All Things Cease to Appear (15 page)

No, I ant, Franny said.

Yes, you are!

They all laughed loud and hard, and Catherine felt a surge of optimism, and while they slept she lay awake listening to the night—the bellowing frogs, the hoot of a cautious owl, the long slow trains. And later, when the rest of the world was silent, the squealing riot of coyotes.

—

THERE WAS SOMETHING
odd about the house. A chill flourished in some rooms and an odor seeped up from the cellar, the rotting carcasses of trapped mice. Even in gentle summer, when the world outside was singing its bright song, an oppressive gloom prevailed, as if the whole house had been covered, like a birdcage, with velvet cloth.

Still, she accepted all this as one accommodates a troubled child. But the house had not accepted her.

She moved cautiously from room to room, as though her status as homeowner had been revoked, downgraded to caretaker. An invisible pair of eyes seemed to be watching, judging her care and management of the household.

One afternoon she found an old radio in the closet and set it up on the dresser and tuned in to NPR’s
Reading Aloud.
They were doing
Great Expectations
—with some famous British actor—and she was only half listening, too preoccupied with her tasks to pay much attention. With Franny napping across the hall, she had the volume turned so low she could barely hear it. At half past five she went down to start dinner. She fixed herself a drink, iced vodka with lemon, and sipped it like some prescribed cure. After a moment, it occurred to her that the radio upstairs was very loud. Even if Franny had woken up, it was unlikely she could’ve reached the top of the dresser. She put down her glass and went out into the hall, her eyes drawn to the landing where she could feel the penetrating gaze of some unseen presence. But, of course, there was nothing up there, just the scuffed floors, the marked-up walls, the dirty fingerprints of strangers.

She told George the story and concluded, I think we have a ghost.

Apparently a Dickens fan, he said.

You don’t believe me.

He shrugged. Moving isn’t easy. I think you’re just tired.

I’m not
tired,
George.

Think of the deal we got. Open your eyes, Catherine. Look at this place.

I know.

He kissed her forehead. And get yourself a new radio.

She considered ghosts the stuff of horror movies. Back in high school she’d seen a movie called
The Haunting
and hadn’t slept for a month; just the slightest flutter of curtains in her old room suggested some vicious taunt of evil. Even the work she did now could make her superstitious, some of the churches like hollow caves of reckoning, terminals to another world. But until this house, she’d never thought seriously of ghosts, at all. Yet, as the days passed, their existence wasn’t even a question anymore—she just knew.

—

AS A RULE,
George parked in the garage. He didn’t like his precious Fiat exposed to the elements. Since Catherine’s car was a used station wagon, he argued, it shouldn’t make much difference if she parked outside. Truthfully, she didn’t care all that much. She’d park under the big maple tree near the screened porch, which gave her easy access to the kitchen. They were using the porch as a mudroom, and it was already cluttered with muddy shoes, tennis rackets, Franny’s stroller and little red wagon. One afternoon, returning from the market with her arms full of grocery bags and Franny beginning to fuss, she had trouble opening the door. When she turned the key, the bolt disengaged as usual but the door refused to open. She jiggled the brown porcelain knob—it wouldn’t budge. A moment later, she heard a grinding twist of metal—it sounded like the knob on the
inside
was being unscrewed. Through the window, she saw the empty kitchen, just as she had left it. Frustrated, she rattled the knob violently and it came off in her hand. A second later, as if to punctuate her confusion, the knob on the kitchen side dropped to the floor.

What happened, Momma?

I don’t know. It’s this silly knob.

Silly knob! Franny cried.

Then the door swung open all on its own. For a moment Catherine couldn’t seem to move.

It’s open, Momma!

Yes, I see.

Franny jumped inside and Catherine followed, dragging in the groceries. Again she was struck with the sense that some invisible
someone
was standing there watching her, and her face went hot with anger. She picked up the knob and inserted its long rusty spindle into the tiny square opening; holding the outside knob securely in place, she screwed one to the other, making the same whining sound she’d heard only moments before—when some
entity,
some poltergeist, had unscrewed it.

