House of Darkness House of Light (10 page)

Snow:
What had been merely an occasional nuisance in Cumberland soon became a ritualistic punishment in Harrisville, with a corresponding penance. Just a few miles north of Providence, Cumberland shared the relative warmth of the Atlantic Ocean; a fringe benefit of their former location had apparently been overlooked. It was almost always five degrees colder and several inches deeper at the farm. It would have been much simpler to remain house-bound for the winter. Seclusion was preferable. Day after day, there remained much to do to transform their new house into an old home place suitable for them. However, reality intruded. Children had to be registered in school; that meant digging out. Roger needed to return to his business ventures. That too meant digging out. They had to bring in an adequate supply of provisions, usually in preparation for the
next
forecast: major snowfall! Parked beside the barn, just getting to her frozen car meant, yes indeed, more digging out. According to Carolyn, a poor old bastard named Sisyphus had it easy.

The bleak season soon became Carolyn’s winter of discontent. A pervasive cold, coupled with all the overwhelming work, conspired to create an utterly inhospitable environment. It was the chronic dampness; a chill to the house. It was virtually inescapable, undoubtedly due to the presence of a spring and a deep well in an earthen cellar. A water source which had been so cool and refreshing at the height of summer had become an adversarial opponent in winter. What poured from frosted faucets was unbearably cold to the touch; literally undrinkable until it was warmed on the stove. Imagine being the first one up at dawn only to find a sheet of ice in the toilet: Reality: check it out!

The children seemed to be completely impervious to this ubiquitous cold, spending free time exploring their new old home, albeit swaddled in woolen socks and bulky sweaters. Arranging, then rearranging the bedrooms to their liking kept the blood flowing. They did not seem to notice they were freezing to death, except at night. A sudden influx of heavy quilts helped mitigate the situation somewhat but there were many cold nights when howling wind and bitter temperatures chased the children into others beds, seeking the warmth of a sister who was grateful for the company and an
extra body: heat. Andrea had the only full-sized bed among them, able to accommodate two siblings. One rude awakening of a winter season; she rarely woke up alone.

The companionship existing between the children sustained them as they adjusted to new schools and began making friends. Word on the school bus: the power lines were
excellent
for sledding! So was their back yard, for that matter. One glorious day Roger came home with a trunk load of new-fangled contraptions aptly named
flying saucers
; a wild ride better than
anything
at
Rocky Point
. Winter became less daunting; far more amusing. With serious trepidation, Roger and Carolyn took their children up the power lines; father somewhat less reluctant than the mother, knowing children
do
bounce…and bounce they did, straight down the forty-five-degree-angle-hill with enough twists to turn
any
stomach, especially the one tucked inside of their mother, heaving up into her throat with every CRASH! Roger had taken precautions, loading bales of hay into the trunk of the car then placing them strategically along that treacherous route to shield his girls from all those granite boulders dotting a rugged landscape. Survival was a prerequisite. Among five siblings it remains one of their fondest memories of childhood; downright dangerous. Death-defying: The Hill of Insanity! Remembered as
a real scream
; it was a truly slippery slope: good times had by children whose parents would rather forget those adventures and loathe admitting they even allowed it to happen!

On a bright, sunny day in February, Mr. Kenyon arrived unexpectedly for a visit. The children were as delighted as their parents. They all ran outside to greet him as he emptied the pockets of his heavy wool overcoat, bulging with candy. Their gloves had dried, socks were changed, and the wild child crew was about to head out on another ride when he pulled into the yard. Carolyn put on a fresh pot of coffee as she rustled up something sweet for him to eat. Roger joined him in the yard and they stood at the top of the hill, listening to screams of joy. Mr. Kenyon was gratified, at peace with his painful decision to part with the farm. His tired eyes beholding a race to the finish, it was all downhill from there! It was precisely what he envisioned for the family when the time came to relinquish his patch of paradise to those who would become its future caretakers. Though his son had built him a lovely house on his own property, complete with every amenity, it was obvious the gentleman missed his old home place. Roger comforted him with the reassurance of a standing invitation…a warm welcome home, anytime. In heart, it was still his home.

