All Things Cease to Appear Read online

  I’ve always wanted one, the wife said.

  They are nice. We’ve got a picnic table on ours. It’ll keep the flies out of your lemonade, that’s for sure.

  Upstairs, the wife picked a room for their daughter. How old is she? Mary asked.

  She’s three.

  Three going on thirty, he said.

  It’s true, she has more pocketbooks than I do.

  Mary thought of her own daughter, Alice, and how she’d loved to play dress-up, draping herself in scarves and beads, clattering across the kitchen linoleum in Mary’s heels. When she’d turned ten, Mary let her pick out her own wallpaper, a purple paisley that seemed okay in the book but on the wall, with matching twin bedspreads, gave her a headache. These people didn’t know it yet, but they had a whole lot of negotiating in front of them. Mary had learned the hard way that you can’t make bargains with your children. Somebody always comes up short.

  The wife wouldn’t go down into the cellar, usually a bad sign. Mary took him down and he pondered the boiler and the well pump, with its gizmos and attachments, then they all went outside to walk the land. The snow had already melted and the fields were muddy; the cold wind pushed at their backs. Mary pulled her coat around her. Walking behind the couple, she noticed they were a distance apart, their faces wan, thoughtful. The wife had a city body; slim. Clearly ice cream was not yet a priority, or a therapeutic ally in the wee hours of disrupted slumber, as it was for Mary. Catherine’s gait was slow, contemplative. She walked with her head down, arms folded on her chest, rings on her long fingers.

  The husband took her elbow, a bit roughly, Mary observed, and his wife smiled in that way of hers, the sudden brightening of a child who has been reprimanded and then surprised by consolation, and he looked at her sideways, a fierce, enigmatic grin, and it seemed to signify their fate. Long after they were gone, she would reflect on this single moment; it would keep her up nights.

  —

  SHE TOOK THEM to lunch at Jackson’s, a dark little tavern she liked in the neighboring hamlet, where they ate steak and potatoes. The husband ordered a bottle of Guinness. Mary told them about the town, its history as an agricultural resource. The richest soil in the state, was how she put it. I know it’s hard to tell, she said, but there’s real value here. Like I said, a little renovating, a little paint, you’ll have yourself a real showplace.

  What happened to the family? the wife asked.

  They fell on hard times, is all.

  He poured off the rest of his beer. Farming is a tough life, isn’t it?

  Yes, it is, she said, although she didn’t want to get into it now—the fact that the Hales had been farming for generations and now all their good land was going to waste. Do you plan to farm? she asked, even though she already knew the answer. He didn’t strike her as the type to get his hands dirty.

  I’m afraid the only cows I understand are the ones that exist in paintings.

  George is an art historian, his wife offered with pride.

  Well, that is interesting.

  Paintings of cows are very popular, he said. At least, they were in the nineteenth century.

  Is that your specialty?

  Cows? His wife laughed. Yes, he’s very good at cows.

  Landscapes, he said, blushing a little. The Hudson River School. That’s a rather broad description. And it’s part of why we’re here.

  George is going to be teaching at the college.

  What good news, Mary said. We have lots of college folks out this way. I’ll have to introduce you. In truth, they were an odd lot; her father had once sold a house in the hamlet to an economics professor with a pet tarantula. I’m told it’s a good school.

  George Clare nodded. We’re looking forward to it.

  A week later, Mary called to tell them that, since the house had gone into foreclosure, she was no longer handling it, and referred them to Martin Washburn at the bank. On the morning of the auction, her curiosity got the better of her and she went over to see who all had been lured there by the prospect of legal thievery. Sure enough, George Clare was sitting in the otherwise empty row of chairs, waiting to place his bid. From the looks of it, there wasn’t going to be much competition. A few stragglers had come in, more likely to get in out of the cold. There were still a few minutes before the auction started, so she pulled him aside. It wasn’t out of any obligation, just decency. He had a right to know. That’s how she wanted to be treated herself, and there was no reason she shouldn’t give the Clares the same courtesy.