That wasn’t very nice, she said to the room. You’re not making us feel very welcome here.

Who you talking to, Momma?

She picked Franny up and held her tight. Nobody, she said, and realized it was true.

When George came home from work, she told him this new story. Suppressing his obvious irritation, he inspected the door, and swung it open and closed several times. There’s nothing wrong with this door, he told her.

Then how do you explain it?

It’s an old house, Catherine. These sorts of things happen in old houses.

She listed off the other problems she’d encountered—the weirdly chilly spots, the continual smell of exhaust in their bedroom, the radio—and now this.

You’re imagining things, he told her.

I’m not imagining anything, George.

Maybe you need a psychiatrist, then. There’s nothing wrong with this house.

But, George…

We’re not moving, Catherine. I suggest you get used to it.

—

UNPACKING BOXES
in the sweltering heat. The fans going full tilt. She stacked her books on the shelves—art history, philosophy, a rumpled copy of
Ariel
—while Franny played with things around the house—a feather, a brass hook, a jar of marbles—squatting down to turn the object over in her little hands, her nose running, her forehead creased tight with interest, then readily moving on to something else. She’d jump from one sunshine shadow to another, singing, Mary, Mary, quite contrary! how does your garden grow?

The other family had left so much behind that she couldn’t help wondering who they were. George said he didn’t really know or care. I don’t see why it matters, he snapped. It’s our house now. It belongs to
us.

But the closets were full of their stuff. She found hockey skates, deflated basketballs, baseball bats. A shoebox full of baby shoes, three pairs tied together. She held them in her hands, remembering Franny at that size, on the brink of walking. These had been whitewashed with polish, the little heels round and worn. Someone might want them back someday, she thought, storing them in a cupboard. When their rightful owners came looking for them, they’d be right there.

—

ONE MORNING,
when George was out at the hardware store, two boys came to the door. The older one was in his early twenties, the other a teenager. They stood looking through the rain-splattered screen. Faces you couldn’t pull away from, with blue eyes and strong bones. It was hot and buggy and they’d gotten caught in the storm. They stood there with their long arms, slapping mosquitoes, the sky warm and dark. She could hear the patter of rain on the maple leaves.

I’m Eddy, the older one said, and this here’s Cole. We got another brother, Wade, but he couldn’t make it.

We’re the Clares, she said, pulling Franny onto her hip. And this is Franny.

Hey, Franny, the other boy said.

Franny blushed and hugged Catherine tight.

We used to—the younger one blurted, but his brother shoved him in the ribs.

Don’t mind him. He’s a little overexcited. Eddy put a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. We’re looking for work. Lawn work, gardening—hell, he can even babysit. He clutched his brother’s shoulder. He don’t mind one bit, do you, Cole?

No, ma’am, the boy said, scratching his mosquito bites.

I’ll have to check with my husband.

Those barns could use some paint, if you don’t mind my saying. He stepped back and looked up at the house. The house, too. We could help you out.

Well, we were planning on painting all that.

Hey, me and my brothers—we’re regular Leonardos. And we come cheap.

Where do you live?

In town, the younger one said.

We got references if you want, the other said. You won’t find nobody cheaper. Plus, we been doing that work for our uncle.

Thunder rumbled overhead. She could smell the wet grass and something else, gasoline or cigarettes on the boys’ clothes. It started to rain again. The younger boy looked up at the sky and then at her, waiting to be invited in. She held open the door. Come on inside.

They walked in, grinning over some private joke. I like what you’ve done with the place, Eddy said.

We’re just moving in, she said, a little embarrassed. They left a lot behind, the old owners.

There’s a good reason for that, Eddy said.

Did you know them?

You could say that.

The younger boy looked away, his cheeks flushed and sweaty. He pushed the hair off his forehead.

We might not have bought it, she said, I don’t think, if it hadn’t been such a good price.

The boys stood there.

