Harmony House (9 page)

And then like all the visions before it, this one fades to nothing.

I shake my head.

I press the palms of my hands in to my temples.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I say out loud.

It's like I'm having seizures.

Or like I'm falling asleep where I stand.

Am I some kind of narcoleptic?

Or is it the pills I'm taking?

I go on to do my chores.

Because thinking about it doesn't do a fuckin' thing.

So I walk through the house, and in the shafts of pale white pearly sunlight, I can see a thick layer of dust along the banister. It covers every doorframe and painting and ornamental table and lamp and bookshelf and
chest of drawers. The dust seems to have rained down in the night—as though someone came and deliberately coated each and every surface.

It wasn't like this yesterday, I think. But, again, that doesn't make any goddamn sense.

Looking up as I make my way down the stairs, I see the beams of the house and crisscrossed rafters and detailed edges and ornamental fixtures all seeming to point in slightly different directions. I think back on what Colin told me—that every line of the house, every angle, was built just the littlest bit off, so nothing connects the way it should—or the way you'd expect it to—giving the impression that it's moving constantly, shifting, expanding and contracting like lungs breathing in and out.

It does almost feel like the house is alive. Not a conscious being, exactly. Like an amoeba—a single-celled organism.

Still dusting and straightening as I go, I walk through the cluttered living room—past the armoire I crashed into last night—and as I do, I feel the life in the house traveling from corner to corner, following me from room to room, watching me wherever I go. I turn a corner, clicking off the last room's light.

At the end of the hall the locked room is standing open. There's no key in the lock, but the door is thrown wide.

“Dad, are you in there?”

I shiver, stepping inside, my hand still covering my nose, breathing only through my mouth.

The dust is deeper here and cloying and the smell of mold and rot makes me recoil back.

“Dad?” I call again.

I flick the light switch on, but nothing happens.

I try again.

The room stays dark. I notice for the first time that the windows are all boarded up and I wonder if maybe my dad came in and secured the room like this—or if maybe this is a different room altogether and I'm just mixed up.

There's a large box of matches on one of the large, flat, sheet-covered objects—most likely a table of some sort.

I light the first match. The flame ignites blue then yellow, then finally settles in, burning vibrant red and orange.

I pull the sheet away.

Beneath it is a piano—a baby grand. The keys are
brown and yellowed like rotting teeth. A folder of sheet music is open on the piano bench. Some old religious music: “Jesus Make up My Dying Bed.”

The match burns down to my fingers then and I curse and blow it out.

Beneath the weathered sheet music is a heavy vinyl record the size of a Frisbee, wrapped in dark-stained wax paper and tied with burlap.

I light another match, holding the record up in one hand and trying to see through the glossy paper. The record seems to carry no markings.

“Jen!” my dad yells sharply.

His voice startles me so I drop the match and have to bat it out with my hand.

“It was open,” I say, as if that explains anything.

I turn to face him, but he doesn't seem mad exactly.

“What you got there?” he asks, his smile strained-looking—but still a smile.

“I . . . I don't know,” I say. “Some record, I guess.”

“Here, let me see.”

He takes the record from me and carries it back out into the hallway. As I step out of the room, the cold seems to stay behind me—as though the temperature is somehow relegated to those four walls. The smell, too,
seems to remain behind. My dad closes the door and relocks it.

“Don't know how that got open,” he says. “Might as well try giving this old record a spin, though, huh? I think I noticed a turntable set up next to the stereo in the living room.”

“It doesn't have any label or anything,” I say.

He nods.

“Probably homemade. When I was a kid you could record an LP like this at a studio in town for five dollars. Although,” he continues, turning the record over a couple times, “this looks much older.”

“Older than you?” I say, forcing a smile. “Didn't think that was possible.”

He laughs and this strange jocularity makes me fidget uncomfortably.

I keep shifting my weight from one leg to the other.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks me.

I nod.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I say.

He smiles, not showing any teeth.

“We've got a lot of work to do,” he says. “So . . . uh . . . let's get back to it.”

In the kitchen I drink more water from the tap and,
feeling hungry again, and like my stomach can handle a little more food, I decide to take a break from working so I can make myself some eggs.

I get a pan down from one of the cupboards and I'm about to light the burner when I'm startled by the sound of a car coming up the driveway.

My dad must hear it, too, because he calls out to me, “Who is that? Who's coming?”

His footsteps echo down the stairs.

I make my way over to the window and look out to see a rusted pickup truck pulling in next to my dad's Volvo. Beyond the car and the line of trees, I notice a gathering of dark clouds on the horizon—despite the bright sun and perfect blue of the sky overhead. The driver's-side door opens and I'm pretty surprised to see Christy's aunt Rose stepping out.

I turn the faucet on and splash cool water on my face, trying to bring the world back into sharper focus. Rose makes her way up the stairs and I hurry to get to the door before my dad does.

