All Things Cease to Appear

  What happened, Momma?

  I don’t know. It’s this silly knob.

  Silly knob! Franny cried.

  Then the door swung open all on its own. For a moment Catherine couldn’t seem to move.

  It’s open, Momma!

  Yes, I see.

  Franny jumped inside and Catherine followed, dragging in the groceries. Again she was struck with the sense that some invisible someone was standing there watching her, and her face went hot with anger. She picked up the knob and inserted its long rusty spindle into the tiny square opening; holding the outside knob securely in place, she screwed one to the other, making the same whining sound she’d heard only moments before—when some entity, some poltergeist, had unscrewed it.

  That wasn’t very nice, she said to the room. You’re not making us feel very welcome here.

  Who you talking to, Momma?

  She picked Franny up and held her tight. Nobody, she said, and realized it was true.

  When George came home from work, she told him this new story. Suppressing his obvious irritation, he inspected the door, and swung it open and closed several times. There’s nothing wrong with this door, he told her.

  Then how do you explain it?

  It’s an old house, Catherine. These sorts of things happen in old houses.

  She listed off the other problems she’d encountered—the weirdly chilly spots, the continual smell of exhaust in their bedroom, the radio—and now this.

  You’re imagining things, he told her.

  I’m not imagining anything, George.

  Maybe you need a psychiatrist, then. There’s nothing wrong with this house.

  But, George…

  We’re not moving, Catherine. I suggest you get used to it.

  —

  UNPACKING BOXES in the sweltering heat. The fans going full tilt. She stacked her books on the shelves—art history, philosophy, a rumpled copy of Ariel—while Franny played with things around the house—a feather, a brass hook, a jar of marbles—squatting down to turn the object over in her little hands, her nose running, her forehead creased tight with interest, then readily moving on to something else. She’d jump from one sunshine shadow to another, singing, Mary, Mary, quite contrary! how does your garden grow?

  The other family had left so much behind that she couldn’t help wondering who they were. George said he didn’t really know or care. I don’t see why it matters, he snapped. It’s our house now. It belongs to us.

  But the closets were full of their stuff. She found hockey skates, deflated basketballs, baseball bats. A shoebox full of baby shoes, three pairs tied together. She held them in her hands, remembering Franny at that size, on the brink of walking. These had been whitewashed with polish, the little heels round and worn. Someone might want them back someday, she thought, storing them in a cupboard. When their rightful owners came looking for them, they’d be right there.

  —

  ONE MORNING, when George was out at the hardware store, two boys came to the door. The older one was in his early twenties, the other a teenager. They stood looking through the rain-splattered screen. Faces you couldn’t pull away from, with blue eyes and strong bones. It was hot and buggy and they’d gotten caught in the storm. They stood there with their long arms, slapping mosquitoes, the sky warm and dark. She could hear the patter of rain on the maple leaves.

  I’m Eddy, the older one said, and this here’s Cole. We got another brother, Wade, but he couldn’t make it.

  We’re the Clares, she said, pulling Franny onto her hip. And this is Franny.

  Hey, Franny, the other boy said.

  Franny blushed and hugged Catherine tight.

  We used to—the younger one blurted, but his brother shoved him in the ribs.

  Don’t mind him. He’s a little overexcited. Eddy put a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. We’re looking for work. Lawn work, gardening—hell, he can even babysit. He clutched his brother’s shoulder. He don’t mind one bit, do you, Cole?

  No, ma’am, the boy said, scratching his mosquito bites.

  I’ll have to check with my husband.

  Those barns could use some paint, if you don’t mind my saying. He stepped back and looked up at the house. The house, too. We could help you out.

  Well, we were planning on painting all that.

  Hey, me and my brothers—we’re regular Leonardos. And we come cheap.

  Where do you live?

  In town, the younger one said.

  We got references if you want, the other said. You won’t find nobody cheaper. Plus, we been doing that work for our uncle.

  Thunder rumbled overhead. She could smell the wet grass and something else, gasoline or cigarettes on the boys’ clothes. It started to rain again. The younger boy looked up at the sky and then at her, waiting to be invited in. She held open the door. Come on inside.

  They walked in, grinning over some private joke. I like what you’ve done with the place, Eddy said.

  We’re just moving in, she said, a little embarrassed. They left a lot behind, the old owners.

  There’s a good reason for that, Eddy said.

  Did you know them?

  You could say that.

  The younger boy looked away, his cheeks flushed and sweaty. He pushed the hair off his forehead.

  We might not have bought it, she said, I don’t think, if it hadn’t been such a good price.

  The boys stood there.

  What I mean, well, we got it at auction. Nobody else—

  It’s in the past now. Eddy looked at her uncertainly, like he’d changed his mind about something. Anyway, we better head out. Nice meeting you, ma’am.

  You can call me Catherine. She reached out her hand and he took it and she could feel the cold, rough skin. He waited a long moment before he let go.

