House of Darkness House of Light (9 page)

That afternoon the girls remained lively; no naps, in spite of all the energy they had expended. It was time for some excited sightseeing. The village was compact but charming, speckled with historic homes and lovely landscaping. Weaving her way through town, Cathi was prone to sudden turns: jerking its wheel, pointing the car toward roads which looked particularly inviting. It was better than a trip to
Rocky Point
; a thrill-ride with the wild woman beat out the
Wildcat
. The library seemed small but the general store appeared to be adequate. It was important to the girls to see their new respective schools. Crossing over the narrow bridge at the waterfall, astounded by the beauty of Mill Pond, Andrea was delighted to see the vintage theater beside it, a place “Now Showing” movies every weekend. Once they were out on the highway again, each sweet urchin began emptying saturated pockets, examining their haul; something to occupy the time during a long haul back to Cumberland. A festive outing, it would be their last before officially moving to the farm. Harrisville would be their destination: a new hometown on the horizon.

The next few months were exasperating for Roger and Carolyn. They had to sell their house at a substantial profit in order to afford to buy their farm. Mrs. Hertzog listed it, repeatedly showing the place. Working diligently to close the deal, her relentless efforts finally paid off; it wasn’t enough. Family and friends rallied around the couple. Roger
sold
in his sleep. He then sold back the cash value of his life insurance policy: whatever it took. The down payment slowly accrued. Another expense would suddenly emerge to gobble it up. Weeks passed. Their house in the suburbs was sold; they had to leave! Waiting patiently, Mr. Kenyon kept his word. A survey of the farm came in ten acres short, for some inexplicable reason. Their down payment was
still
coming up short. Reassuring them the land
was there
, Mr. Kenyon offered to lower the asking price, an incredibly generous gesture on behalf of a family. Finally! In mid-December of 1970, they closed on the farm: bought and sold. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord and pass the nectar! They were homeward bound.

As the Perrons celebrated Christmas for their final time in Cumberland, the children were instructed to hang onto all the empty boxes for their toys. That year gifts came from everywhere; seemingly from the ether. Friends close to them
knew
their cupboards were bare, coffers depleted by the purchase of a farm. From an attorney to real estate agent; neighbors to teachers, Santa had some serious competition! Cathi brought gifts…books and more
Weebles
! Family members and friends alike emerged to assist in a
moving
endeavor. It was a glorious celebration; a testament to precious, enduring relationships.

Well beyond weary, an ambitious couple had over-extended themselves in every conceivable way. They decided to take a few days off to rest and relax, spending time with the ladies instead of hovering over notarized documents. Grateful for these many blessings bestowed upon them, it was time to pack; what that entailed was much more than Carolyn could handle alone; Cathi came to help. When she arrived, so did the running joke which had begun the previous summer, feigning the
deprivation
associated with buying the farm.

Kids to Cathi: “What’s for dessert?” Cathi to kids: “
J-E-L-L-O
…
Nothing!
” To this day, it remains the standard answer to the question.

During the second week of January 1971 the real adventure began. All else had been a prelude to it. Snow flurries cluttered the sky that frigid morning, a precursor to the storm to come. Their truck arrived on schedule. By the time it was loaded and all ready to go it had been repeatedly swept clean of an icy, impacted residue. Still, in spite of that maintenance, the driver could not see through a frozen, crystal-encrusted windshield. Roger had to engage flashing lights and lead the way. By necessity, they would be forced to crawl along to their place in the country, no matter how anxious they were to head on
home
. In spite of the trial, spirits were high. At last! The Perron family was moving to the farm; the home of their dreams…and eventual nightmares.

***

Their caravan, including the truck and three full cars, labored through the countryside. Though state highways had remained relatively clear, the same could not be said for the narrow, winding roads ahead of them. It took more than two hours to arrive at their destination, less than thirty miles from that journey’s point of origin. A snowstorm is nothing unusual in Rhode Island so everyone took it in stride. Mr. Kenyon; waiting for them with hot chocolate and cookies, fresh from the oven. It took all day to complete the task but by evening, rooms had been chosen and beds assembled. The whole family went down for a long winter’s nap…all except for one.

