Dream House. Catherine Armsden

      

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

      Copyright © 2015 by Catherine Armsden.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.

      ISBN 978-0-9905370-6-9

      Interior design by Rose Wright.

      Jacket design by Andy Carpenter and Rose Wright.

      This book has been set in Berkeley Oldstyle Book.

      Published by Bonhomie Press, an imprint of Yellow Pear Press, LLC.

       www.yellowpearpress.com

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

       For my sisters, Gay and Beverley and for Lewis, Elena and Tobias Butler

       Maybe it is a good thing for us to keep a few dreams of a house that we shall live in later, always later, so much later, in fact, that we shall not have time to achieve it. For a house that was final, one that stood in symmetrical relation to the house we were born in, would lead to thoughts—serious, sad thoughts—and not to dreams.

      Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

      On a mean Maine day in April, the house could only stand and wait. Sleet shushed against its walls; bare branches scoured its windows. Only two hours earlier, the day had been mild, bathed in a harsh white light unabated by leaves that would come in May. The promise of spring had seduced crocuses out of the earth and gardeners pushing wheelbarrows from their sheds. After lunch, a vicious storm barreled in, whipping the village of Whit’s Point as if in punishment.

       In the cellar of the house, the furnace groaned to keep up with the dropping temperature. Rooms were warm despite the inhospitable weather and still breathing with the evidence of their inhabitants, who’d left the house in some haste, expecting to be back within the hour. The bathroom light had been left on, a wet towel forgotten on the bed. The smoky aroma of bacon filled the kitchen where a slice of bread and a stick of butter sat out on the table. Tea bags slumped in two cups of cold water. The sink faucet, which lately required extra attention, dripped water into the bowl beneath it.

      The only sign that leaving had been intentional was the blaring TV—a precaution taken to keep unheard-of burglars at bay. To a robber, the house might have seemed an unworthy target: small and stylistically unremarkable, a typical early nineteenth-century box with a steep, gabled roof and clapboards badly in need of paint. Four rooms were downstairs, four rooms up, a single bathroom, and a pieced-together kitchen. In the comfortable, slightly crowded rooms, unfussy antiques mingled with simple, modern furniture. Several small oil paintings of landscapes and people doing quiet, ordinary things adorned the walls. Wool rugs and linen slipcovers in soft shades of green, tan, and amber showed the weariness common in houses of country retirees; certain stains persisted until they finally went unnoticed. Despite its humble first impression, to those not in a robber’s rush the house might have revealed an undeniable elegance, a hint of something more. If one were to open the antique mahogany box on the living room table, one could behold unexpected treasures—bits of history that auction houses might have taken an interest in. And there were the very old and crazed oil portraits, their size and their subjects’ patrician noses too imposing for any room except the tall, narrow stair hall.

      Two hours had passed. Still, the inhabitants had not returned. The ship’s clock in the living room chimed on the hour; a second later, the lighthouse clock in the kitchen tooted in imitation of one famous lighthouse or another. TV soaps came on, their depiction of humanity mirroring the weather’s rage. With no one home to switch them off, accusations and proclamations disturbed the house’s coziness—though this was nothing new to these rooms.

       Another hour, then another. On the table, the bread hardened; the butter softened and turned a deeper shade of yellow. The bowl beneath the leaky faucet was nearly full. Dampness from the wet bathroom towel penetrated the blanket and then the bedsheets. By five-thirty, a layer of ice made the front steps dangerous. Rooms darkened. The automatic timer under the living room table turned another notch and a lamp snapped on. Without the usual evening thermostat adjustment, the furnace lost its battle with the plunging temperature, and the air inside dipped to sixty-five degrees.

      On TV, it was time to assess the day. Later there would be broadcasts from the Middle East and the White House, but first, local news and weather: school closings and an approval for an expansion of the outlet mall, an award for a courageous firefighter.

      Another gust—the house shuddered; storm windows rattled. The news moved on, as did the storm. Robbed of its inhabitants, the house could only stand and wait.

       Two days passed before a friend trusted with a house key came in and turned off the TV. She emptied the garbage, washed the dishes, and threw out the butter. She cranked tight the kitchen faucet and clicked off the bathroom light. After some hesitation, she watered the geraniums wintering in the kitchen window, and the potted cyclamen and chrysanthemums. She looked around to be sure everything was in order. On her way out, she turned the thermostat down to fifty-four. She locked the door and checked it twice.

       A few evenings later, she drove by and peered up the driveway. She thought she saw a faint light coming from the house. “Only your imagination, Annie,” she told herself. In fact, every day at five thirty, the timer beneath the table would set the lamp ablaze. As if the house were reminding the world: I am still here. As if it had a life of its own.

      Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Thank You

       Now I don’t yet know why houses have so much grief concealed in them if they try to be anything at all and try to live as themselves. But they do. Like people in this I suppose.

      Frank Lloyd Wright, Frank Lloyd Wright: An Autobiography

Chapter 1

      On a rainy Sunday night one week after her parents’ car skated off the road into the woods, Gina Gilbert pounded and kicked the old front door that had swelled against the jamb until it suddenly gave way, pitching her, soggy and luggage-laden, into the