  Catherine. He said her name like it was a thing of beauty. His eyes were dark blue. These boys had history, she thought, too much of it. He took a pen from his pocket and again took her hand. Can I borrow this?

  What?

  He wrote his phone number on her hand. In case you need us.

  Oh, okay, she said, and laughed. Thanks. She noticed the younger one eyeing her cookies. Here, I just made these. She fixed them a bag.

  Thank you, Mrs. Clare.

  You’re welcome, Cole. Their eyes met for a moment, until he glanced away.

  Well—see you around, Eddy said.

  They went out with their hands in the cookie bag, the older one grabbing one, the younger one punching his arm. They were close, these two. She watched them cross the field and then climb up the steep hill. The clouds were low and dense. Up on the ridge Eddy turned and looked back at the house as if right at her, and he confirmed this with a wave. It was a symbol, she thought, a kind of unspoken agreement—for what, she couldn’t guess.

  She spent the afternoon cleaning the oven, then roasted a chicken in it. The house smelled good. Like home.

  That night, over dinner, she told George she’d found some painters.

  Who are they?

  Just some boys from town. Looking for work.

  She lied and said she’d interviewed other painters who were more expensive, knowing that George could never resist cheap, and he gave his consent. It’ll be a big improvement, he said.

  I want down, Franny said.

  You do, do you? He kissed the top of her head. Are you finished eating, Franny?

  All done.

  He lifted her out of her high chair. She’s too old for this chair.

  Franny needs a big-girl chair, Catherine said.

  I’m big now, Franny said, jumping, clapping.

  Come on, you big monkey, George said. Let’s let Mommy clean up.

  Obediently, Catherine cleared the plates onto the counter. As hard as she’d worked to make it nice, the kitchen still looked shabby, the cabinets, coated with a thick porridge-colored paint, so warped they wouldn’t stay shut. They didn’t have a dishwasher yet. George promised to buy her one just as
soon as he could, maybe for Christmas. She started the dishes, letting the water get good and hot before rinsing them off; steam rose up as she stacked the clean plates into the rack. The window over the sink was black, animated by the vague outlines of her reflection as she washed the pots. For some reason, she tried to avoid noticing this, as if conscious that another face was superimposed over her own.

  I’d put my rings right here, on the windowsill. After doing the dishes I’d put them on again, always thinking what a sham marriage was, how the rings meant nothing. Only that I was off limits to other men. In Cal’s hands, I was like some old piece of farm machinery he’d learned how to jury-rig. That’s how it was with him, in private. Lift here, insert, push.

  Once, I saw the woman. Her name was Hazel Smythe. She was at Windowbox, sitting at a table alone, having a sandwich—egg salad, I think. I stood there, caught by surprise, and she looked up at me, her expression warm, even sad. Apologetic. But I walked out. I didn’t want her sympathy.

  I guess people in town knew, too. It gave them something to talk about over supper.

  Alarmed, Catherine turned around, but confronted only the after-dinner disruption, the worn wooden table and the empty chairs around it, waiting to be filled.

  —

  HE’S NOT HERE, a woman said the next morning when Catherine called the number she’d copied off her hand. No está aquí. But that afternoon they came back with the other brother. This here’s Wade, Eddy said. He can do the mowing.

  Hello, Wade. He was bigger than the other two, and moved with the solemn grace of a priest. She shook his sweaty hand.

  They walked out to the milking barn.

  What am I going to do with all of these bottles?

  You could start a dairy, Cole offered. We could help you. We know how to do it.

  That’s enough, Cole, Eddy said sharply, and the boy looked hurt. Trust me, he added, you don’t want to raise cows.

  We can cart them bottles off for you, Wade proposed. We got a truck.

  That would be great, she said, and registered his proud smile. When can you start?

  We’ll start in the morning, if that’s all right?

  They were good workers. They started early, before eight. She’d hear them out there, scraping off the old paint. The hot sun got hotter and hotter but they never complained. By noon their T-shirts were dripping with sweat, though only Eddy took his off. He often had a cigarette in his mouth, squinting against the smoke in his eyes. She found herself studying him, peering out the windows as she did her chores. When she stood beside him she could smell his sweat, the detergent in his clothes. A few times, she caught him looking down her blouse when she leaned over to pick up Franny, holding her necklace, the gold cross, between her teeth.

  At noon, she’d bring out lemonade and sandwiches and Franny would hand out the cups. They were sweet with her and watched her squat in the mud puddles, making pies in little tins. Here, Cole, she’d say, offering him one. It’s good pie.

  Really? Is it chocolate?

  Franny nodded. Want more?

  Sure, why not make it two?

  On their breaks, they played tag with her, running around the field, riling up the butterflies. The transistor radio going. The soft earth under their bare feet. Once, they chased a rabbit, which dove into its burrow. Shh, Cole shushed, crouching down.

  He won’t come out, Franny said.

  We have to keep real quiet, Eddy whispered, and they all crouched in the silence as they waited.