Roger waited for his wife to fall asleep before rising again. He roamed the place, their new old home as quietly as wooden floors allow. Reflecting upon an eventful day he cautiously made his way through the darkened dwelling, a few rooms still clinging to an echo. Though his mind was racing, the pace of his feet deliberately slowed; obstacles at every turn. Passing by several boxes precariously stacked beside their upside down rocking chair, Roger paused to reflect upon the necessity of having to move something else, anything else at the end of a very long day. He did, and managed to do so without waking the dead. No cause for alarm until the morning when several fast little feet would complicate an equation. Nearly tripping over the toy which had no business being where it was in his path, Roger quickly decided he required more light to navigate a treacherous space. A lamp stood alone in a dim recessed corner of the dining room. Reaching for it; murmuring: “Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness, or the kids.” Roger was grateful there was a bulb inside and pulled on its chain. Illumination: Let there be Light. The shadowed space instantly consumed a soft yellow glow it cast into the night. Suddenly Roger recalled the rather ambiguous statement Mr. Kenyon had made earlier in the day, just prior to leaving his lifelong home. It knocked on the closed door in his mind, requesting entry and proper consideration.

The father of five righted an old rocking chair then claimed it for himself. Though the snowstorm had subsided, its residual wind was still howling like wolves in the woods. Motionless, he sat in moonlight filtered by lace curtains which had found their proper windows in day one. Carolyn had worked hard. The happy homemaker was on task inside before their last piece of furniture came off a truck outside; she had already begun decorating. He admired her efforts and her stamina. Though he found the house chilly, undoubtedly due to a brutal cold front plunging temperatures to single digits, he was warmed by thoughts of his family. The girls would now have the chance to spend an idyllic childhood in a place quite different from the harsh city streets he had known as a boy. A father smiled with pride and certain satisfaction. This was a blessing…no curses in sight that night.

Lamplight flickered; tightening the bulb Roger heard Mr. Kenyon’s cryptic words streaming throughout his consciousness, forewarning him to leave the lights on at night. It had seemed innocuous enough at the time, even sensible advice regarding a house full of girls trying to find their way to the bathroom in darkness. Still, he had found something troubling about those words. The phrase haunted him, perhaps in its delivery. Just before taking his leave from a home all his own for so long, Mr. Kenyon invited Roger outside for a walk. Horizontally blowing snow would have deterred even the heartiest of Yankee souls and yet an elder gentleman seemed entirely unaffected by the elements. Roger accompanied him, as requested. Though the men had walked together before, this time they appeared to be a single solitary figure obscured by the swirling gusts of icy-white, wind-driven haze. Mr. Kenyon paused prior to issuing a statement as opaque as the air. His thoughtfully considered words were spoken in a foreboding tone Roger found foreign. An unusual phrase; Roger dismissed it in mind, as it made no sense to him at that time. He said:
“For the sake of your family, leave the lights on at night.”
With no further explanation forthcoming, without one being requested, Roger presumed it to be entirely benign; the well-intended ramblings of an old man who had lived alone far too long. The suggestion tapped Roger on the shoulder as he leaned in toward the lamp. Raw nerves had been frayed ragged by events of the day. The man was exhausted. He stared at the brass pull chain dangling beside his fingertips. Mr. Kenyon was right. Though moonlight was nice enough, it was insufficient for guidance in the dark of night; it
was
too dark in the house. He left the amber lamplight glowing for his girls then went on back to bed.

Harsh winds whipped and curled around the chimney like a cat in perpetual motion; a dog frantically chasing its own tail: the frenetic sounds of creatures stirring things up, not of those attempting to settle into a comfortable position for the night. The valley cried out in shrill tones, begging for mercy from the relentlessly rushing gusts of icy air. Go ahead. Make yourself at home.

They had entered unfamiliar territory in a house which had a secret. Pulling bare legs in beneath a warm quilt, Roger was far too weary to sleep; his mind preoccupied, riddled with images of the tumultuous day. His over-extended muscles ached and throbbed. The man lay there beside his wife, wondering how they’d actually pulled it off. Closing his increasingly heavy eyelids, he remained quite still, listening to new sounds from within a very old house.

