**TRIGGER WARNING: mention of suicide
Like a jilted bride splashed by a mud puddle, Carey’s house clings to its fading dignity.
Blonde wood pales into the background as silhouetted cowboys and wooden carts wagon-train across its exterior. Countless spray cans have left them bright metallic green and red, collateral damage of midnight graffiti raids.
Screens dangle on their last screws, one blustery breeze away from flying off into nothingness. The tall picture window still stands in welcome to the rising sun, but its face is pockmarked by rocks and stray BBs.
I remember when the patio furniture was brand new. That spring day showed promise of another sun-blessed summer in the pines. My mother and I had one argument after another, but weary from work, she finally gave in. I got to ride in the back of the Allen’s station wagon to Sears. We hung our feet out of the open window, watching the station wagon’s tail spit out weathered asphalt behind it, the houses around Pine Grove Avenue growing fainter with each turn.
Sears hushed us into complete silence. We followed the adults through aisles of lumbering refrigerators that glowed in the ceiling light, through a fun house of wall mirrors and fans. Mrs. Allen chose quickly: floral prints that would stand out like brave birds among the pines, awash in greys, pinks, canary yellows. It’s the furniture that cuts me to the quick now. The cushions are covered in bird droppings, torn and battered by four-legged creatures looking for shelter. Or maybe it’s those damned two-legged creatures looking for destructive fun.
Most ominous is the faded sign on the gate. Years of rain have washed away the printing, leaving only a blank face tacked to a metal backdrop. The neighborhood kids and tweakers called its bluff. I’m shocked by their boldness. For all they know, it could’ve said “armed response” or something, but they just don’t care. I’m probably the only one left who knows that it said “The Allens” in bright psychedelic colors. Carey painted it at the rec center art class when we were seven.
I peer through the fading light, through the deep green altar of trees to the shell that was once the Allen’s home. Sometimes I pretend I can see it through my child’s eyes. In those fleeting moments, the place shines in all its glory. The siding is an even tan, the windows reflect sharp silver, and toys swamp the deck and yard below. If I listen hard, past the birds calling good night, I hear us, as we once were.
We flocked to Carey and followed his invisible piper’s music. He and I would walk side by side, but we were never alone. Our numbers would swell as more and even more kids joined our parade. They appeared from nowhere, as if the trees and telephone poles spat them out as we passed by. I never minded, even if it meant sharing him, because everyone saw us holding hands. My fingers encircled his, so it didn’t matter that he argued with Alex about who was the best NFL team, and never even looked at me. I had his hand. No one else.
We’d crowd into the Allens’ kitchen, grabbing at snacks before Mrs. Allen chased us outdoors. “Don’t spoil your dinner,” she’d say to Carey. But since we were starving from the mile walk from school, Carey would give me the signal as soon as his mother rounded the corner. He always chose me, no one else. I’d stand like a palace guard and peer down the long, dark hallway while Carey swiped his hand across the cracked cake plate and pilfered what was left of yesterday’s cornbread.
Front of the line and first chosen on the team. Trophies bent the old wooden shelf and left marks across Mrs. Allen’s grand piano. Grade school gave way to junior high. On a dare, the thin hands that rested on the desk next to mine like proud pashas on their thrones fingered rolling papers underneath the bus seat. Dusky smoke floated skyward above the giggles and wafted straight to the front, where I always sat, right behind Mrs. Calloway, the driver. Those fingers, so warm and known to me like the cracks in our sidewalk, sat on that desk like a forgotten memento. His eyes were always elsewhere. On someone, anyone but me.
He became a blur in high school, when he bothered to show up. Normal kid stuff, his dad said, shrugging off his wife’s pleas to yell some sense into Carey’s ears.
They found him, his legs dangling over the foyer, his eyes sightless, staring into the future, to the endless empty decades of life without him.
The house went up for sale soon after the funeral. They left-who knows where-and let the realtor take care of everything. No buyers.
It’s cursed, my brother said as we watched the Allen’s car pull away for the last time. Who the hell wants to live in a house where someone…..you know?
Well, me.
I told my brother and his wife last week that I wanted to buy it. I wasn’t sure when to break the news to him, so decided in between dinner and coffee. He thinks I’m crazy, but I beat off his probes with logic.
The place just needs some cosmetic work, I said, and c’mon. Location, location, location, right? And we’ve still got the best school district in the state.
But I never told him the most important part. I’m selling my place and moving right in as soon as it’s ready.
I know the spirits will be kind. And it’ll just be us. No one else.
Comments