The Good House Part 14

"Watch out below!" Gunnar shouted. His chainsaw screamed, and a large ma.s.s of wood from the rooftop fell with a ground-shaking thud. It landed with the sharp, pervasive smell of sap, the tree's lifeblood. The men on the ground gathered around the thick, mossy five-foot ma.s.s of newly shorn tree trunk, admiring it. These men loved trees in their own way, even if it was only the special way a hunter loves his hunted. They loved trees more than most, she thought.

Someone patted Angela on the back, and she turned to see Art's eyes, bright with concern. "How ya' doin', Angie?" he said. He wrapped one arm around her, squeezing her close. Art's kindness was another forgotten comfort of home. He'd given her a similar squeeze outside of their English cla.s.s in the hallway of Sacajawea High School after he'd heard that she and Myles had broken up, a week after the senior prom.I dunno, Angie, I guess of all people I thought you two were made for each other-not just a high school thing, but a forever thing, he'd said, and she'd nearly burst into tears because she hadn't known other people could see it, too. That forever knowledge was what had scared her. That, and knowing she could never be what Myles deserved.

Back then, at eighteen, she'd had everything to look forward to, or so she'd thought. Now, Angela was growing accustomed to the certainty that the best of her life was behind her, the way these loggers knew their best days were behind them.

"I hate to lose anything, Art," she answered, watching her tree taken apart piece by piece.

"Yep. Me, too," he said in a voice that understood almost too well, a voice that might have sounded like a politician's empty empathy if she hadn't known him for so long. "Me too, Angie. I guess there isn't a person alive who doesn't."

"I about flipped when Art said he was coming over here to help," Liza Brunell confided while she, Angela, and Mrs. Everly fixed breakfast for the team of men outside. They made fried-egg-and-bagel sandwiches in an efficient a.s.sembly line in the kitchen, echoing the routine of the loggers. "I hope n.o.body gives him a chainsaw. Art would probably cut himself in half."

"That's a shame, Liza," Angela said, laughing.

"But you remember what a klutz he is. That hasn't changed. Mrs. Everly knows."

Mrs. Everly's face flushed red. Laurel Everly was a soft-spoken woman who wore her thinning gray hair in attractive French braids, exactly the way Gramma Marie had. Watching Mrs. Everly with Gramma Marie during their regular visits and card games, Angela had thought Mrs. Everly was unfriendly, but she'd come to learn that the woman was just painfully shy. Mrs. Everly rarely came to work when Angela was at the house, preferring to leave notes behind. Today, she'd made a special trip because of the tree.

"Well, I wouldn't use the wordklutz," Mrs. Everly said.

"Mrs. Everly's too nice-he's a klutz," Liza said. "That doesn't mean I don't love him. Art's a whiz at a million things, but I see him for who he is and who heisn't . He's just happy being mayor, so he can have an excuse to be into everything. He's like a pig in s.h.i.+t out there playing lumberjack."

Mrs. Everly winced at Liza's profanity, a game Liza liked to play with her. "He's been one of our best mayors," Mrs. Everly said diplomatically.

"Best G.o.dd.a.m.n mayor in a long time," Liza agreed, and Mrs. Everly winced again. Mrs. Everly touched the large silver cross she wore around her neck, as if to remind her Savior that she herself did not condone blasphemy even if it crept occasionally into the company she kept.

"Where's Myles?" Liza asked Angela suddenly.

"Why are you asking me? He's at work, I guess."

"You two looked cozy Sunday, is all."

Angela shook her head, smiling. "There you go again, in my business."

"Like I wasn't always. So?"

Mrs. Everly suddenly busied herself in the butler's pantry, not exactly out of earshot but far enough away that they could all pretend she was. Angela sighed and met Liza's hungry gaze. "I'm not picking up any vibes from him. I think he's seeing someone."

"Not here in town he isn't," Liza said. "I'd know. There's nothing going on with those nurses he has for his mom, in case you wondered. The younger one's got a boyfriend, and the other one's not into men, if you catch my meaning. She and her 'special friend' live in Skamokawa."

"You're so nosy, Liza. It's someone else, then, maybe in Longview. I just have a feeling. Either that, or he's still mad about getting his heart trashed in high school."

"That's ancient history, Angie."