  They were good friends of mine, she began. It was an accident, a tragedy. As she told him the rest of the story in broad terms, his expression remained unchanged.

  She squeezed his arm, reassuring him that it was none of his concern. You’ll be happy there. I know it.

  With calculating ease, George considered all she had said and pursed his lips. That does cast a shadow on things, he said. It might have some bearing on what I’m able to bid.

  —

  SOMETIMES THE WORK made her weary. People always wanted something they couldn’t even name, but expected her to find it anyway. What did they want, value? That could be just a code word for a little consideration, to be dealt with fairly, with respect. But some of them wanted more than the usual kindness and solicitation. They wanted to believe they were better than everybody else.

  Often, her patience waned as they sat in her car and told her things. Mary wasn’t one for indiscretion; it made her squeamish. She didn’t need or want to know what kind of medical conditions people had, or how their parents had abused them as children. They cried sometimes. Thinking back, she’d heard just about everything you could imagine, from tonsillitis to sodomy. She was one of those people strangers talked to. On buses, trains and planes, in markets or at the bank, they seemed to come out of nowhere, and the second she gave them a smidgen of attention, they started in with their life stories. Funny, she’d never told anyone hers.

  You got good at reading people in her line. Sometimes she was off, but not usually. She got a feeling about someone. Most of the time it was pretty close to the truth.

  Mary had a feeling about the Clares and it wasn’t a good one.

  The thing about houses: they chose their owners, not the other way around. And this house had chosen them.

  6

  ACCORDING TO a plaque in the town square, the first settlers were Dutch. They established Chosen in 1695. Main Street was a quarter of a mile long, lined with brick row houses that at some point had been converted into shops. It was far from bustling, however. There was a hardware store with a hammer sign, a package store, an army-navy, a café, and a grocery store called Hack’s. From where she sat in the café, she saw only a few pedestrians walking down the sidewalk, bundled up against the wind.

  The waitress came over, set out a place mat and turned over her cup. Coffee?

  She was too pretty to be behind a counter all day, Catherine thought. Please.

  You came at the right time. Another half-hour, this place’ll be jammed. She filled her cup. Just visiting?

  We’re moving up from the city. My husband got a job up here.

  Where at?

  Saginaw?

  They’re good kids, she said. They come in all the time.

  An older man at the end of the counter stood up and laid some money by the register. Take care, now.

  See you, Vern, the waitress said as he went out the door, the bells ringing. She bussed his dishes and wiped off the counter, then came back to Catherine’s table.

  You find a house yet?

  I think so. It’s a farm. I guess they fell on hard times.

  The waitress shook her head. Plenty of farms like that these days.

  My husband’s at the auction right now, in fact.

  Well, I guess I should say good luck. Frowning, the waitress refilled the napkin holder, her hands moving mechanically, as if she could do this in her sleep. People run out of money. They lose everything. She glanced up at the window, clearly
a habit, and shook her head. It’s happening more and more around here. One day there’ll be nobody left.

  It’s sad.

  I’ve been here my whole life, she said. You got kids?

  A little girl.

  Just so you know, we make the best pancakes in the state.

  I’ll be sure to bring her in.

  I’ve got my break now, the waitress said. They don’t like us smoking in here. You just holler if you need me.

  Catherine nodded and smiled. She sipped her coffee and watched the waitress standing out on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette, tapping the ashes into a window box full of fake pansies. She dropped the butt to the sidewalk and came back inside. It sure is cold out there.

  I don’t know what happened to spring, Catherine said to her.

  We don’t usually get it up here till May. Once it even snowed then.

  After a while, Catherine saw George striding up the sidewalk, holding an envelope. There he is now, she said, and paid the check. Thanks so much.

  Good luck with your move.

