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even if he didn’t want it.
“Give me a minute to change my clothes,” he said.
“Sure.”
“Are you going to wear that?” he asked, looking pointedly at the cut-off jeans and old t-shirt I was wearing.
“Why wouldn’t I? We’re just going for a walk.”
“Our new neighbor was dressed up,” he said, clearly referring to Priscilla, since Barnaby had been wearing jorts. “Maybe that’s how they dress around here.”
“She was only dressed up because she had nothing better to do, but he looked like someone from a bad day in 1993.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it; I just wondered if you needed me to help you find any of your clothes since nothing’s in its place yet.”
“No, I’m good,” I said.
He went off to primp and I hung the calendar back on its hook. I put it on December since that was how I’d found it. Then I closed the dumbwaiter door, having to shove it a little to make it flush with the trim.
“Happy birthday, Teddy,” I whispered aloud, realizing he was probably still alive, somewhere out there in the world, celebrating his birthday today. An old man now. But here on Hawthorne Avenue, at least on that calendar hanging in our dumbwaiter, it was 1937 and he was just a little boy.
“Happy birthday,” I whispered again, hoping that somehow my wish and the energy and good intention behind it could make its way across the universe, and find him well.
And then I thought I heard the dumbwaiter moving. I pulled open the door, as if I was going to catch it in the act. All was still. But hadn’t this frayed spot on the pulley been lower a moment ago?
Down below, the washing machine was on its spin cycle. I closed the dumbwaiter door again, giving it a hard shove into place, and stood there in silence, my body tingling with cold energy. I imagined I might get some kind of response to my birthday wish, some kind of sign. A whimpery baby cry, or a small creaking sound. Anything. Of course, I heard nothing but the faint, distant chug of the washing machine and the slowing scrape of the calendar still swinging on the hook on the other side of the door.
Two months later
Chapter 6
Tom and I were settled in by the end of the summer. We hadn’t gotten to most of the projects we’d planned to tackle, but cleaning the house and filling it with furniture and our things had made it somewhat homey. Or lived-in, at least.
Despite my efforts, 313 Hawthorne Avenue wasn’t turning into the grand showplace I’d dreamed it would be. Nor was it the warm, welcoming, romantic sanctuary of love and security that I’d imagined.
Tom and I had been on each other’s nerves since we’d arrived. Even the dogs didn’t seem happy in our new home. When we all settled down together to watch a TV show or a movie, that old feeling of contentment we’d had back in Seattle never came.
I’d had no idea how much stress—fear, even—came in owning an old home of this size. During the day, in the middle of some should-be-pleasant Price is Right or Days of Our Lives break, just as we’d sat down to have some grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, some force that rode the edge of innocuous and destructive would sweep in, derailing our moment of peace and quiet. An unexpected leaky pipe, severe enough to cause a nightmarish stain of damage on our first-floor ceiling, that would then mysteriously fix itself by the time the plumber arrived. Or the almost weekly occurrences of lights that stopped working and toilets that stopped flushing. It all added up, both financially and emotionally.
And the woodpeckers. I’d never given woodpeckers a second thought before moving to Starling Falls. But now, if only for the effect they had on Tom, I hated them. They would tap at our window frames and Tom would jump to his feet, grab the sheet of aluminum foil he kept on the coffee table, and run to the window, waving it around, hoping the reflection would scare them away, screaming, “Quit ruining my fucking house, you little bastards!”
At night when the mice came out, he’d crawl around on his hands and knees with a hammer, destroying our wood floors, yelling for the dogs to catch the ones that were too quick to succumb to his blows.
Becoming homeowners had made my sweet husband into a crazy monster.
I could count on one hand the number of times we’d had sex since we’d moved in. Gone were the romantic cards and notes, Saturday night dates and Sundays in bed.
There were other things going on that I chose not to mention to him, since it only made things worse. Like the way the dumbwaiter creaked up and down on its own, like a tiny possessed elevator. What I’d thought I’d imagined on the day of Teddy’s birthday (Why did I think of the family that used to live here in the present tense?), had become a daily reality. I could see the dumbwaiter, possibly, finding its way to the basement, but how could it move up to the attic on its own? What about gravity?
Worst of all, Tom resented me for choosing Starling Falls. Because, of course, there was a reason we’d moved to this town, of all the towns in the world, and that reason was me.
Years earlier, back in Seattle, before I managed the pet shop, back when I was just a cashier there and then a groomer, an old woman named Mrs. Hill had been a regular customer there. I came to know her very well since she was in there all the time with her dogs. And we got to talking about her wonderful childhood in a beautiful little town called Starling Falls.
You’ve got to understand, I grew up in, literally, a one-bedroom shack. I shared the alcove off the living room with my three older sisters. We had a blanket hanging up in place of a door. Each one of my sisters was meaner than the other, but at least they usually directed their attention toward each other and left me out of it. My parents were never home, and if you knew them, you’d know that’s the nicest thing I can say about them. We never had enough to eat or anything new that was truly our own.
Even things like taking a shower were torturous at my house. The shower curtain was yellow and crusted in soap scum and mold. I’d never noticed these things until one day, when, suddenly, I did. Then I could never unsee them. Sometimes we had soap, other times we didn’t. The bathroom door’s lock was broken and there was a hole kicked in the bottom of the door, so there was no pretense of privacy. I didn’t know shampoo wasn’t supposed to be the consistency of water until the first time I spent the night at a friend’s house and took a shower there the next morning, only to be shocked at the slow-moving blob of heavily scented goop I’d deposited on the top of my head. The lather it produced! The fruity aroma! The hot water gushing out at pressure high enough to actually rinse it all away. I’ve never forgotten this experience. And, wow, did my hair look thick and shiny that day.
So, this old woman’s stories of her idyllic childhood and the avenues of Victorian mansions, so different from my own start in life, sparked a fire in my mind, in my soul, even. I could picture it all so vividly. I didn’t know it then, but I’d already decided that one day I, too, would live in Starling Falls.