Angela thought of Myles's dark nakedness from that day at The Spot, and her stomach s.h.i.+vered. "I don't know. I'm not so sure it is."

"I've got a plan," Liza said. "How long will you be here? Art renovated the little theater for me, the one in the old hotel? They used to stage burlesque shows there back in the thirties. It's really tiny-seats about forty. But we're opening Friday night with my first play. Why don't you invite Myles to come with you? For old times' sake."

"You're in a play?"

"Yep. It's a three-act. I wrote it, I directed it, and I'm starring in it. You won't believe the cast we put together; one guy from here, a wonderful woman from Skamokowa, and a couple of kids from Longview. It's my first produced play, Angie. Nothing to get excited about, but-"

Angela hugged Liza, cutting her off. Liza had found a way to accomplish her dream, and with Art's backing, no less. Hugging Liza, Angie felt waves of alternating joy and envy for her friend. Liza's choices all seemed to have worked for her, and not a single one of Angela's had. She'd lost her family the moment she decided to stay in L.A. rather than move to Oakland with Tariq. It hadn't been fair of him to accept a job without consulting her-and she'd always known his offer from the Raiders was just an excuse for a fast flight away from her-but she should have gone anyway, law partner or not. She and Tariq were equally stubborn, and Corey had been caught between them.

Tariq had made a series of wrong choices in his life, G.o.d knew, but Angela had to admit her own mammoth share. For the first time since Corey's death, Angela thought about her ex-husband with something other than rage. Tariq had made a point of driving to Sacajawea in his old van, the one from college. He had touched her like a lover, seemed eager to discuss a future. They had comeso close to salvaging their family, that one irretrievable casualty of their separate dreams.

"That's so great, Liza," Angela said, meaning it. "I'm happy for you."

"Yep, we're lucky. We bought the theater s.p.a.ce, and we're naming it the Little Theater in Sacajawea. I'm surprised Art didn't give you a flyer. He always has them in his pocket, pa.s.sing them out like they're reelection b.u.t.tons."

"I can't wait to see it."

"You'll invite Myles?"

Angela smiled ruefully. There was always the small chance Liza's happiness was infectious. "Sure. Why not? He can only say no."

"Stick to the good thoughts," Liza said with a scolding look. Liza had been heavily influenced by positive-thinking tapes even when she was in high school, the indoctrination of her parents. Angela wondered how different her own life might have been if Dominique Toussaint had been capable of thinking about anything except her laughing demons.

Something about the memory of her mother-she had no idea what-made Angela remember the bathtub upstairs. "Mrs. Everly, who's your plumber? I'm having problems with the tub."

Mrs. Everly's face appeared from beyond the pantry door, much more solemn than Angela would have expected. In fact, if her face had been red only a moment before, it looked nearly pale now. "The bathtub upstairs?"

"Yeah. Have you noticed a problem with mud in the drain? Something was coming up last night. I think it was mud."

The room went silent except for the growling of chainsaws outside. Liza had been slicing bagels a moment before, but she'd stopped in mid-chop, her knife hovering over the cutting board. Angela could no longer mistake Mrs. Everly's complexion: Her face had gone pallid. Her lips pursed so tightly they nearly vanished. Angela looked at Liza, and her friend's face looked strange, too. Thoughtful, slightly alarmed.

"What's going on?" Angela said.

Mrs. Everly and Liza looked at each other with confusion. Liza went back to her chopping, and neither of them spoke. There was a secret in the air. Maybe two, by the look of it. Angela leaned close to Liza, watching her friend's jaw tense. "Tell me," she said. "Go on."

Liza shook her head. "I don't know anything about a plumbing problem, Angie. When you mentioned the tub upstairs, you just brought something to mind...."

Mrs. Everly drifted away from the pantry, intrigued. She wanted to hear more, too. "Something about mud?" the older woman prompted.

Liza covered her mouth with her hand as she smiled. "You're both going to think I'm nuts, and those guys are hungry. Let's take them their breakfast."

"Breakfast can wait," Angela said. "What do you know about the tub?"

Liza sighed. "Okay, well, here goes. I'm warning you beforehand, it's silly. There's a story my grandfather told me-actually, he told me this story a lot-and it has to do with the tub upstairs."