  She crossed the street to meet him. He held up the key victoriously and then pulled her close, hugging her hard. We practically stole the place.

  Secretly she’d been hoping he’d lose out to a higher bidder. It felt wrong to benefit from someone else’s disaster, whoever they were, and there was something strange about that place.

  Here, he said, handing her the key, you hold it.

  The key was cold and black. She turned it over in her hand and closed her fingers around it. Somebody made this, she said.

  It’s the only one they had.

  The morning sun was now gone. It started to sprinkle, and an odor like bleach stung the air. When the rain began to fall, they ran to the car and sat there waiting for it to let up. She stared straight ahead into the blurred glass. She couldn’t say why, but she felt lost, almost bereft. George reached over and took her hand. Let’s go home, he said.

  He switched on the wipers and pulled out. They passed farm after farm. Horses stood out in the open, their backs glistening. Cows had convened under a tree. Sure is pretty out here, she said.

  The house looked abandoned, forsaken. He parked right in front, on the grass. Welcome home, he said, then came around to open the door and help her out, as if she were afflicted with some infirmity.

  They walked up on the porch, where she noticed an old bird’s nest in the rafters and, inside the porch light, a dense, honeycomb universe. With care and a sense of ritual, she slid the key into the lock, but before she had even turned it the door eased open.

  They stood there looking across the threshold. It came to her that it was like an exhibit at a museum, glancing into some historic person’s life, except here no rope divided time past from time present. This was their house now, she told herself, and they would make their own history in it—for better or worse.

  They must’ve forgotten to lock it, George said.

  Their stuff’s still here, George.

  That’s what you get with a foreclosure. We’ll have to go through it.

  They stood there, listening.

  Should I carry you in?

  He didn’t wait for her answer and pulled her back outside and lifted her into his arms and carried her over the threshold and up the stairs and she laughed when he brought her into the bedroom and laid her on the dusty coverlet, shoving stacks of old newspapers and Farmer’s Almanacs to the floor, and they rolled around on the mattress like teenagers who had at last found a place to be alone. He kissed her, pushing up her clothes, and she pulled him into her as the room filled with rain shadows.

  For a long while, she rested in his arms and listened to the sounds of the house, the wind pressing up against it, the windows rattling every now and again with the distant passage of a train.

  They dressed silently, politely, as if they were being observed, then went downstairs and stepped outside, gazing over their land. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear and black, alight with stars. Breathing the cold air into her lungs, she felt a dizzying sense of freedom. She ran her hands through her unbrushed hair.

  They found a pub in town called Blake’s and sat at the bar and drank beer and ate lamb chops with mint jelly. The bartender had a round, shiny face, a dish towel draped over his shoulder like a sling. The lights were dim; the place nearly empty. A trio of women dressed in riding outfits shared a small table, two black dogs dozing at their feet. A plumber in his work clothes was drinking at the far end of the bar. They paid, leaving a good tip. ’Night, now, the bartender said. Appreciate it.

  They drove the two hours home without saying much, returning to their life in the city, their daughter, their work. But the farm was in her head. The land, the strange house that was now theirs, and the nagging certainty that she’d left something behind.

  7

  THEY MOVED IN August. The house was waiting for them, the lilies, the wildly overgrown lawn. The net-less basketball hoop on the barn, the old green water pump, the wheelbarrow, the weathervane.

  The floorboards seemed to sigh when they entered, conciliatory, resigned. Cut from the trunks of enormous pines, they were honey-colored in the sunlight. They had to use soap to open the windows. The bent wire screens sifted the warm wind and the cloth shades banged against the frames. Left-behind chimes sang in the fragrant trees. They had pears and apples, a quince bush and a pond. Looking out through the wavy glass was like being inside a dream.

  The previous owners had left a piano. As a girl, Catherine had been forced to take lessons, and her teacher was severe. You’re playing it wrong, she’d shriek with impatience. Catherine sat down on the bench and ran her fingers over the ivory keys; most were dirty, a few had come off. She played “Frère Jacques” and Franny clapped her hands and sang along.

