Harmony House (3 page)

“Alone with your dad in that big hotel all winter, huh?”

“Until you come visit.”

“He starts writing, ‘All work and no play makes Anselm a dull boy,' on a typewriter over and over? You get the hell out of there.”

“It's gonna be
me
writing that,” I say.

I sip the tea and burn my mouth.

“Ow, shit,” I say.

From out in the hall I hear my dad call out, “I heard that.”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece and yell back, “Sorry.”

Steph laughs.

“All right, well . . . on that note. Call me after you check out the town, okay?”

“Yeah, I will.”

And then I say, “You better come visit me soon.”

I hang up and sit drinking tea for a minute before my dad comes in.

“How is she?” he asks.

I get up and stretch and crack my neck.

“She's fine.”

“Good,” he says. “You ready to see your room, then? I picked it out special.”

“Yeah, all right, let me get my bag.”

“I already brought it up there.”

So I get up from the table and we walk together through the dark, complicated halls and passages. There seems to be no practical layout to the house at all. Bathrooms, parlors, living rooms, bedrooms—they are scattered haphazardly and lead strangely into one another. Some of the rooms have no windows at all. And some of the rooms have windows that only open out onto the main hallway. I guess that's what happens
when they try turning some landmark house into a maximum-occupancy, superexpensive boutique hotel.

We climb the thick, mahogany staircase with the dark wooden banister. The walls seem to be leaning in on one another, like the whole place is some kind of sinking ship.

“I think a crazy person built this house,” I say.

My dad smiles.

“That's part of its charm. The owners decided to keep it like this so the guests could experience what it was like to live in a real old Gothic-style mansion.”

I look up at the triangular ceiling, which disappears into the shadows overhead.

“Were all Gothic mansions like this, then?” I ask.

“No, not necessarily. This house has a long and interesting history. I don't think anyone knows all of it.”

We reach the third floor and turn down a long carpeted hallway with flowery wallpaper hung on either side. There are also some framed portraits—some of which, my dad says, actually belonged to the original family that built this place.

“Hey, that one looks like you,” my dad says.

It's an oil painting of a young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, with straight black hair, blue eyes, and pale,
white skin. But she looks sickly somehow—like at the backs of her eyes—like there's something inside her trying to get out.

She's wearing a frilly white dress tight at the wrists. Her throat is tied with a bright red ribbon.

“I hope that's not what I look like,” I say.

He laughs. “I'm just joking.”

To get to the room my dad's decided is mine, we have to cut through a large, musty-smelling library, stacked high with leather-bound books.

“I'm gonna have to leave a trail of bread crumbs,” I say, “if I ever want to find my way back.”

He tells me I'll get used to it.

Though I pray to God I never do.

He opens the door and I almost have to squint, the room is so bright and pink. There's flowery wallpaper and a pink canopy bed hung with pink silk and pink curtains. The dresser is dark mahogany and so is the old-fashioned vanity.

“Well, what do you think?” my dad asks. “I figured it'd be perfect for my little girl.”

My first instinct is to burst into tears, but I fight that back and instead just start to laugh. It's ridiculous, really—as if I were a little girl—as if I've ever worn
anything pink or girly in my entire life.

My dad so clearly doesn't know me at all—or won't let himself know me. He only sees what he wants to see. It's the same goddamn thing he did with my mom.

There's no point fighting with him about it, so I go over to my suitcase on the bed and start to unpack, throwing shirts and jeans and sweaters into the dresser drawers.

“It's great,” I tell him, with no conviction at all.

He opens the window wide and I feel the cold air coming in and smell the salt from the ocean.

“How close are we to the beach?” I ask.

He walks up behind me, taking my clothes out from the dresser and folding them neatly in a little pile.

“Just about half a mile. There's a path behind the house. We should take a walk down there later.”

“Actually,” I tell him, watching his knotted hands touching my clothes, “I wanted to walk into the town and check it out myself.”

