Page 6 of Wildwood

“Well, is it what you remember, Elinor?” Mr. Warnick gestures to the house and the property beyond. He is smiling but it feels like an affectation, and like there’s something behind the smile that I can’t quite place.

“It’s hard to say,” I admit. “It’s been so long that I don’t remember much. But it certainly is beautiful.”

He points to the right. “The property is just about two hundred acres. So, you’d own the house, the meadows, and the woods until you get to the next house, which I believe belongs to the Clark family. Straight back you own beyond the river, the Ompompanoosuc, which eventually leads to the Connecticut. I think there’re ancient Posted signs, though you’d have to wander pretty far to get to them. A long time ago your family actually owned all the way back to the Connecticut River.”

He turns to face the side with the orchard. “On the other side, the property extends into the woods, of course, and there’re Posted signs denoting the lines. Wildwood is solely on this side of the road. The other side is owned by the Brooks.”

The air is heavy with the scent of summer. A perfume of grass, fruit, and lilacs. So different from the city in the summer, the stifling mix of tar, garbage sitting in the sun, and sweat.

“Well, let’s have a look and then we can discuss the more legal and logistical matters?”

We follow him across the driveway, gravel crunching under our feet, and up the front porch steps. We enter through a large mudroom, which is full of hooks and shelves. Multiple pairs of ancient-looking skis lean against one wall. Pairs of men’s shoes line the other. They are old and mud crusted, but neatly arranged. It’s a strange, almost intrusive feeling, seeing these intimate belongings of a man I hardly knew, who is now no longer here. For some reason I’ve been imagining the house would have been emptied of Ezra’s personal effects. But who would have done that?

“The house was built in the 1770s. It has of course been updated over the years, with an eye toward maintaining the integrity of the original home. But as you’ll see, the interior is in need of a facelift. Back in the day, this was probably one of the nicest homes in Newfield. It’s really only in the last few decades that it’s started to show its age. Perhaps it was just too much for Ezra to maintain in his later years.” He clears his throat. “Are you accustomed to large properties? Taking over a place like this is no easy feat.”

Topher laughs. “We live in a condo in Cambridge that could literally fit inside this entryway, so no. We are not accustomed to large properties.”

I shoot him an annoyed look, which he pretends not to see.

“Well, as much as I would like you to take over Wildwood, speaking not as Mr. Bishop’s attorney, I would say you should carefully consider whether you are up to the task. There are always other options.”

I nod vigorously. “Yes, of course.”

We are now at the entryway to the main living spaces and Mr. Warnick steps politely to the side. “I’m not a real estate agent, but I can give you a tour with what I can tell you from my visits here with Ezra.”

“That’d be great,” I say, thankful he doesn’t expect me to know the way.

“These are the original pine floorboards. Beautiful, but they need refinishing, and some of the nails tend to rise and need nailing back down from time to time. You’d need to redo the flooring if you moved in, or at the very least wear shoes or slippers all the time. You wouldn’t want to get a nasty splinter or a bloody toe.”

“Good to know.” My eyes flick to Topher, knowing by the furrow of his brow that he’s imagined the baby catching a pudgy knee on an old rusty nail and is now scanning his doctor brain for the timing of the tetanus shot. “We could take care of that, no problem.”

With that, he leads us through the first floor of the house. It’s antique, that much is clear. The floorboards are wide and either worn smooth from the polish of centuries of footsteps or deeply splintered. It’s funny how time can both smooth and destroy. The whole front half of the home is living space, half of which is a parlor, a term so outdated I half wonder if Mr. Warnick is joking, as he leads us through the room, adorned with oil paintings in gilded frames, uncomfortable-looking furniture and faded knit rugs. The other half is the living room, which should be a more informal space but, in my opinion, is equally as formal looking as the parlor.

Also on the main floor is a large dining room, with a long wooden table and its own fireplace; the kitchen, which lies at the back of the house and shares the backside of the fireplace that also warms the parlor; a walkthrough pantry; and a library.

It is as Mr. Warnick first described. It is an old, beautiful home that in its heyday must have been striking. But today, the antiqueness borders on fusty. Ornate vases and figurines overpopulate the surfaces. Walls, which are peeling upon closer inspection, are painted deep, colonial shades of crimson and navy and adorned with paintings of somber-looking individuals. The furniture looks nearly threadbare, and I question if many of the pieces could hold my weight, let alone when I’m nine months pregnant. The scent of old wood, mothballs, and, oddly, cinnamon, hang in the air. It’s all perfectly tidy though.

The kitchen is only minimally more modern. The refrigerator and stovetop look as though they date back to the fifties.

“I’m assuming you’d want to renovate the kitchen too,” says Mr. Warnick, matter-of-factly.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, vaguely. I can feel Topher’s eyes boring into my face, trying to telepath dollar signs. But it’s my turn to ignore him.

As we walk through, I get flashes of memories. I remember hiding in the pantry while playing hide-and-seek with my cousins Anna and Tom. I remember Tom racing around the fireplace shouting “we are wild dogs” while Anna and I chased after him. Ezra had never been warm and cuddly, but he never stopped us from playing games. He didn’t encourage them, but rather he always seemed distant and almost oblivious to the chaos of a house full of children.

“You do know that the land has been in the family for two hundred fifty years, right? Since the house was built.” Mr. Warnick is now leading us up a wide staircase off the kitchen.

I nod and stop short. Halfway up a wide staircase leading to the second floor is a slanted window angled along the top of the stairwell.

“The witch window!” The words tumble out before I even register what I’m saying.

Mr. Warnick glances upward and laughs shortly. “That’s right! Good memory. You’ll find these all over Vermont. Allegedly installed to keep witches out, the thinking being that a broom couldn’t fly through a tilted window. Really, it was simply a clever way to use an old window when doing an addition. Come on then, let’s see the primary.”

I want to ask more, but he’s already at the top of the landing, turning left down the hall.

Topher is ahead of me and enters the room first. “Oh wow.”

I suddenly know exactly what I’m going to see before I see it. The mural. The Forest of the Dead, as we called it, a name given by who knows who. I squeeze past Mr. Warnick and my breath catches in my chest as my eyes scan the room. All four walls are covered in a mural depicting a panoramic landscape of a wooded forest.