But, of course, I'm too late.

My dad has the door open and is standing with his arms crossed.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

Rose smiles wide. She's wearing a barn coat over jeans and rubber Bean boots. She stares at my father and my father stares back. Strangely, they stay staring like that, back and forth. Rose narrows her eyes at him.

“I know you from somewhere,” she says.

My dad forces a smile.

“No, I don't think so. We just moved in here. I'm Anselm Noonan.”

“Yes, of course,” she says. “I'm sorry. I'm Rose Lynch. I own the Double R Diner in town. I met your wonderful daughter yesterday when she came in to do her homework.”

My dad nods, the smile gone now. He stares coldly again.

“I don't mean to pry,” Rose tells him. “But I just wanted to check on Jen after what happened last night.”

“How'd you know about that?” my dad asks, standing up a little straighter.

I walk up between them.

“Hey, Rose,” I say, forcing my own damn smile. “That's nice of you to come.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she tells me, wrapping her big arms around me and rubbing my back.

I'm not all that comfortable with her touching me,
but I'm too polite to say anything.

“I'm okay,” I say, trying to get free of her grip. “I'm really okay.”

My dad steps away from the door and asks if Rose wants to come inside. The wind has picked up some, so the leaves are blown out of the dark forest onto the winding driveway. Rose's short gray hair is tied back behind a red bandana.

She holds up a hand to shield her eyes from the wind and dust.

“No . . . no, thank you,” she says, staying where she is on the front porch. “I have to get going. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, Jen.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm fine.”

“Christy told me she was supposed to come over tonight with some of her friends?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “I forgot about that.”

“You don't want to cancel?” Rose asks.

“Jen,” my dad says, turning to me. “I don't want you to get distracted. We have a lot of work to do.”

“A little company won't hurt her any,” Rose says, smiling. “Be a nice thing for Jen after all that happened.”

My dad clenches his teeth, but nods.

“Fine,” he says. “But just for tonight.”

Aunt Rose smiles, then she looks up into the sky, wonderingly.

“Well, I hope you two get outside a little today—take advantage of this fine weather we're having. Gonna be a big storm coming in tomorrow. Weatherman says it could be the biggest storm on record.”

She turns her attention to me suddenly and cocks her head to one side.

“But you know that already, don't you?”

I make a face, frowning.

“Me? What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” she tells me, smiling. “I just saw you looking at those clouds, too.”

“You did?” I ask, confused.

“Come on,” my dad says, taking hold of my arm. “You have to get back to work if you want to see your friends tonight.”

He nods curtly to Rose.

“Thank you for your concern,” he says.

Her turns his back on her and doesn't let go of my arm.

“If you need anything,” Rose tells me, “you know where to find me.”

My dad pulls me away.

“Let's go,” he says.

I look back at Rose.

She smiles at me.

And with my eyes, I try to ask her for help—I try to tell her I'm trapped here with a crazy person. But I can't say it out loud. And so she can't understand. And my dad has me back inside.

He closes the door.

A
fter I finish my chores in the house, my dad wants me to go pull weeds in the garden and, of course, I don't really have a choice. I put on boots and my heavy jacket and a pair of leather gardening gloves and go out into the still-warm afternoon.

The world is coming into focus a little better, the dreamy haze from the pills clearing. I've made little piles of the deep-rooted ragweed and thistles all the way out to the forest and I go grab the rake out of the stone garage and start adding up all the piles into one big
pile. It's not difficult work, but already I'm flushed and glossy with sweat. My chest, too, is tender and weirdly bigger-seeming, so I start unfastening my bra.

But then a shiver runs through me and I turn, almost jumping out of my skin as a voice says, “Jen, hey.”

It's Colin.

He's half-hidden by the white barren pines.

“Jesus, why are you always lurking behind my house?”

He laughs, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“I'm not lurking.”

“You look like you're lurking. Anyway, I told you, my dad's gonna kill me if he sees me talking to you.”

“We were supposed to meet up,” he says, stepping back into the shadows of the forest. “Don't you remember?”

I nod.

“Oh yeah, right. Sorry.”

“Well, do you have time to come talk for a minute?”

I look back at the house, scanning the many windows.

“Yeah, all right,” I say. “Just for a minute.”

He turns and starts off into the woods and I follow after him.

Leaves colored gold and red and brown cover the forest floor. Birds sing atonally overhead.

“I'm sorry I startled you,” he tells me. “But I really wanted to see you.”

I breathe out slow.

“It's okay. I'm sorry I forgot. It was a crazy night—and morning.”

“Is it true about Alex, then?” he asks.

I stare up at the close together, narrow, spindly, dead-looking trees.

“Jesus, this is a gossipy little town, isn't it?”

He leans his shoulder into me.