“Well, okay,” he says, after thinking for a minute. “But this isn't a holiday, Jen. It's gonna take a lot of work maintaining this house through the winter. I've written out a list of chores I need you to do every day. And I'm going to be teaching your lessons every morning.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I'm going to work. And I'm going to study. But I have to have some fun. Anyway, I can pick up groceries for us. There's nothing in the house.”

He nods, still folding my goddamn clothes.

“Yes, that would be good. I'll write you a list. This is going to be just what we need. I know it, Jen. This is really going to be perfect.”

He glances down, then, and sees a tank top I'd forgotten I left in my suitcase. His hands reach out and he takes it up quickly.

“What is this?” he asks.

I try to grab the shirt back from him, but he pulls away.

“I don't know,” I say. “Maybe it's Stephanie's.”

His face turns very red and he stuffs the tank top in his jacket pocket.

“Don't lie to me,” he yells. “Where did you get it?”

“I don't know. I'm telling you. I've never seen it before.”

There are tears in my eyes now and I feel a pressure building inside.

“It's a
sin
to lie,” he yells.

I grit my teeth and stare hatefully at him—wishing
more than anything that it could've been him—that
he
could've died instead of her.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks.

I stare and stare and wish him dead.

“This cannot go on like this,” he shouts. “This cannot go on.”

He grabs my bag from off the bed and dumps the contents out on the floor next to me. He sorts through them quickly, tossing them everywhere.

I stare hating him.

My teeth are clenched so tight my jaw aches.

I feel my heart pounding loud in my ears. There's a knife cutting in through the muscles in my stomach. I crack my neck and try to breathe but my chest is constricted and I press the palm of my hand into the center of my hot forehead.

“Dad,” I say—trying to stay calm—speaking evenly. “Dad, that's enough.”

He ignores me, of course. He goes on tearing through my things.

“Dad, stop it!” I yell.

I stomp my foot.

And then my dad cries out in pain. He clutches at his stomach and doubles over.

I turn to him, putting a hand on his back.

“Dad? What happened? Are you all right?”

I feel my hatred fading away.

He straightens, pushing me roughly.

“Hey!” I yell, falling back.

He gnashes his teeth.

“You're grounded,” he says, spitting as he talks. “You're not going
anywhere
!”

He storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Asshole!” I say, but not so he can hear.

I gather up my clothes from off the floor, feeling like I might cry. The pain in my head has mostly gone. There's only the burning behind my eyes.

I go over to the window and look out at the surrounding forest. The sun is nearly set over the distant hills—the wind blowing in strong off the ocean.

For the first time I think that it really is very beautiful here—at least, outside of this goddamn house.

I watch as those same ravens land on the twisted branches of the trees below.

Squirrels chase one another across the grounds.

On the side of the house next to my window there is a white lattice built up almost to the roof, planted with crawling roses and rust-colored ivy. Who knows how long it's been there or how stable it is?

At this point, I really don't care.

In my suitcase there's a side zipper where I hid a photograph of my mom.

She has her hair down and is smiling—holding what must be a three-or four-year-old me in her arms. In this photo, at least, she looks happy. And I do, too. We look happy together. I like to think of my mom like this—smiling, holding me, brushing my hair. I remember the smell of her—like floral soaps and laundry detergent. When Dad would go into his rages—or the opposite of rages, when he would brood quietly—my stomach would be twisted up and the pain would cut in and my mom would come and sit with me in my bed. She'd get me to straighten my body out—to straighten my legs and lie flat so my stomach would unclench. She'd tell me to breathe—deeply—in and out. She'd smooth back my hair from my forehead. I'd feel the warmth of her delicate hand.

Then she'd read to me as I fell asleep. She'd read me that book
Eloise at the Plaza
. For some reason, as a kid, that book would always make me feel better. So my mom would read that to me. And she'd kiss me good night. And she'd try to protect me from my father. Though I guess she was the one who needed protection.

There are tears in my eyes now. I wipe them away and go hide the picture beneath my pillow. I go over to the window, staring out at the lattice structure. But then there is a voice coming from the room behind me—a woman's voice like my mother's.

“Good-bye,”
it says.

I turn and look.

But I don't know why.

There can't be anything there.