Angela felt her heart leap, and the tiniest cold sensation tickled her fingers. If not for last night's experience, she wouldn't have noticed it. But she did notice, and her mind was primed to absorb Liza's every word.

"Grandpa was the sheriff in Sacajawea in the 1920s and 1930s. Maybe you knew that. He had lots of stories, but nothing like this one he told me about this house and that bathtub upstairs. I'll start at the beginning: You already know about the mudslide on this side of town in 1929, right? All the other houses that had been built between here and River Drive, gone. Now, they weren'tstrong houses-some were shotgun houses put up by poor families with help from their neighbors, people who couldn't afford land. Grandpa said the houses weren't even legal, some of them, so the people were squatters. And this big, grand house was right at the end, the beacon at the top of the bluff. For a long time, this was the finest house in Sacajawea. h.e.l.l, maybe it still is. This entire street had been buried in mud, and all the homes were gone except this one. A couple weeks later, something happened. Grandpa used to tell me the exact date, but I don't remember anymore. It may have been July Fourth." At that, Liza stopped. She'd startled herself. "Yes, it was July Fourth...I remember that now. Independence Day. Grandpa got a call from a man named Halford Booth, who used to have a cannery here." Angela's ears had foamed over at the mention of the Fourth of July. Her hearing faded, then sharpened.

"I remember Hal Booth," Mrs. Everly said, smiling with a fond recollection.

"One of his children was sick-Grandpa never would tell me which one. Grandpa always called the kid the Child, keeping it a secret. He said the child was feverish, convulsing, and Mr. Booth needed Grandpa's help finding a doctor. I don't know why there was no doctor in Sacajawea, but some doctors used to travel back then, dividing their practices between towns. Anyway, Grandpa took one look at the child and decided there was no time to go to Longview or Skamokawa to find a doctor. The child was near death, he said. I can hear him now saying it:near death . He said he knew as soon as he laid eyes on the child. He got a couple of men together and they all brought the child here, to your grandmother's house. He said it was a h.e.l.l of a struggle, finding a way past the mud, then having to carry the kid up all those steps, but he knew this would be the right place. He said he'd never felt more sure of anything in his life, like divine inspiration. You may not know it, Angie, but folks here didn't like your grandmother too much back then. The real fact is, Grandpa liked her less than most. He'd been raised in Alabama, and..."

Angie had heard Gramma Marie's stories about Sheriff Kerr. About the guns and the buckshot that had marred the front door, until her husband built her a new one.

"That was a different time," Angela said simply, so Liza would move on. This was a story Gramma Marie had never told her about the Fourth of July, and that was more important to her than a discussion about racial politics in Sacajawea-even if times might not have changed as much as Liza would like to think. Corey had complained about nasty looks from local kids, too.

"Yes, times were different," Liza said, relieved to be past the subject. "But that's just to let you know what a step it was for him to bring the child here. He always said, 'Something else made me do it, a higher power.' He swore that until he died. Mrs. T'saint had a reputation after the 'slide, when she helped those people and nursed all those animals, so this seemed to him like the right place to go. Mrs. T'saint and Red John didn't want to let Grandpa and the others in at first, but they finally did. And your grandmother knew right away, just like Grandpa, that something terrible was wrong with this child. He could see it in her eyes. Mrs. T'saint was scared. And the way he put it, she wasn't scared because she thought the child would die-it was like she was scared forherself . Grandpa told me he didn't realize that right away, but he realized it later, after what happened.

"She gave instructions, almost like she'd been expecting them. Take the child upstairs, she said. The kid was delirious, taunting her, calling her names. He was also burning up, so Mrs. T'saint and Red John wanted to put him-I'll just call the d.a.m.ned kidhim, for G.o.d's sake-in the bathtub. Mrs. T'saint filled that tub with ice-cold water, and Red John brought ice, too. Another thing you need to remember is, most people didn't have indoor bathrooms like that in 1929, at least not around here. A lot of people, Grandpa included, were still using outhouses. So that bathroom stuck in his mind as something special-a sink, a bathtub, that mirror, a toilet with a pull-chain, and all of itupstairs, spanking new. He'd never seen anything like it. He felt like he'd brought the child to a real hospital, a modern place.