***

Several months would pass before Roger again recalled the cryptic words left with him on this day as two men shook hands, bidding a fond farewell in a snowstorm. It took some time for him to fully grasp the significance of this remark; a legitimate warning. When that time did come he would divulge the content of the conversation to his troubled wife. With a few simple words the dear old man had relayed all he knew or understood about the farmhouse; all he could convey without running the risk of being perceived as a madman by a couple of new friends. It was their initial clue; a foreshadowing of things to come, appearing in the darkness of night…from dusk ‘til dawn.

“Think of yourself as an incandescent power, illuminated and perhaps forever talked to by God and his messengers.”

Brenda Ueland

 
frozen stiff

“Let your joy scream across the pain.”

Ezbeth Wilder

A family was virtually sequestered for the winter; a merciless season beating relentlessly upon their doors and windows, repeatedly threatening to intrude. During the first six weeks or so, their house felt more like an igloo to its new inhabitants. Blowing snow latched onto its rusty screens, which had not been removed in many years. Neglectfulness created conditions which invited the elements, resulting in a visually stunning, brutally cold whiteout from within. Every morning this thin coating of ice laced their windowpanes with unusual patterns splendidly displayed against a backdrop of sunlight, delicately lining the inside of each pane of glass. Every prism promised another cold day. The children, fascinated by one of Nature’s marvels, used their hot little hands to leave their personal imprints behind; a patchwork of palms. Fingertips etched names on the artwork, claiming God’s work as their own…until their mother noticed the new pre-school ritual; she was the one who would have to clean those windowpanes with her own fingers, too stiff and sore to move without magnifying her pain. Art class dismissed.

Outside, snowdrifts were trapped and jammed into corners of the structure, stretched upward by punishing winds, then narrowed into shafts resembling fingers, each one appearing to point toward the second story of the dwelling, as if with purpose. Storm after storm, week after week, frosted windowpanes shuddered and shivered and shifted in place. Doors trembling with gusts as each swept through the valley; victims of a blustery and unforgiving wind. It was wild and free: Nature on a rampage. Winter was a mesmerizing event.

Enormous icicles clung to the edges of their roof line, as if in desperation. Attached by balls of ice resembling clawed feet, talons latched into the ridge where clapboard met shingle; each one of dozens dangled precariously, their existence contingent upon the temperature and the angle of the Sun. Many of these ice monsters shared the same circumference as those of a smaller tree, creating a fortress-like effect, surrounding the house on all sides. A veritable fence of swords, equally as dangerous, perched ominously overhead, capable of impaling anyone foolish enough to stand beneath them, with catastrophic damage potential. Roger and Carolyn rarely made demands of their children. This hazard was the exception. Naturally, the girls were intrigued. They were ordered to keep a safe distance, to avoid the façade of the house at all times. It was as non-negotiable a point as was the rigid spike that plunged from the rafters into the ground during one brief thaw, driving itself upright through frozen solid tundra. Carolyn photographed it for emphasis, posting a copy of the picture, a health
hazard
on the refrigerator door as a constant reminder to all; these icy giants preserved for posterity, as some proof of their existence. Otherwise, no one would ever believe it! Not unless they saw how a common icicle could, in time, evolve into uncommon weaponry: a mystery of Nature; elemental interplay of water and air conspiring to create: a wonder to behold.

Their harsh environment isolated them. Most extended family members too faint of heart to brave that bleak mid-winter would wait until spring to come out to the country. Carolyn left that ominous photograph in place to show the cowards what they had missed. Their first winter there introduced many new challenges. By comparison, the clan had been coddled in suburban sanctuary. Having a home hundreds of feet away from the road was lovely and private,
until
it was time to carve out a narrow path to their bus stop; then it became treacherous and exhausting work. “Digging out” adopted some new meaning. Roger purchased several snow shovels, anticipating the necessity for a group effort, especially whenever he was away on business. He could not always be there to heave and ho, hoist and bail them out. Instead, he taught his girls the finer points of shoveling snow. It was drudgery, to be sure, but could still be accomplished quickly and efficiently when maintenance
staff
was properly trained: bend at the knees, use legs rather than arms and the back as leverage. The baby was exempt from the chore, though everyone soon learned valuable lessons regarding teamwork. Their boat had been but a prelude; warming up before the
real
workout. So began the building of muscle mass, and a serious Yankee work ethic. In time, cutting, hauling and splitting of wood developed into another exercise regimen, but that’s another story entirely.