I make my way slowly down the side of the house—the wooden structure shaking beneath my weight.

It's quiet outside except for the steady sound of the birds and crickets and the wind. I climb down into the tall grass and creep silently through the gray evening toward the stone garage.

A small cat appears underneath a tree that has initials carved in it,
AMJG
.

I crouch down and make a clicking noise and tap the ground with my hand, but the cat won't come to me.

Instead, a snap of a tree branch makes the cat dart off into the forest. I look up suddenly, and that's when I realize—someone else is watching.

A
figure, shadowed and dark but distinctly human,
ducks behind the pitch pines grown close together at the edge of the clearing.

“Who's there?” I say, like an idiot.

No one answers.

My teeth start to chatter and I pull on my heavy jacket.

From behind the trees I see a flash of red and white, like someone wearing a kind of rugby jersey, maybe—someone tall, well over six feet.

“Hey, wait!” I yell.

There's the sound of wet leaves and pine needles underfoot and more branches snapping as the figure runs off through the forest.

“Wait.”

I start to run after whoever it is but stop short at the line of trees.

The forest is very dark. The sky has turned gray and clouded overhead. The wind through the treetops scatters the leaves and strips bare the creaking branches. I hear the insane call of a woodpecker laughing, maniacal in the distance. There's a feeling like my stomach dropping out—like jumping off a high bridge into water, the way my friends and I used to when we'd take trips down to the Passaic. A strange smell comes from the entrance to the forest—a smell like something dead maybe, an animal rotting. And the cold from out of the dark becomes almost unbearable.

Even the cat, who's followed along beside me, seems leery of continuing on. It stands poised at the edge of the forest, swaying slightly and staring off as though hypnotized by the music of a snake charmer. Its eyes are yellow and watchful.

I force myself to laugh.

I pick the small cat up in my arms.

It begins to purr.

I carry it in the opposite direction, away from the smell and the forest and whoever it was behind the trees there.

“Do you have a home, or what?” I ask the cat.

I put it down next to a neatly stacked woodpile on the side of the house and then make my way back down the winding gravel path to the front gate we left open.

It takes me about ten minutes to walk into the town of Beach Haven—little more than tourist shops, a grocery store, a post office, an equestrian and hardware store, a library, a medical clinic, a dentist's office, a gas station, and a restaurant called the Double R Diner. The entire town spans the equivalent of two or three city blocks.

As of seven o'clock on a Wednesday night, the Double R Diner is the only establishment showing any signs of life. I walk there with my head down, doing my best to avoid my own darkened image in the reflection of a dull street lamp against the plate-glass windows. The engine of a large rusted pickup truck complains loudly as it drives slowly up the main road. A wiry, thin man with a reddish beard and hollowed-out features stares at me black-eyed and openmouthed.

I don't look away.

I imagine the red-bearded man and the driver both falling dead and the truck running off the road—careening through the darkened window of the Beach Haven Pharmacy and Five & Dime.

The sky is black and starless, with the pale fingernail of a moon obscured by racing clouds.

The truck lumbers on up the road.

The neon sign for the Double R Diner blinks red and orange—on and off, on and off. I have a little money saved up from my job last summer working at the bookstore in Johnstown, so I figure I'll go in and get a coffee and maybe something to eat.

The diner is relatively spacious with red vinyl booths set up along the walls, a few tables, a counter with built-in stools and a bright flashing jukebox in the corner playing twangy-sounding cowboy music. An elderly couple, both with skin like yellowed wax paper and heavy-lidded bloodshot eyes, turn to look up at me. So do the truck drivers at the counter and the old woman sitting by herself wearing a mass of thick sweaters and one of those long quilted barn coats. The gray-haired waitress behind the counter puts down her pot of coffee to look at me, too. No one smiles. I set my jaw tight. I
wish I were back home. I imagine the diner on fire, all of them running out screaming as flames spread from floor to ceiling.

The cowboy song on the jukebox fades out. There is an interminable silence before the next song is queued up. I think about walking out. But I don't. I go sit at the counter. The waitress comes over and offers me coffee from a deeply stained, chipped coffeepot.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“You wanna see a menu?” she asks, her voice hoarse-sounding. “We have a meat loaf special.”