"But there were other things he noticed he didn't like. Candles burning. Unusual smells, probably incense. And a drum Red John had in there. That drum really made him nervous. Grandpa said the minute he heard Mrs. T'saint start talking in 'swamp-n.i.g.g.e.r mumbo jumbo'-pardon the expression-he thought he'd made a mistake Mr. Booth would never forgive him for. Mr. Booth had put a sick child in Grandpa's hands, and here was this lady practicing what sounded like hoodoo. Grandpa says he told Mr. Booth flat out they needed to go somewhere else, but your grandmother had a private word with Mr. Booth and Mr. Booth said they would stay here, and that was that. He really put his foot down. He said he believed in her, and nothing would change his mind."

"Hal Booth was a headstrong man," Mrs. Everly added quietly.

"Mrs. T'saint had a bowl filled with water, and she sprinkled some of the water on the floor in a pattern. Grandpa was paying close attention because he'd already made up his mind that if something happened to that child, your grandmother would have to bear the legal responsibility. Yessir, he'd made up his mind aboutthat. Once the child was in the bathtub, Mrs. T'saint used her fingers to spread drops of the water on the child's forehead, on his neck. The way someone would with holy water-but Grandpa said the water smelled like it had rum in it to him. The whole bathroom smelled of rum, he remembered that. She said a few words in a strange language that sounded like French to him and yetnot French."

"Creole," Angela said, her mouth dry.

"Exactly. She was probably saying some kind of prayers, that was what he thought. Praying towhom, he didn't know-and that was the part that worried him. But she'd started in on her praying, doing whatever she was doing with the water in the bowl. And then, while they all stood there, something began to happen. Grandpa told me at first he thought the child was pa.s.sing gas under the water. There were just a few bubbles from between his legs. But the bubbles didn't go away. Instead, there were more and more. Grandpa swears the whole tub got to boiling like a stewpot on top of a stove. The water wasn't hot, but it was churning like mad, splas.h.i.+ng everyone. That took them all by surprise, he said-even Mrs. T'saint. She got that look on her face again, like she was seeing her own death. The next thing they knew, the water in the tub wasn't only bubbling and churning, but it had turned brown. Then, it turnedblack . Grandpa always told me he was a monkey's uncle if that tub didn't fill up top to bottom with mud while they all watched it happen. Mud was flying all over the walls. He said he never forgot the sight of that child's face just above the mud in the bathtub, grinning like a Ches.h.i.+re cat-but with his eyes rolled upward so you could only see the whites."

Angela's cold-burn was back, this time at full strength, locking her arm. Without realizing it, Angela was holding the edge of the kitchen counter for support. Mrs. Everly slowly sank down until she was sitting atop one of the bar-stools, her eyes rapt.

Angela didn't want to hear any more. But she couldn't open her mouth to say so.

"Somehow, through all that ruckus, Red John started drumming and Mrs. T'saint went to chanting. He said she became like a crazy woman, the way she acted. Like she wasn't herself at all. Her voice sounded different, louder and coa.r.s.er than her voice was, or any woman's voice. Grandpa decided right then and there he'd lived to witness the Apocalypse. All he could think about then was ways to try to make himself right with G.o.d, apologizing for every sin he'd ever committed, going back to boyhood. But after a time, he said, the mud stopped flinging. The child in the tub stopped grinning and started crying. And your grandmother was on the bathroom floor on all fours, panting like a dog. Tears streaming from her eyes. And she said, 'The child is well.' It was done. But itwasn't done. I'm just not sure if I should say the next part or not, Angie." Liza's eyes were red. She'd told her story with a pa.s.sion Angela had mistaken for enthusiasm, but she looked worn out.

"Go on, Liza," Angela said.

Liza blinked, and tears appeared. "Your mother, Dominique, wasn't in the house when Grandpa and the others came. She was about eight years old then, and she was at church, at a special program. Itwas Independence Day, because that was what the program was about. Red John had taken her there, and they hadn't picked her up yet. But before Grandpa and Mr. Booth could gather up the child they'd brought, someone came knocking on the door. Grandpa said his blood went watery as soon as he heard the knock, because it wasn't the way someone knocks when they're coming to call. It's the sort of knock when there's bad news.

