Dwelling (11 page)

“That was weird,” Maggie said to no one. She stared into the black screen for moment, pondering Jotham and a faraway memory of the strangely familiar house that had been in the background of her thoughts, untouchable, until now. The very same house some realtor named Duke was apparently selling. Or was he selling the town? She didn’t know for sure.

Was that the same house?
Soon again, Maggie found herself falling back into time, to the wonderfully warm summer of 1995. Weeks after taking on the new club name,
Suicide Squad
, she had somehow convinced her parents to allow her friends to come along on their annual family venture to Giddings to visit her grandparents. There wasn’t much to do back then, not much to do now, she imagined, not in that part of Texas. The utter boringness of Giddings is probably what prodded Maggie’s folks into letting her drag her friends along, to have something to do and not be a constant nag on the adults. Maggie didn’t care.
It was the best summer trip to Papa and Memaw’s, ever
! And it was on that getaway to Giddings when
Suicide Squad
, burning up a summer day, rode their bikes into Jotham, as Maggie was beginning to remember, just north of Giddings. They came upon an old country farm home out in the middle of some overgrown wheat field.
But I thought that old house was abandoned? Maybe it was and now someone’s selling it
. Whatever the case was, Maggie remembered well enough how the house gave her the creeps. None of them would dare venture inside…
except for Ricky.

Was it on a dare?
Or was it just Ricky being Ricky?
Maggie couldn’t recall. But sure enough, Ricky had gone inside.
Didn’t he? Or did we all go inside?
Laughing the entire way up to the front porch, she could see that the door had been unlocked.
Yes, I remember that much. The door was open. So, it must have been abandoned, right?
She pushed farther into the past, watched in her mind’s eye as Ricky turned back and smiled at them. And then went inside. None of them followed.
Or did we?

They watched, easily enough.
And then what?
He emerged.
Or did we all emerge?
But—
no one was laughing. And he wouldn’t say much about what was inside.
“Just some old furniture, guys. Nothing to get your pantyhose in a wad,”
he said.
Didn’t he? Or did we?

And now it’s for sale…
Maggie thought, turning back to the TV. It was still black as night.
The old abandoned house in Jotham is for sale.

CHAPTER 11

1879

Augustus

On the very northern edge of Lee County, what had once been known as Washington County before the Civil War, in the new and flourishing town of Jotham, Texas, just past Tanglewood off rural route 77, down a stone and gravel country drive, over a two-hump hill cattle ranch, stood a two-story, battered white house. Surrounding the front was a pristine porch with reassuring steps leading to a modest red door. Two tall, glass panel windows were on opposite sides of the door. A third single glass window welcomed the front on the second story at the center of the house. The second story window belonged to the master bedroom. There were other windows on the sides. The roof had a V shape and sprouting from the tippy-top jutted a brick fireplace flue. Surrounding the house were fields of seemingly endless stalks of wheat. Any passerby might consider the house quaint, rustic, or perhaps even charming. However, in 1879 when Augustus B. Westfield first set eyes on it, the house was anything but quaint. For Augustus, the house was, just as those hymnal singers loved to chant every Sunday morning,
miraculous
.

Augustus was not originally from Jotham. He moved there a decade after the end of the Civil War. He abandoned his native Houston for a fresh start during a climactic era of confusion and greed. As if the
bloodiest war
in America wasn’t bloody enough, without clear leadership or trust, Houstonians found themselves left to their own devices. The mayhem lasted for less than a year, but scores had been settled. Others absorbed as much land as they could get their hands on.

Regardless of the panic’s longevity, the aftereffects were prolonged. Augustus wanted no part in it. He had seen his share of blood and loss. During the war, he served under General John Magruder and fought during the second battle of Galveston Island. In 1862, he and his brother, Bedford, took part in the siege to retake the island from Union control.

Bedford served on the
Neptune
, a steam riverboat turned cottonclad warship. The wood and cotton strewed behemoth levied some considered damage to the Union ships docked in Galveston Bay, but eventually found itself caught between the shoreline and two cannons. Bedford was lost with the ship. Augustus served on the
Bayou City
and watched in disbelief as his brother’s ship sank in the murky depths of the Gulf Coast. He joined the crew who planned to board the enemy vessel.

When the two ships collided, Augustus heaved himself over onto the forecastle deck with fixed bayonet. He plunged the blade into the belly of some Union sailor, a young red-cheeked lad. With his boot, he wrenched the blade out, spilling gore onto the wet planks and went for another kill. As other Marines made their way onboard, Augustus worked his way farther into the ship, stabbing and bludgeoning with the hilt of his rifle as he went. Then a musket ball ripped through his leg, shattering the bone at the knee. He remembered screaming and nothing else.