What I mean, well, we got it at auction. Nobody else—

It’s in the past now. Eddy looked at her uncertainly, like he’d changed his mind about something. Anyway, we better head out. Nice meeting you, ma’am.

You can call me Catherine. She reached out her hand and he took it and she could feel the cold, rough skin. He waited a long moment before he let go.

Catherine. He said her name like it was a thing of beauty. His eyes were dark blue. These boys had history, she thought, too much of it. He took a pen from his pocket and again took her hand. Can I borrow this?

What?

He wrote his phone number on her hand. In case you need us.

Oh, okay, she said, and laughed. Thanks. She noticed the younger one eyeing her cookies. Here, I just made these. She fixed them a bag.

Thank you, Mrs. Clare.

You’re welcome, Cole. Their eyes met for a moment, until he glanced away.

Well—see you around, Eddy said.

They went out with their hands in the cookie bag, the older one grabbing one, the younger one punching his arm. They were close, these two. She watched them cross the field and then climb up the steep hill. The clouds were low and dense. Up on the ridge Eddy turned and looked back at the house as if right at her, and he confirmed this with a wave. It was a symbol, she thought, a kind of unspoken agreement—for what, she couldn’t guess.

She spent the afternoon cleaning the oven, then roasted a chicken in it. The house smelled good. Like home.

That night, over dinner, she told George she’d found some painters.

Who are they?

Just some boys from town. Looking for work.

She lied and said she’d interviewed other painters who were more expensive, knowing that George could never resist cheap, and he gave his consent. It’ll be a big improvement, he said.

I want down, Franny said.

You do, do you? He kissed the top of her head. Are you finished eating, Franny?

All done.

He lifted her out of her high chair. She’s too old for this chair.

Franny needs a big-girl chair, Catherine said.

I’m big now, Franny said, jumping, clapping.

Come on, you big monkey, George said. Let’s let Mommy clean up.

Obediently, Catherine cleared the plates onto the counter. As hard as she’d worked to make it nice, the kitchen still looked shabby, the cabinets, coated with a thick porridge-colored paint, so warped they wouldn’t stay shut. They didn’t have a dishwasher yet. George promised to buy her one just as soon as he could, maybe for Christmas. She started the dishes, letting the water get good and hot before rinsing them off; steam rose up as she stacked the clean plates into the rack. The window over the sink was black, animated by the vague outlines of her reflection as she washed the pots. For some reason, she tried to avoid noticing this, as if conscious that another face was superimposed over her own.

I’d put my rings right here, on the windowsill. After doing the dishes I’d put them on again, always thinking what a sham marriage was, how the rings meant nothing. Only that I was off limits to other men. In Cal’s hands, I was like some old piece of farm machinery he’d learned how to jury-rig. That’s how it was with him, in private. Lift here, insert, push.

Once, I saw the woman. Her name was Hazel Smythe. She was at Windowbox, sitting at a table alone, having a sandwich—egg salad, I think. I stood there, caught by surprise, and she looked up at me, her expression warm, even sad. Apologetic. But I walked out. I didn’t want her sympathy.

I guess people in town knew, too. It gave them something to talk about over supper.

Alarmed, Catherine turned around, but confronted only the after-dinner disruption, the worn wooden table and the empty chairs around it, waiting to be filled.

—

HE’S NOT HERE,
a woman said the next morning when Catherine called the number she’d copied off her hand.
No está aquí.
But that afternoon they came back with the other brother. This here’s Wade, Eddy said. He can do the mowing.

Hello, Wade. He was bigger than the other two, and moved with the solemn grace of a priest. She shook his sweaty hand.

They walked out to the milking barn.

What am I going to do with all of these bottles?

You could start a dairy, Cole offered. We could help you. We know how to do it.

That’s enough, Cole, Eddy said sharply, and the boy looked hurt. Trust me, he added, you don’t want to raise cows.

We can cart them bottles off for you, Wade proposed. We got a truck.

That would be great, she said, and registered his proud smile. When can you start?

We’ll start in the morning, if that’s all right?