"It was someone from the church, one of the Sunday school teachers. Grandpa said the man looked like he'd seen his own special version of h.e.l.l that day, too. It was Fenton Graybold, if I remember right, Rob Graybold's grandfather. He'd run all the way from town to tell Mrs. T'saint and Red John something was wrong with Dominique. She'd been sitting up in cla.s.s singing with everyone one moment, and then she'd clapped her hands over her ears and started screaming like she was trying to raise the dead. n.o.body could calm her down and she wouldn't let anybody touch her, so Fenton Graybold ran a mile to tell Mrs. T'saint and Red John to come fetch her. Grandpa said Mr. Booth never had a day's trouble from his child after that, but Dominique was never right in the head since. He said it was as if..." But Liza didn't finish, sighing. She looked at Angela apologetically, emerging from her spell. "It's an old story. I shouldn't have brought up that last part about your mom."

Angela's jaw trembled. "What did your grandfather say, Liza? He said it was as if...what?"

This time, Mrs. Everly spoke with the rasp of a longtime smoker, although she was not. "Whatever Marie cast out of Hal's child went to Dominique instead," she said.

Liza didn't have to acknowledge it; they all knew that was what her grandfather had meant, even if he hadn't worded it that way. The three women sat in a long, steeped silence. Eventually, the chainsaws quieted outside as the men neared the end of their task. This was an ordinary afternoon in the twenty-first century, the age of technology, yet the three of them were in the kitchen making breakfast while they talked about an honest-to-G.o.d demon, anExorcist kind of demon. Worse yet, none of them had laughed.

Angela's brain had locked away her thoughts, and she fought to find them. "Why didn't you mention that before, about the Fourth of July?"

Liza clasped Angela's hand with a damp palm. "I swear, I didn't make the connection until now, talking to you. Sweets, come on-it's one of Grandpa's old stories. It doesn't mean-"

"It's not just a story," Mrs. Everly said. She looked nervous when they turned their attention to her, but she went on: "Marie never told me all the details, but she often called Dominique's condition 'her punishment.' I asked her about Dominique once, about her illness, and she said Dominique was born a normal child, was a sunny child for years, and that she'd only fallen ill later. Marie said Dominique had been taken away from her to punish her. She never told me what she meant, or why she thought she was being punished. But she spoke of it with such certainty, such sadness. I always felt sorry for Marie, with Dominique that way. When we played cards, I think I saw her pain the way few other people did, even though she didn't speak of it. Not even to you, Angie. She was insistent about keeping anything remotely painful far away from you."

Angela's head hurt. She'd had only two migraines in her life, with dizziness and nausea on top of the viselike pressure against her temples. A migraine was coming. Worse than a migraine. "Mrs. Everly, why did you react that way when I mentioned the bathtub upstairs? I saw your face. Did Gramma Marie tell you about this?"

Mrs. Everly lowered her eyes, embarra.s.sed. She busied her hands arranging the plates of very cold fried-egg-and-bagel sandwiches. "There's nothing she said. Marie was a very private person. We played Hearts and I helped her clean the house, and that was the extent of it," she said. "But I've never liked that bathroom, the one upstairs."

"Why not?"

"It makes my ears play tricks on me. I've often thought I...heard things. Footsteps, usually. A door slamming. Once I was on the stairs and I thought I heard someone cry out from that bathroom. Not a little boy, though-it sounded more like a girl. When I went to look, there was no one there. Another time, I was walking past the bathroom and I thought I heard splas.h.i.+ng in the tub. Water, I thought. But when I went to see...I found mud."

"In the tub?"

"Yes, in the tub, on the floor, in the toilet bowl, on the sink. There was quite a bit of mud. This was perhaps six months after Corey died, and I didn't want to trouble you with it. I called a plumber then, but he found nothing in the pipes to explain it. I haven't seen any mud since that day."

"Well, there's some there now," Angela said. "And my friend's dog vanished from a locked house into thin air. And that's not all of it. There's probably more."

Once again, that brought a deep silence to the kitchen. They all listened, expecting to hear a strange noise from upstairs that instant, but they didn't. The three women's minds brewed separate horrors around the question consuming them:What was going on in this house?

Their thoughts might have remained unbroken for a long time if Art and the other men hadn't come swaggering inside to demand their breakfast, soaked with sweat and rain, enjoying the shared memory of their feat over nature.