“Yeah, it is. We got shit else to do. Anyway, I'm just glad you're all right.”

He pauses then before adding, “You are all right, aren't you?”

“Yeah, I'm all right. He's the one who ended up in the hospital.”

“The hospital?”

“Uh-huh. I kicked him in the balls and then smashed a picture frame across his face.”

Not exactly true, but it seems easier to explain it that way.

“Well, good,” he says. “I'm just sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

The clouds are moving in quickly from the east and there's a sweet smell like rain in the air.

“It's weird that he would come back here,” Colin says.

I look at him curiously.

“What do you mean?”

He scratches at the bridge of his broad nose.

“I mean, this place . . .”

He gestures with both hands.

“Harmony House . . . we used to come sneak in here when we were kids.”

“‘We'?”

He reddens.

“Yeah, we. We used to be friends. Actually, it was here we had the . . . uh . . . falling-out.”

“In the hotel?”

“In the hotel, yeah. Except it wasn't a hotel yet. We broke in through this window over the basement. You been down there yet?”

I shake my head.

“Well, it's creepy as hell. We used to come in on dares and stuff, just to look around or whatever. But, one day, we came in after school and Alex just, like, disappeared. Seriously, I couldn't find him anywhere. I looked and
looked, but it was like he'd straight-up fuckin' vanished. And I got, like, lost in all the rooms down there. Then he finally shows up, I mean out of nowhere, and starts like attacking me—hitting me and acting all crazy—like he was really trying to kill me.”

“Jesus. What'd you do?”

“What did I do? I kicked his ass, that's what I did. But, ever since then, me 'n Alex have stayed pretty well clear of one another.”

Colin looks at me, then, something glinting behind his eyes.

“Tell you what, though,” he continues on. “He's scared of me. You won't have to worry about being bothered by him . . . or anybody long as I'm around.”

He rubs his hand over his short-cut hair.

I smile.

“I can take care of myself,” I tell him.

He laughs. “Yeah, I guess you can.”

He pauses then before adding, “I'm just saying.”

I turn toward the house again.

“Look,” I say. “I'm sorry. I don't think I can hang out right now. I've got chores to finish and some of the girls from town are coming over tonight. Maybe you can come by later.”

He seems to think about that.

“How 'bout tomorrow, instead?” he says. “Could you get free in the afternoon?”

I smile.

“Yeah, totally. Like around three? We could go to the beach.”

He nods. “Sure, yeah. Only there's a big storm coming in. You heard about that?”

“Yeah. Rose from the diner came by earlier. She told me.”

“Rose came by?” he says. “That's good. I'm glad she's checking up on you.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, scratching at the back of my neck. “She seems a little weird to me.”

He laughs.

“Well, she's a medium. So, yeah, she's weird.”

“A medium?” I ask, frowning. “You mean she talks to dead people?”

He shrugs.

“She thinks she does. Anyway, she's good at reading people. She picks up on things. They call it cold reading.”

“Does she charge people for these readings?”

“No. No. It's not like that. But I trust her. If she told
me something, I'd believe it.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“Something like what?”

He laughs more.

“I don't know. Anything.”

I think about that.

“She did tell me one thing,” I say, chewing on my lower lip again. “She told me I already knew the storm was coming. And when I asked her how I knew, she said she'd seen me looking at the clouds. Only I hadn't looked at the clouds. At least, not in front of her.”

“See?” he says, smiling. “I told you, she just knows things.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But the way she told it to me . . . I don't know. There was something . . .”

I laugh then and shake my head.

“Never mind. I don't know what I'm talking about.”

He laughs with me.

“It's okay. Like I said, I'm just glad she's looking out for you.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, but gently, and adds, “I am, too, you know? I'm looking out for you.”

I nod.

I don't pull away.

“Thank you,” I say. “That actually means a lot to me.”

I smile as best I can.

And he smiles back at me.

I can't help but blush.

“I should go,” I tell him.

“Yeah, okay.”

“But I'll try to get free tomorrow,” I say.

He smiles.

“Good.”

“Thank you,” I say again.

He kisses me quickly on the cheek.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he tells me.

I blush more.

I turn, starting back toward the house.

My heart is racing and I feel a dropping out in my stomach.

The last thing I need, I tell myself, is to get involved with a boy here in Beach Haven. I've got enough fucking trouble.

I think about what he said—about Rose being some kind of medium. My mom was always into stuff like that. I guess spiritualists and fortune-tellers and astrologers and palm readers and numerologists—and preachers—and cult leaders make it their business to
prey on the weak and desperate. And my mom certainly was that. She was about the most weak and desperate person I ever met.

She used to read books about the moon phases and what planets were in retrograde and all that bullshit. She tried meditation workshops and weird seminars with yogis and self-help gurus and rebirthing therapies and est training and Synanon and, yes, even Christian/Catholic/Evangelical/whatever religion like my dad. She tried everything—except stopping drinking. And she never stuck with any one thing for long—except, again, for the drinking.