After waking painfully in triage, staring in horror at what remained of his leg, there was news of victory in the battle to reclaim the island. What remained of the Union regiment had surrendered. There were cheers and shouts of jubilation as the surgeon brought down the crude metallic surgical saw and amputated Augustus’ leg. When he awoke again, a priest sat nearby this time, reading from a King James Bible.

“Aw, you’re awake. You’re very lucky, son. Did you know that?” said the priest.

“How so?” asked Augustus, weakly.

“You’re alive, my son, when so many of our boys are not. You survived. Praise the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, you survived,” said the priest in hushed excitement, being careful not to wake the other wounded men who lay asleep nearby.

Augustus surveyed his maimed body. He wiggled the toes on his amputated leg and swore he could feel them move, but they simply were not there.
Phantoms
as some called them.

“You can keep your hallelujahs, Chaplain. If God was merciful, he would have let me die with my brother.” Augustus closed his eyes, ignoring the shocked and hurt exclamation from the priest. In his heart, he knew there was nothing to celebrate. No victory to cheer for. No comradeship to hold tight. His brother was dead. And he was disfigured. Nothing was going to be as it was.
And when mother discovers the news of Bedford, she’ll never forgive me.

Augustus was wagon-carted back home to Houston, to heal. From the tiny shoebox room he once shared with his brother, he listened as family, of what little remained, came together to mourn the loss of Bedford. No one ventured into Augustus’ room to give him their condolence. No one ventured at all. Cries and hymnal songs played outside the door. Augustus tried to block it out, but struck with fever, he could not sleep, and he could not move. He lay there and listened to his mother wail about her precious baby boy. And the poor attempts from relatives to comfort her. In a frantic whisper he heard her say,
“Why did it have to be Bedford? Why him?”

The winter passed and soon enough the war ended. Shattered families began to pick up the pieces. Houston recoiled in the wake of defeat. Dismayed and paralyzed eyes watched as Union soldiers returned to the southern metropolis. They marched down Main Street and set up quarters in the Cotton Auxiliary building on Luthe Road. Justice was served swifter than it had before the war. A quarrel in a tavern would more likely see a musket fired than a stern word. If you were to live in Houston, you had to live very carefully.

More winters came and ushered out just as fast. Every Christmas until her death, Mama Westfield set out a single candle for her lost son, her beloved baby boy who died in Galveston Bay on a ship called the
Neptune
, a single candle for a single death representing a single light extinguished among the 620,000 other lights snuffed out by musket fire, cannon, disease, or starvation during the Civil War.
How many other mothers or wives or sisters or cousins or nieces are doing the very same?
How many more candles are lit? Whoever is in the candle making business is sure to be rich by now, no doubt.
During the Christmas of 1878, Mama Westfield lit her last candle. On the dawn of a new year she died while collecting blackberries from an early-bloomed thicket she kept near her shack.

Augustus found her face down in the dirt. Panicked, he turned her over and recoiled at the bloated and blue face of his mother. Her eyes were rolled back and filmy. Fire ants had already begun their work. The red dots marched through her open mouth, collecting microscopic bits of flesh from her tongue to carry back to their underground hive. She stunk of feces or perhaps gas generated from the unusually warm winter sun. Regardless, her reek did not bother him, but rather reminded him unpleasantly of war.

Off in some unseen distance, cannons were firing and men were yelling, and for a moment, Augustus felt at peace. He knew who he was and what he was meant to do. And he held her, held the memory of purpose firm for some time, he could not be for certain how long, but long enough for his leg to start cramping under the pressure from his cheaply made prosthetic. As the sun began to set, Augustus awoke from his trance and fetched a doctor from the local clinic. To his best conclusion, the doctor assumed Mama died of a heart attack.

When it came time for her funeral, even fewer relatives came to the wake than there had been for Bedford. Many had died during the war, those who survived moved west to California. There were rumors of gold and a chance to strike it rich, a chance for something new.

Augustus ignored the rumors. He didn’t care for fool’s wealth, he craved nothing but solidarity. With his mother fresh in the grave he searched for any opportunity. And there had been some talk at the local tavern. Talk of cheap land up north. Some new town in Washington County called Jotham. It took Augustus months to sell his mother’s estate and for what little he could get for it he purchased a lonely piece of land at the northern most tip of Washington County. He closed any remaining affairs. Mama had owed the local grocer ten dollars for fronting her a bundle of grain last year. And he paid back one of the few kind neighbors who lived close by. They had loaned some money so Augustus and Bedford could buy uniforms during the war. He signed the deed for the land in Jotham and without haste made his way north on horseback, a gift from someone who actually owed
him
money.