Angela had only seen newspaper newsrooms in movies,All the President's Men andAbsence of Malice -where newsrooms felt important, the headquarters for vital work-so the Longview offices of theLower Columbia News were a disappointment. The newspaper wasn't as small as she'd feared, but it was too tidy, and despite the large headlines from old editions posted on the walls, the room bore no sense of urgency. No one was hurrying to deliver a photograph or disk here or there, the telephones were nearly silent, and the few staff members in the room were languidly completing the tasks of their day. No deadlines. No pressure. No work that was changing the world.

It was nothing like a place someone as smart as Myles deserved to be.

But Myles's office was a different story. The waiting area was decorated with mauve patterns on the wall and a matching sofa beside the secretary's desk, and Angela could tell even with the door closed that the office must be large. One person was waiting to see Myles, a middle-aged man in a tie and dress s.h.i.+rt who looked anxious. At least Myles has power, she thought. The sign on the office door was bra.s.s and stylish:MYLES R. FISHER, MANAGING EDITOR . Not bad.

The fiftyish secretary, who wore too much eye shadow, arched her eyebrows and asked Angela how she could help her. Angela said she wanted to seeMr. Fisher, and no, she didn't have an appointment, but please buzz in and tellMr. Fisher she was here. If he was busy, she would happy to be wait on the sofa untilMr. Fisher was ready to see her.

Myles came out right away, and a half-dozen men and women carrying notebooks trailed behind him. It seemed likely that Myles had cut their meeting short when he heard she was here. Angela admired Myles's deep violet dress s.h.i.+rt and silver-gray tie beneath his tailored gray suit. He might be dressing like a woodsman in Sacajawea, but when he came to work in Longview, he still looked like Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

"Where did you learn how todress?" Angela said as he hugged her. She wished she'd kept her mouth shut when she noticed the secretary's curious eyes, but it was too late now. Myles gave her a mock frown, then patted her shoulder to guide her into his office. Myles told the waiting man he would need a few more minutes. The last thing Angela saw before Myles closed the door behind them was the waiting man's solicitous grin.

"Well, look who's the H.N.I.C.," Angela teased. "Mr. Head Negro In Charge."

"It's not as much fun as it looks. I might have to give out layoff notices early next year," Myles said, offering her a seat in one of two leather chairs before his desk. There was a conference table for six by the window, flanked by mahogany bookshelves. Somehow, even potted palms were getting enough light in here, growing like a jungle. The office was beautiful.

"I can see why the paper is having money problems," Angela said. "Was this office like this when you got here, or did you give them a list of demands?"

"I made a few suggestions about the work environment I prefer, and in return they have a better newspaper that sells more copies," Myles said, his eyes laughing. There was a touch of shark in him, just as there was in her; they'd always recognized that in each other. Myles sat at the edge of his desk, where the pressed gray leg of his pants was four inches from her knee. She couldn't remember the last time she'd noticed anyone's proximity like that, but she enjoyed noticing it.

"I'm thrilled you're here, Angie. I wish I'd known you were coming, but"-he shrugged-"can you stay in town another hour, until five? I'll take off early, and we'll have coffee. There's a Starbucks here now."

"Yeah, I'll just go to my room," Angela said. "You can pick me up when you're ready."

Myles's expression changed, dimming. "What do you mean? What room?"

Angela hated to let go of the playfulness she'd been holding on to since she walked into the newspaper building, but she must have wanted to talk about it, because there it was. "I'm not staying at the house tonight," she said. Her voice didn't crack, no small accomplishment.

Myles leaned closer, concerned. "Is it because your tree fell?"

"Jesus," Angela said, laughing despite the sting in her throat. "Are you running a story about it in tomorrow's paper? How did you hear about my tree?"

"Small town, doll-baby. Art came to see me about a news story earlier today. He told me."

"No, it's not the tree. It's a lot of other things. You don't have time to talk now, so can you come to the Red Lion later? I'm in Room 205. Or I can meet you at Starbucks...."

"No, no," Myles said, standing. "Of course I'll come pick you up. Room 205. I'm just sorry you're having such a hard time up here, Angie. I wish I didn't have this last meeting. But I should be finished in an hour, and I'll zip right over. We can have an early dinner. There's a decent Red Lobster close to your hotel. Good biscuits."

"It's hard to say no to good biscuits."

"Then we're on," Myles said, smiling.