboard is Ms. Hancourt. She’s in her mid-thirties with cropped brown hair and plastic-rimmed glasses.

  She approaches us with a broad smile. “Is this the Caitlyn Price I’ve heard so much about?”

  Caitlyn seems delighted by the idea that she somehow has a reputation that has preceded her.

  “I’m Ms. Hancourt.”

  “Hi,” Caitlyn replies, warming to her instantly.

  “Are you ready to start school in a few days?”

  Caitlyn thinks for a moment, treating it as a serious question. “Not really. We haven’t gone shopping. I don’t have any papers or pencils, yet.”

  “We’re going shopping right after this,” I quickly say, feeling the need to defend myself for some reason.

  Ms. Hancourt laughs. “Well, I can’t wait to have you in my class.”

  I glance at Principal Craig, who takes the hint.

  “Caitlyn,” she says, leaning down to her. “Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll show you the rest of the school?”

  Caitlyn looks at me and I confidently nod.

  “Okay,” she enthusiastically answers.

  Principal Craig leads her out of the room. We can hear her asking Caitlyn about her favorite subjects as they walk down the hall.

  I turn back to Ms. Hancourt. “Thank you for meeting with us, Ms. Hancourt. I really appreciate it.”

  “Of course, and please, call me Denise.”

  “I’m Daniel.”

  “Principal Craig told me what happened. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How is Caitlyn doing?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, just so you know how she’s … uh … ‘coping’.” I hate the sound of those words coming out of my mouth.

  “It’s all right. You two have been through a horribly traumatic experience.”

  Her tone sets me at ease and I realize that she understands more about child psychology than most, quite possibly more than the psychologist I sent Caitlyn to.

  “So, how is she ‘coping’?” she asks.

  “Caitlyn’s got an active imagination … and sometimes, she uses it a bit too much.”

  Denise nods and patiently waits as I struggle to find the right words.

  Flustered, I shake my head. “Sorry. This has been rough for us, and I … I guess I wasn’t ready to try to explain what’s going on with her.”

  “I would say that I can only imagine what you’re going through, but I can’t.”

  Her answer stops me in my tracks. It’s perfect, like she completely understands. Most people say something like, ‘I know what you must be going through,’ and give some advice or insight they have no right in giving, but not her.

  “You said she had an active imagination. How so?”

  “She makes stuff up about people … and things …” I finally drop my attempt at being delicate. “She lies, sometimes.”

  “I understand. Does she believe the stuff that she makes up?”

  “No. She knows the difference, but you may have to call her on it.”

  “Are you okay with me doing that?” she asks, gently guiding me to tell her what she needs to know.

  “Yes. I love her more than anything, but you have a job to do and it’s not fair to the other kids. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you.”

  The silence that follows is broken only by the cicadas outside the open windows.

  “So,” I finally ask, “is this the weirdest parent-teacher conference you’ve ever had?”

  She laughs. “Not even close.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I had a father offer me money to tell everyone in the class that his so
n was the smartest child I had ever seen. He wanted to boost his self-esteem.”

  We both laugh.

  “I’m not that crazy,” I assure her, but add, “Close, but not that crazy.”

  “And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  I can’t tell you the weight that’s lifting off my shoulders, the ease that she’s putting me into, and I casually ask, “You have kids?”

  She grows quiet. “No … It’s, uh, it’s—”

  I hold up a hand—it was a dumb question. “‘No’ is a perfectly acceptable answer, and I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  She nods, appearing somewhat relieved. Then, she reaches over and takes something from her desk.

  “Well, here is my card. I give my contact info to every parent. If you have any questions about how Caitlyn is doing, feel free to call me.”

  I tuck it into my pocket. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. I’ll only call if it’s an emergency.”

  “Dad!”

  Caitlyn bursts into the room, followed by Principal Craig.

  “The playground is huge!” Caitlyn declares.

  “She really liked that part of the tour,” Principal Craig says.

  “I’m sure she did.”

  *

  After a trip to the store where we stocked up on food and copious amounts of school supplies, we’re driving back to the Nightingale House.

  “So, did you like the school?” I ask.

  “Yep,” Caitlyn absent-mindedly answers.

  “Did you like Ms. Hancourt?”

  “Uh-huh,” she says, gazing out the window. “She’s really pretty.”

  “Yes, she is,” I reply and freeze.

  It was a simple statement of fact, nothing more, but I have never spoken about another woman in front of Caitlyn and I’m worried she won’t understand.

  I glance sideways at her. She continues to stare out the window, watching the trees blur by.

  Thankfully, my statement appears to have blurred by her, as well, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that I wasn’t just worried about how she would react. It’s true that I’ve never spoken about another women in front of Caitlyn before, but this is also the first time that I’ve said that I found a woman attractive since Nicole died.