On a chilly October morning, Augustus neared the plot of land he’d purchased. The wind kicked around dead leaves blown from the wood line several yards away. The blades of grass danced frantically against the approaching storm. He would probably get soaked, but Augustus wanted to see the land, his land, before heading into town. Cresting a two-hump hill where cows pastured, his horse began to buck nervously.

“Whoa, girl. Easy now,” said Augustus, rubbing his free hand along the horse’s neck. The horse took up a pattered trot, dancing in a half circle. Augustus peered down into what should have been an empty field to find a two story white house and rows of wheat stalks off in the distance.
What the Sam Hill?

Curious, Augustus prodded the horse into descending the hill, toward the structure that should not be, or at least was never mentioned when he signed the deed. According the survey map he was given the land should be undeveloped. He verified his position with the map-rose and his own compass. Behind him ran a creek, which was on the map. The two-hump hill. The wood lines in the distance. Everything lined up, all except for the house.
No—this is it. Has to be.
He eyed the white structure, bewildered, and decided to check it out. Thunder boomed behind him, lightning rolling over a blanket of dark clouds.

Better make this quick.

The front porch looked newly built, the paint white as pearl. The windows had custom cut glass, and the roof looked freshly shingled. A red barn sat several feet from the house. The top door was open exposing stacks of hay. But Augustus could not make out any animals. He slowly trotted around the property, hoping perhaps to find someone, to get some kind of answer for why this house was here. But there was no one, not even a horse stalled in the barn. The house was abandoned.

“Hello?” Augustus yelled near the front steps.

No answer.

He carefully swung his prosthetic over and hopped down from his horse, balancing against the horse’s side.

More thunder roared in the background. A flash of lightning streaked the grey sky. The wind picked up, blowing against the collar of his coat. His horse neighed and danced anxiously. Rain pelleted his scalp. He eyed the horizon. Storm was coming. No time to get to town. He looked at the house and then at the barn. In stride he led his horse to the barn. There was in fact fresh hay and a few stables for swine and sheep and even two large enough for his horse. The stallion seemed pleased, relaxing its posture as it gleefully ventured inside and began to munch on the hay. Satisfied, Augustus went back to the house steps and knocked on the door.

No answer.

He tried the door knob. It was unlocked. It swung open easily on smooth hinges revealing the pitch black contents of what seemed to be a living room. Habitually, Augustus rested his hand against the hilt of his Smith and Wesson holstered to his hip. Slowly, as the rain began to steadily patter against the tin porch roof, he went inside. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness, but eventually shapes came into focus.

The room was filled with furniture. An old oak couch stuffed with hand stitched pillows and a strangely beautiful armchair sat in front of a fireplace. Coffee tables and lamp shades filled the corners. Dead animals mounted the walls. An old grandfather clock chimed from somewhere still in the dark. Paintings of places he’d never been and people he’d never seen covered most of the walls. The space was enormous. The ceiling incredibly tall, or for at least what Augustus was accustomed to. The air tasted of musk and age. Black soot stained the interior of the fireplace, evidence that someone at some point lived here, but Augustus had a most peculiar intuition that whenever that someone had lived here, it had been a very long time ago.

Beneath the musk there was something else—pine perhaps. It reminded him of the wreaths his mother would hang during Christmas, before the war and Bedford was lost at sea. Now they were both dead. Augustus rubbed his arms. Somehow the air felt colder in here. Outside, the rain began to pound against the thin metal roof. Thunder boomed and lightning tore across the black and grey soup sky. The walls moaned, or were they purring?

The door slammed close.

***

The ride into Jotham was refreshing. The morning air tasted sweet and damp from last night’s rain. Mud spattered from the ground and clung to his pant leggings. The world was awake with life. Augustus watched a flock of what looked to be quail dancing around a small pond off in the distance; in the very same pond a mule deer family dipped their heads into the murky blue for a drink of cold water and a pair of mallards paddled in an endless circle. A chubby, short-nosed javelina stood on the opposite shore, rooting around for something to eat Augustus imagined. Toward the wood line, fox squirrels pattered about, leaping from tree to tree branch, chattering of some foreign affair. In the bushes below the woods, a pack of armadillos rustled from their beds. All was good and well.