Old Man Winter:
Mr. Kenyon appeared to be the personification of this mythical figure. His soft, round brimmed hat was the finishing touch. It did nothing to protect his ears but suited him well nonetheless. Roger asked him to remain for Sunday dinner: Yankee Pot Roast. (Carolyn loved her pressure cooker, especially during the season when it did double duty, functioning as an alternative heat source.) Though gratefully declining their offer, due to a prior commitment with his family, he gladly accepted the hot cup of coffee. With an occasional sip of the steaming brew warming his hands, Mr. Kenyon began their conversation praising Carolyn’s efforts. The kitchen had a whole new personality, one he instantly noticed and found quite fetching. Its many window ledges displayed an assortment of miniature glass bottles along with other collectibles she had gathered over time; each pane delicately lined with lace. The flimsy fabric did nothing to keep down drafts but certainly allowed for some light, creating at least an illusion of warmth. Acknowledged as their first official guest, therefore Carolyn’s greatest admirer thus far, he smiled.

“No one will come to see us.” Carolyn seemed as relieved as disappointed.

“Can’t say I blame them.” Empathetically; the elder gentleman understood. He too had known isolation and loneliness on the farm during colder winters. “They come in the spring…then
stay
through the summer.” A glint in his eyes hinted at delightful memories made in this setting of a lifetime; a place where he’d spent a lifetime creating precious moments worth remembering. No one knew the extent to which Mr. Kenyon longed to return home.

Carolyn mentioned how cold she found the house, expressing regret that all the fireplaces had been sealed tight. Though this process had occurred during his tenure in the home, he was evasive, avoiding any discussion of it. Instead, he shifted focus outside, telling them the story of two men who got caught up in a blizzard while walking from Webster, Massachusetts toward Harrisville. It happened during the early 1800s when an old blacksmith shop still stood at its right front corner of the property. Apparently the storm was a vicious one; wind so intense it created whiteout conditions, effectively blinding both men. They could not make it to the house; perhaps they could not see it was there: a tragedy. Seeking shelter from the storm, these men crawled up beneath the foundation of the blacksmith shop where they’d met a bitter end: frozen stiff. The decomposing corpses were not discovered until a sustained spring thaw, due primarily to the smell of death in the air.

“Oh my God! That’s awful!” Carolyn was shaken by the vivid imagery.

“I’m not surprised.” Roger, nonchalant about it. “I’m from Rhode Island and I have never been this cold in my life. And the snow…!”

“You’re in the Worcester Valley here; it makes Providence feel more like Miami Beach…the kind of cold that can freeze you to death.” How ominous.

Mr. Kenyon spoke about other fascinations of their property, including an old cellar hole and a giant piece of granite in the shape of a bell covering the abandoned well. He took them for a ride: on an excursion of the imagination through the pine grove, out to the pond toward the back of the property, just inside a borderline to Massachusetts. He told them other stories, too. Rumors persisted about the house being used as a part of the
Underground Railroad
network; speculation still circulating in the village well more than a hundred years later. Reflecting on the history, what little he knew of it, Mr. Kenyon’s expression turned suddenly somber. He looked Carolyn directly in the eyes then asked her an equally direct question.

“Is everything all right here?” She didn’t know how to interpret his inquiry. It had a strange ring to it; what felt in the moment like some hidden meaning.

“We’re settling in just fine; still a few boxes left to unpack but for the most part, we’re done. The girls have work left to do upstairs…its getting there.”

“Any problems?” The couple couldn’t determine what he was asking them; if the question was one of a concerned seller seeking to be of some assistance or if he had anticipated the emergence of a problem known only to him, one which had not been disclosed. Roger responded.

