Hippie House (13 page)

Donny also stood up. “Just me.”

“Okay. When would you like to come out?” But I had no sooner said it than I suddenly remembered that the Hippie House was no longer there. It was a horrible feeling, like now that he had made the agonizing decision to come out and see it, I couldn't help him.

“Oh my god,” I said. “The Hippie House is gone. It was torn down. There's only the woods and the creek where it used to be.”

“Never mind about that. After I get home from school I can drive out in my grandfather's truck. What time does your bus drop you off?”

“Three forty-five.”

“Can I come just after that? I can see it before it gets dark.”

DAD WAS ADDING SUET
to the wire-mesh bird feeder stapled to the fir tree outside the sunroom window when Donny drove up the lane in his grandfather's old truck. I had warned him Donny was coming. We had agreed that we would walk Donny down to the site of the Hippie House together, then get a feel for what he wanted us to do from there.

As always, Halley was glad to have visitors, and when Donny emerged from the truck she showed her enthusiasm in her usual messy way. During the excitement of a greeting, she would dance and whine and pant heavily. To rid her jowls of the excessive slobber Clumbers are known for, without warning she would give her head a shake. Halley's target range was phenomenal. I had wiped dog spit from the chandelier in the dining room and been nailed on the cheek from ten feet away.

So it was not unusual that shortly after Donny arrived I was wiping dog spit from the sleeve of his coat. Thankfully, Donny thought it was funny, and with Halley unaware of the trouble she'd caused, she led the way up the hill and past the barn.

The sun was very low, just barely above the tree line on the opposite side of the field as we walked down the hill. The surface of the snow glittered in the last rays of sun, and it appeared crisp, but it was not like that beneath. With each step, Halley plunged through the surface as she set out to blaze a new path.

Dad talked to Donny about his plane and the pitfalls of using a pasture for a runway. Gesturing with both arms, he explained
which of his fields he used for crops, when they were left fallow, and where the cattle grazed.

Dollops of snow flew from wet branches down the necks of our jackets as we walked along the road through the woods after passing the duck house. Fresh rabbit tracks ran next to the lane, crossing not once, but twice, just before we reached the creek. The concrete sluiceway we could walk across in summer was slick with ice and it would be extremely dangerous to attempt to walk on it now. My father stopped. Standing next to Donny, he quietly indicated the spot where the Hippie House had been. I stood behind them, off to the side.

It was not much to look at. It had snowed several times since the murder and there was no longer even an outline on the ground. Over the last few days, however, the top layers had melted and a number of footprints had surfaced. This suggested that the area had been the scene of something chaotic not too long ago. Donny stared at the space for some time while a thick lump formed in my throat and tears began to burn my eyes.

I knew from my brother's example that boys rarely spilt tears in public. For that reason I really didn't know what to expect. Maybe he would cry quietly or swear angrily at the unfairness of it all. I certainly didn't expect him to ask straightforward questions.

“What did it look like?”

Dad appeared a little puzzled. I think he was unsure of what he was being asked to describe and perhaps he was even a little alarmed. “I'm sorry. What—”

“The Hippie House—what did it look like?”

“Oh.” My father's voice betrayed relief. “It was only one room, twelve by sixteen feet. I built it from a small stand of spruce that was struggling in this spot when I first took over the farm. I originally used it as a workshop before I built a bigger one closer to the house. I built workbenches against the east and south
walls. There was a window facing this direction and another at the back facing the road. The exterior wood was weathered and the door was from the farmhouse, from the original root cellar. Now the doorknob, that was an antique...”

“Jimmy Bolton painted a bunch of big paisleys on the walls and a peace sign on the front door.”

They both turned.

“You know, like big blue amoebas with eyelash fringes.”

I shrugged. Dad was making it sound so dull and dowdy. In the end, it was not like that at all.

Donny smiled a little. “Paisley?”

“Yeah, it was paisley on the inside walls. The trim was bright too. Purple and red. It was a party house. The walls were covered in posters and song sets. Here, in the front window, Eric took down the curtain I made and hung a Canadian flag. But he left the curtain in the back. It was nice in the summer because of the blackberry bushes and goldenrod that grew up all around the foundation. I know it's a weed, but it looked really good against the weathered gray wood.”

Halley had been tracking a grouse and now she flushed it from the brush in a flurry of motion. She pounced into a snowbank where she sank to her chest.

Dad made a motion toward the empty space. “I bought an old wood-burning stove and moved it into the center of the room. Even without insulation it was warm and cozy even on the coldest winter days.”

“It was clean too,” I said. “Eric and I got rid of all the garbage and swept it out at the end of summer.”

I knew it would be a bit of an exaggeration, but I was about to tell him you could have eaten off the floor when Dad caught my attention. He held up a hand.

I now saw, as he did, that Donny was not listening to either of us anymore. He had turned back to the space where the
Hippie House had stood, and it occurred to me how ridiculous we were beginning to sound. Like two realtors trying to push a handyman's special on a reluctant client.

My father lay a hand on Donny's shoulder. “If you would like, son, we'll leave you alone now.”

Donny nodded.

“We'll meet you back at the house. Will you be alright down here on your own?”

Briefly lifting a hand, Donny waved us on.

“I couldn't do that,” I said as we climbed up the hill past the duck house. “I wouldn't want to do that. I wonder why Donny does.”

“He needs to know it's real,” my father said. “He needs to know it's real and that his sister's not forgotten in this circus of finding out who's responsible for her death.”