I shake my head.

“No, thank you.”

She pours the coffee. I add milk from the pitcher and two packs of sugar. It's good coffee. Hot.

The door behind me dings open.

A girl, probably around my age, but with blond hair and a sickeningly cheery smile, comes bouncing over next to me.

She gives the waitress a hug, leaning her long, slender body over the counter.

“What are you doing here?” the old woman asks her. “Did you eat yet?”

The girl smiles even bigger.

“I wanted to come see you. And Dad said you baked a huckleberry pie. There any left?”

The waitress laughs.

“Thought that might be it.”

“Well, I wanted to see you,
too
,” the girl says.

“I know,” the old woman tells her. “Come sit down. I put a piece aside for you. You want it hot? With vanilla ice cream?”

“Yes, please.”

The girl sits down at the counter.

Then she turns to me.

“Oh, hello,” she says. “What's your name?”

“Uh, I'm Jen,” I say.

“I'm Christy. Are you on vacation here?”

I take a sip of ice water, feeling a little flushed for some reason.

“Uh, no,” I say. “I . . . I just moved here. My dad's gonna be the caretaker of that old Harmony House place.”

Christy gets even brighter and cheerier and her general positive whatever is kind of freaking me out, if you want to know the truth.

“Harmony House? Cool.”

She turns to the waitress again.

“Hey, Aunt Rose, did you hear that? This is the girl living with her dad up in Harmony House.”

“I heard,” says the waitress—her aunt—Rose—I guess.

She sets the pie and ice cream down in front of Christy and, I have to admit, the smell is pretty damn incredible.

She turns to me, studying my face like she's trying to figure out . . . I don't even know what.

“How's it going up there so far?” she asks.

I try to smile.

“Fine,” I say. “We only just got in today.”

“And you're staying here all through the winter?” she asks.

I nod, half watching Christy eating that pie with a look that must give away how hungry I am, because Rose laughs to herself and then tells me, “Hold on,” and starts making up another plate for me.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “I haven't eaten all day.”

“Aunt Rose's pies,” says Christy, smiling. “The cornerstone of every nutritious meal.”

I take a bite and smile, too. “It's good,” I tell her.

She pats me awkwardly on the head.

“Sweet of you to say.”

I drink the hot good coffee and eat the hot good pie.

Christy and her aunt both laugh at how hungry I am.

“So are you gonna be startin' high school here?” Christy asks me. “At Beach Haven?”

I shake my head.

“Uh, no,” I say, haltingly. “I'm gonna be . . . uh . . . taking a break, I guess. I'm supposed to be a junior. But . . . uh . . . my mom died a couple months ago, so . . .”

I trail off—not sure why the hell I just let that out of my mouth. I take another bite of pie to try to shut myself up.

“Oh God,” Christy says, startled. “That's terrible! I'm so sorry.”

She puts a small, fragile-looking hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah, no,” I say, stumbling over my words. “It's been hard, but . . .”

“Well, I tell you what,” she says. “I'm working at my family's store down the block all winter—selling beads.”

I make a face. “Bees?”

She laughs.

“
B-e-a-d-s.
Ye Olde Bead Shoppe. Most businesses close this time of year. But we're open right up 'til Christmas and then all through January. 'Cause, you know,
people might have . . .
bead emergencies
. . . I guess.”

I can't help but laugh a little at that, too.

“I'm there most days after school gets out,” she says. “You come by any time you need anything, okay?”

“Thank you,” I say. “That's super sweet. Are you a senior?”

“Yeah,” she tells me. “Doing all the college application stuff right now.”

I groan.

“So not looking forward to that.”

“Well, at least you've got a good thing to write an essay about.”

She covers her mouth, flushing a bright red.

“Sorry, that wasn't funny.”

“No, you're right,” I say. “Some girl at my old school got attacked by a bear while she was on one of those Outward Bound trips and she got into every school she applied to. Maybe you should just pretend you're a bulimic cutter with ADHD, OCD, and bipolar disorder.”