Last year she even tried AA. But then, too, she never stopped drinking.

She'd gotten a DUI was all, and the judge ordered her to a mandatory ninety in ninety. She had a slip of paper she had to get signed. And she used to make me drive her to the meetings.

I remember one time, right at the end, when I drove her to the public park in Johnstown where they had baseball diamonds and a playground and a few ratty, cracked concrete tennis courts. I parked and my mom did a lot of breathing and sighing and saying, “Goddammit! Let's get this over with.”

“Come on, it's not so bad,” I said, trying to be encouraging.

I rolled up the window and opened the door and the key ding-ding-dinged in the ignition.

“It's ridiculous,” she said. “I mean, how stupid do they think I am?”

She snatched the keys out and put them in her pocket and told me to hurry. I didn't argue with her, grabbing a book I'd brought with me out of the backseat—
Wuthering Heights
. I climbed out into the fading heat of the early summer day-turning-night.

“They say it's a disease,” she told me, baring her teeth—whispering like someone might hear. “But then they say the only way to recover is to pray.”

I looked up at her through the dark bangs over my eyes.

“If I had cancer,” she said, “would they tell me to pray to recover from that? Jesus Christ. Is it a disease, or isn't it? They need to make up their minds. They sound just like your father.”

“But it can help you,” I said, watching as other people began parking their cars and gathering in front of the rec center, smoking cigarettes and talking loudly—laughing, hugging each other, slapping each other on
the back, shaking hands. “It's worth a try, anyway.”

My mom seemed to watch them, too.

She took hold of my hand and pulled me closer.

She crouched down, speaking close in my ear.

“It works for them,” she said, gesturing toward the growing crowd. “It's made them better. But it will never work for me.”

I remember my stomach aching then. I remember being chilled. I wanted to go home and turn the TV on and the volume up like when I was a little kid.

“But . . . why?” I asked, staring down at a piece of gum, smashed and blackened in the sidewalk.

She was silent for a moment. I could hear the talking all around us like the drone of insects swarming. There was the smell of mouthwash and toothpaste masking something acrid and bitter on my mom's breath.

“I'm not like them,” she said. “I'm different.”

“But, Mom—”

She didn't let me finish.

“Nothing can help me,” she said.

And when I looked at her again, there were tears in her eyes.

“Please,” I said. “You've got to give it a chance.”

“I've looked for answers my whole life,” she said,
facing me—not looking away. “And the only answer I ever found is that there is no answer. I'm sorry, Jen. But that's the truth. Maybe it'll be different for you. Maybe you'll find something; I never did.”

“Please, Mom,” I said again. “Please.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “It makes no difference at all.”

She let go of my hand and walked off into the meeting. I saw her get coffee for herself in a Styrofoam cup and take a seat at the back.

I went over to the playground and sat on a bench and read my book.

My mom was dead two months later.

Maybe she found the answer she was looking for in death, but I don't believe that.

All I know is that if there are answers out there, they don't come from any bullshit self-help groups or religious zealots—or goddamn mediums. If that's what Rose calls herself, then I sure as hell don't want anything to do with her. She may seem like a harmless old lady, but I've seen just how much harm those claiming to have “answers” can do to the weak and desperate people of this world. My mom needed real help, real solutions, not a bunch of party tricks.

There's a heat rising in me now.

I clench my fists.

I want to tear everything down around me.

I want to scream and rage.

The sun is starting to set over the distant hills. The black clouds gather. The wind blows steadily.

Near the clearing, by a little stream, I trip over something hard and curse and bend down to take hold of my throbbing ankle—the pain there jumping up my leg.

With my gloved hands I dig through the rank, stinking leaves to see what the hell it was I tripped over. Insects scatter in all directions as I reveal their hiding places and inadvertently dig them up. A long centipede flips on its back, legs fanning like an underwater creature. I give a little shriek and fling it away from me as far as I can.

But soon the dirt and leaves and twigs and pine needles and insects and loose rocks are cleared away. My breath catches. My lungs strain tight. What I see on the ground beside me is a headstone, cracked and oddly small—moss-covered, with the words mostly worn away. In fact, I can't make out the name—only the date: November 11, 1919. That is all. Nothing else.

Absently I begin digging through surrounding piles of leaves.

My hand lands on another small stone—

Then there is another stone—and then another. Frantically I throw the leaves away—revealing a cemetery of tiny graves. Most of them, like the first, have only one date. But a few have two—always close together. July 7, 1914–July 9, 1914. April 23, 1926–April 24, 1926. December 22, 1930–January 1, 1931.

Dead babies.

A field of them. Unnamed, mostly.

Only the initials
CSM
.