  Together, they cleaned. Sorted through junk. Tugged down the old curtains, stiff with dust, and threw them out. They worked together as husband and wife. The first night they all slept in the same bed, Franny tucked in the middle. Hey: what kind of sandwich are you, anyway? George said.

  Baloney! Franny declared.

  Baloney? He pretended to eat her up. You’re full of baloney!

  No, I ant, Franny said.

  Yes, you are!

  They all laughed loud and hard, and Catherine felt a surge of optimism, and while they slept she lay awake listening to the night—the bellowing frogs, the hoot of a cautious owl, the long slow trains. And later, when the rest of the world was silent, the squealing riot of coyotes.

  —

  THERE WAS SOMETHING odd about the house. A chill flourished in some rooms and an odor seeped up from the cellar, the rotting carcasses of trapped mice. Even in gentle summer, when the world outside was singing its bright song, an oppressive gloom prevailed, as if the whole house had been covered, like a birdcage, with velvet cloth.

  Still, she accepted all this as one accommodates a troubled child. But the house had not accepted her.

  She moved cautiously from room to room, as though her status as homeowner had been revoked, downgraded to caretaker. An invisible pair of eyes seemed to be watching, judging her care and management of the household.

  One afternoon she found an old radio in the closet and set it up on the dresser and tuned in to NPR’s Reading Aloud. They were doing Great Expectations—with some famous British actor—and she was only half listening, too preoccupied with her tasks to pay much attention. With Franny napping across the hall, she had the volume turned so low she could barely hear it. At half past five she went down to start dinner. She fixed herself a drink, iced vodka with lemon, and sipped it like some prescribed cure. After a moment, it occurred to her that the radio upstairs was very loud. Even if Franny had woken up, it was unlikely she could’ve reached the top of the dresser. She put down her glass and went out into the hall, her eyes drawn to the landing where she could feel the penetrating gaze of some unseen presence. But, of course, there was nothing up there, just the scuffed floors, the marked-up walls, the dirty fin
gerprints of strangers.

  She told George the story and concluded, I think we have a ghost.

  Apparently a Dickens fan, he said.

  You don’t believe me.

  He shrugged. Moving isn’t easy. I think you’re just tired.

  I’m not tired, George.

  Think of the deal we got. Open your eyes, Catherine. Look at this place.

  I know.

  He kissed her forehead. And get yourself a new radio.

  She considered ghosts the stuff of horror movies. Back in high school she’d seen a movie called The Haunting and hadn’t slept for a month; just the slightest flutter of curtains in her old room suggested some vicious taunt of evil. Even the work she did now could make her superstitious, some of the churches like hollow caves of reckoning, terminals to another world. But until this house, she’d never thought seriously of ghosts, at all. Yet, as the days passed, their existence wasn’t even a question anymore—she just knew.

  —

  AS A RULE, George parked in the garage. He didn’t like his precious Fiat exposed to the elements. Since Catherine’s car was a used station wagon, he argued, it shouldn’t make much difference if she parked outside. Truthfully, she didn’t care all that much. She’d park under the big maple tree near the screened porch, which gave her easy access to the kitchen. They were using the porch as a mudroom, and it was already cluttered with muddy shoes, tennis rackets, Franny’s stroller and little red wagon. One afternoon, returning from the market with her arms full of grocery bags and Franny beginning to fuss, she had trouble opening the door. When she turned the key, the bolt disengaged as usual but the door refused to open. She jiggled the brown porcelain knob—it wouldn’t budge. A moment later, she heard a grinding twist of metal—it sounded like the knob on the inside was being unscrewed. Through the window, she saw the empty kitchen, just as she had left it. Frustrated, she rattled the knob violently and it came off in her hand. A second later, as if to punctuate her confusion, the knob on the kitchen side dropped to the floor.