Christy keeps on blushing.

“Believe me, I've thought about it. But I'm sorry just the same. That was a stupid joke.”

I tell her, again, that it's really okay.

We continue on talking for a while more—eating pie, drinking coffee, and listening to the twangy cowboy music coming from the jukebox.

“Maybe you'd like to come over sometime?” Christy says.

“Yeah, I'd like that,” I tell her, trying to be polite and all. “If my dad lets me.”

Aunt Rose comes over then and refills our coffees and presses her wide, wrinkled, hand with the knotted blue veins down on the Formica countertop.

“You be sure to make him,” she says, surprising me that she'd been listening to our conversation. “You don't want to let yourself get too isolated living up in that house just the two of you.”

“I couldn't agree more,” I say.

“Really should've burned that place down years ago,” she says—more to herself than to me.

“Oh, you hush now, Aunt Rose. There's nothing wrong with that house.”

She turns to me then and says, “Aunt Rose used to work there when she was a girl. Don't pay any attention to her.”

I force a smile, not sure what the hell they're talking about.

“Well, in any case,” says Rose, handing me a paper menu. “Here's our phone number if you need anything. And, here, I'll write my niece's number and my home number on the back, too.”

And then she adds, “Please don't hesitate to call either one of us.”

I thank them both, thinking that if everyone in this little town is as nice as these two, then maybe Beach Haven won't be so bad after all. I stand and try to pay, but Rose won't let me. I fold the menu up and put it in the side pocket of my black parka.

Outside it is cold, so I pull my hood up over my head and put on a pair of woolen fingerless gloves. The moon has risen higher and there is the steady sound of dry leaves rattling in the dark. I can hear a train whistle way off in the distance.

There's a path behind the diner that winds through an overgrown field of weeds and dead blackberry bushes. A smell like damp and rot rises up from the ground.

At the edge of the town there is a group of boys standing huddled against the back of the feed store smoking cigarettes—the burning orange embers glowing like coals in the hearth of a smoldering fire.

“Hey,” I say, walking closer. “Hey, you guys got an extra cigarette?”

It's three of them in all—tall, muscular-looking boys wearing baseball hats and Carhartt jackets. They are handsome, I guess, in a frat-boy kind of way—but I'm definitely getting kind of a date-rapey vibe from the three of them.

“Where'd you come from?” the biggest of the three asks me.

“Just from the diner there,” I say.

He snorts a laugh.

“No. I mean, where you from? I know you ain't from around here . . . gorgeous.”

I roll my eyes.

“Okay, never mind,” I say.

I start off walking in the direction of the house. From behind me I hear the boys' muffled voices discussing something. I try to walk a little faster, back out onto the main street, where, at least, it's not totally dark—even if it is completely fucking empty. There isn't a single other person or car in the street.

Only I can hear footsteps coming up behind me.

It's that first boy I talked to. He's by himself, which is a small relief, but not a big one.

“Wait up,” he says, a little out of breath. “I didn't mean to scare you off. I'm Alex.”

He gets in front of me and extends his hand for me to take it. His broad face is covered in a constellation of freckles and somehow that works to make him seem a little less threatening.

When I don't take his hand right away he says, “Aw, come on. I was just messing around. And, anyway, what's the big deal? You
are
gorgeous.”

“I gotta go,” I tell him.

He keeps on traipsing along beside me.

“How 'bout this,” he says. “If I can figure out who you are in . . . uh . . . three guesses, then you have to agree to let me walk you home. What do you think about that?”

I shake my head.

“I think you probably already know who I am, considering there are about twelve people in this whole goddamn town.”

He laughs.

“Yeah, okay. You got me. You're the girl whose dad is taking care of Harmony House through the winter, right? You just got here today?”

I slow my pace down.

“Yup. That's right.”

“Well, what's your name?” he asks. “Will you give me that, at least?”

“You can't guess that?”

He takes off his Yankees baseball hat and runs his long, thick fingers through his blondish-brown hair. He's wearing too much of some cheap cologne and it kind of gives me a headache.