That is all we said on the way back to the farmhouse. Halley heeled close to Dad when he signaled for her to quit snuffling around the duck house and to keep ahead as she was supposed to do. She lumbered up the hill. At the top, she turned, glancing hopefully at Dad before heading for the airplane hangar.

“Not today, Hale.”

When we got back to the farmhouse I wasn't quite sure what to do. I thought I should probably have something to offer Donny when he returned. Not knowing what he would feel like, I set a few choices of pop on the kitchen table. But it was a somber occasion, so I decided he might prefer tea. I plugged in the kettle and got out the teapot. Mom had baked cookies, and there was banana bread and pound cake, which I sliced and arranged on a plate.

My mother stood in the doorway with her arms folded, watching me fuss without saying a word.

It was more than an hour before I spotted Donny's dark figure moving down the hill between the barn and the workshop. He
didn't come to the farmhouse, but he walked straight to his grandfather's truck, where I heard the engine start up. Twenty minutes later it was still running and Donny had not moved. From the second-story guest room I could see his outline against the steering wheel in the faint glow cast by the yard light. Eric wandered in, wondering why I was standing in the dark. Seeing Donny sitting in the truck, he swore quietly before walking out again. I found Dad in the kitchen.

“Should I go talk to him?”

Dad shook his head. “Give him another ten minutes. If he's still there, I'll go.”

Five minutes later I looked out and the truck was gone.

T
HE LONG WEEKS BETWEEN
Christmas holidays and the end of February were a real struggle that year. Somehow the gray skies appeared grayer, the walk down the lane dragged on longer, and March and the promise of spring seemed much more distant than they ever had in the past.

Oliver
! was performed at the high school at the beginning of February. Donny did a fantastic job as Bill Sikes, stepping into the part, hot-tempered and murderous, and out again as easily as the flowergirls stepped in and out of their skirts with their elastic waists. The only glitch came when Oliver stepped on Nancy's trailing dress hem as she was about to leap across the stage during a choreographed scene. The rip could be heard at the back of the theater. Mrs. Suringa and I were called on to do a very quick patch job as Fagin launched into a solo. The bustle didn't sit quite right during the final act—it was substantially off-center—but then Nancy didn't last much longer anyway.

I had nothing exciting to sew now, and I became fidgety. As we did the dishes one night, Eric suggested I sew a tarp for the MG he was going to buy.

“There's got to be tons of sewing to it. It will keep you busy for weeks.”

Suds rolled off the dinner plate I set in the dish drainer. How naïve he was. “Do you know how boring that would be? It would just be running through seam after seam. It would be about as challenging as if you built an orange crate out of your balsa wood.”

“Why would I do that?”

I rolled my eyes. “Besides, where are you going to get the money to buy this MG?”

Eric wiped the plate. “We're starting up the band again. Miles has already got us a paying gig in Shelburne. We're going to blow all those fiddle players right out of the water. Hey, that's what you can make me. I'll need a new shirt to wear at the gig.”

“When I said I didn't have anything to sew, I wasn't asking you to put in an order.”

There was a knock at the door off the back kitchen. Before Eric answered it, he quickly skimmed suds from the water and tucked them down the neck of my shirt.

“Eric!”

The screen door slammed, the heavier door closed and Malcolm followed Eric into the kitchen. He had driven out to the farm to pick Eric up for a band practice. He nodded at me, then sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

I hadn't seen Malcolm very much in the last two months, or perhaps I hadn't paid much attention, but it struck me that he was looking rather mangy. He'd grown a full beard, and his black hair was now halfway down his back. This wouldn't have been so bad—it actually could have been quite cool—if it looked like it had been washed sometime in the past week. Maybe it was his jacket. A pocket flapped where the denim was ripped, and it was so grimy he looked like he'd rubbed up against a dirty bus to relieve an itch.

It wasn't just me. Moments later my father passed through the kitchen on his way to the workshop. I caught him doing a double-take when he saw Malcolm sitting at the table. He then said something that was most unusual for my father. “Oh, Malcolm. It's you. I didn't recognize you under all that hair.”

Dad was normally very good at not commenting on appearances. I could not recall him ever arguing with Eric, as many fathers did with their sons, about the length of his hair. So his comment made Eric look up.

Malcolm lifted a hand. “Hey, Mr. Jenkins.”

Dad sounded almost apologetic as he quickly tried to undo any damage. “How are you? Are your mom and dad back from Florida yet?”

“Yeah, they got back Sunday.”

“Uh-huh. And did they have a good time?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dad nodded. “Good, good. Well, say hi to them.” He now seemed in a sudden hurry to leave the room.

Malcolm fiddled with the barometer attached to the inside of the window while Eric stood impatiently, waiting for me to scrub a pot so that he could finish drying the dishes before going out. He figured I should finish for him. Normally I wouldn't have minded, but I could still feel the slimy dishwater slinking down my back. I suppose I was pouting when I told him no.

“Come on, Emma. I'd do it for you.”

“No, you wouldn't.”

“Yeah, I would.”

“Shhh!” Malcolm said.

Eric and I turned. We were unsure if he was telling us to stop arguing or if it was something else.

I should explain that our farmhouse was built in 1886. The date was engraved in the stone arch above the front door. The solid building had appealed to Dad, but there were problems
resulting from not only the age of the house, but also its rural location that, despite my mother's meticulous housecleaning, could never be resolved.

In the heat of summer, battalions of houseflies buzzed in the sunny dormers. As they died off, their bodies fell among the jade plants, cluttering the windowsills. To my disgust, vacuuming the thick piles of shiny husks was added each summer to my list of chores.