“Other than being chilly most of the time, we are really enjoying the place. It
is
very drafty. I may need to replace that tired old furnace soon. No matter what we do this house just won’t hold the heat…it has some very cold spots.” There was nothing remotely critical in Roger’s tone or content. He was well aware the house had no insulation long before they bought it.

“Clapboard.” The former caretaker absolutely knew how cold it could get. He’d done his share of shivering there.

“The house makes some rather unusual noises, even later at night after the wind dies down.” While speaking, Carolyn nudged a Danish roll toward their houseguest. She knew he had a sweet tooth.

“It’s old and creaky, just like me.” Mr. Kenyon smiled a coy grin they had all come to know: “Swallows in the chimney.” His quick wink in Carolyn’s direction seemed oddly misplaced, as if she was supposed to understand his cryptic message received with subtle skepticism: “Swallows in the chimney.” Fixing his gaze on the mistress of the house, he attempted to covertly express the esoteric comment. Not sure how to read it or how to reply, Carolyn raised another issue instead. She had accumulated a series of questions during their first few weeks in the farmhouse.

“I wish we had a proper set of keys. None of these keys fit any of the locks. I’ve tried them all.” Carolyn conveyed her concerns with some tension in her voice, a reflection of the trepidation she felt about often being home alone.

“Lost, I suppose. Years ago.”

“Does your son have a set?” Carolyn sought resolution. He shook his head.

“I never locked the doors. No need. No one will bother you here.”

The kitchen door blew open; wind and five snow bunnies entered en masse.

“Straight to the bathroom. Wet clothes into the tub.” Carolyn pointed one finger in the direction she wanted them to travel. They dutifully obeyed.

“Close that door! You’ll let all the heat out!” Roger was the door police.

“What heat would that be?” Carolyn briskly rubbed her hands together as a brutal gust of wind followed behind her children like an uninvited playmate. “God bless friction. Any advice?” The elder gentleman just shook his head.

“It comes with the territory.” He seemed sincere. “Ya get used to it.”

Carolyn doubted she’d ever adjust to the chill in the air; a Georgia girl who never quite acclimated to New England, even though she had already lived in the frozen tundra for more than a dozen years.

“It’s late. I should go.” Mr. Kenyon began slowly rising from his seat.

“Stay a little longer, please. I’m sure the girls want to spend time with you. They do thaw out!” Carolyn had an ulterior motive, as she had yet to pick his brain to her complete satisfaction. Only he knew what was really meant by what he said: “Swallows in the chimney”?

“Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner?” Roger was as anxious as his wife. Both cared for the old man and loathed to think of him being lonely.

“Thank you, no. I’ll come by again soon…if that’s all right with the lady.”

Reaching for his hand, Carolyn reassured him: welcome anytime. A blush rushed his cheeks, betraying his heart. Citing a previous obligation as reason for his departure, Roger walked him out while Carolyn went into the pantry, dutifully hovering over the pressure cooker; it did not require her assistance. She was seeking steam heat. Roger entered the kitchen, pausing at the pantry door. She felt her husband’s stare then glanced in his direction.

“What is it?” Roger’s quizzical expression prompted Carolyn’s question.

“That was strange.” The man seemed distracted.

“The visit?”

“
And
the conversation.” Carolyn agreed. “Swallows? What was that about? I think he knows something he’s not telling us.” Sounding a bit suspicious.

“I think he just
did
tell us…it was an admission.” She was right.

“An admission of what?” Roger’s question was oblivious but honest.

“I’m not sure….I think
something
is living in the chimney!”

“I think the old man has fallen in love with you.”

“Jealous?” A wicked grin pursed her lips.

“Maybe.” Roger was only slightly indignant, not threatened in the least by his competition.

“Good. It’ll keep you on your toes!” Carolyn continued the tedious chore at hand, yet another Sisyphean task involving the mindless peeling of onions, carrots and potatoes, which was fine, as her mind was otherwise preoccupied with far more ethereal matters…a persistent vision of swallows in flight.

“Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer and wish we didn’t.”

Erica Jong