  The rabbit came out, twitching its whiskers, and Franny screamed with delight.

  Again they chased it and again he outsmarted them, vanishing into the underbrush.

  They were unusual boys, she thought. Polite, sincere—broken. There were things she noticed: Cole’s halfway smile, like he was sorry for enjoying the work. His brother Wade as stoic as milk, thoughtful, courteous, a little clumsy. And Eddy a shifty poet, an operator, rarely meeting her eyes. When he did, you couldn’t look away.

  Cole was Franny’s favorite. He’d just turned fourteen, still willing to be a boy. Together they made roads and castles and moats in the mud, and sailboats out of rhododendron leaves, with masts out of twigs. He wore a corduroy jacket, a size too big, and frayed at the wrists. She nicknamed him Professor. He was tall and skinny but had big shoulders and square-shaped hands. A born football star, she thought, but too gentle for the sport.

  What do you want to be, she asked, when you grow up?

  He shrugged like he’d never thought about it. I’m already grown.

  She turned to Eddy. What does your father do?

  Not a whole lot. He cracked a bitter smile, and she dropped it.

  His eyes were like the blue of forgotten soldiers. Without him noticing she would watch him. A strong face like Achilles, she thought, mythical, epic. How patiently he treated Wade when helping him complete simple tasks he should’ve managed easily, she thought, by himself, or how gently he prodded the kind, thoughtful Cole to take credit for his good work. Somehow, the three of them seemed to come from an older time.

  One morning, Wade arrived with a wooden contraption in his arms. It’s for Franny, he said. It’s a swing we can put up for her.

  Wade’s good at making things, Eddy told her. It’s what he does best.

  His brother looked away, but she caught his smile.

  Touched by the gift, she said, Thank you, Wade.

  That’s all right.

  The small-seated swing, made all of wood except for the chains, had a bar that would slide down in front of Franny to keep her from falling out, and they hung it out back, in the tree.

  I want Cole to push! Franny cried. Push me, Cole!

  Swinging back and forth, she dropped her head back to gaze up at the sky. Look up there, Momma? The tree was like a jigsaw, the missing pieces filled with sky.

  What kind of tree is that, Eddy?

  That’s just an ordinary old tree. Oak, I think.

  There’s a pear tree, too.

  Yes, ma’am. Put ’em on your windowsill and they’ll get ripe.

  The deer love to eat them. Late one night, I saw four of them standing there, eating to their hearts’ content.

  Yeah, they know what’s good.

  —

  AT THE END of the day they swam in the pond, stripping down to their undershorts and tossing their clothes in the grass. Leaves on the bottom had turned the water brown. Holding her mother’s hand, Franny stepped down to the shore, disrupting whole neighborhoods of frogs, her little feet disappearing in the soft mud.

  Cole twisted through the water like a sea lion. Can she swim yet?

  Almost. We’re working on it—right, Franny?

  I can swim, she insisted. Look, Momma, a turtle. She crouched down to watch the creature pushing through the grass, moving slowly under its heavy brown shell, a weary monk.

  Have you been in yet? Eddy asked, climbing out.

  I’m too afraid. I don’t like when I can’t see the bottom.

  Can’t feel it, either. Too deep. It’s a mystery. He smiled.

  I guess I don’t like mysteries.

  Gets hot enough, you’ll swim.

  We joined a club. They have a pool. She regretted this the minute she said it.

  I didn’t figure you for the type, he said.

  My husband plays tennis.

  He smirked. Watch out for those people.

  What do you mean?

  They think they own this town.

  Okay. Thanks for the warning.

  He looked at her. You don’t seem like you really fit.

  No?

  She waited for him to say more, but instead he sat down beside her and put on his shirt. He took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

  You’re different, he said. From other girls.

  I’m older, she offered. I’m a mother. It changes you.

  He glanced at her briefly, with affirmation. You’re a good mother.

  Thanks, Eddy, that’s nice.

&nbsp
; I’m not trying to be nice.

  No?

  He dragged on the cigarette, looking out at the pond. Tell me something, Mrs. Clare. You like it out here on the farm?

  You don’t have to—

  Catherine. His eyes were cold, a little angry. She thought of all of the girls who’d seen that same expression and tried to change it.

  Yes, I think so.

  Are you happy?

  I don’t know, she said. What’s happy?

  He looked away from her, then put his hand down in the grass beside hers. They were almost touching. You’re asking the wrong person, he said. I’m no expert on happy.

  Someday You’ll Be Sorry

  1

  MAYBE IT STARTED with her. That first time he saw her. Maybe because they’d bought the farm. Or because she’d opened the door that time and he’d stood there like an idiot with his hands in his pockets, saying he could work. Just wanting to be near her, to be close. Her eyes, maybe, because they were gray like his mother’s.

  I’m Eddy, and this here’s Cole. We used to live here, our mother died in this house.

  This look on her face, thinking it over, then bending down to the little girl, her necklace swinging, and pulling her onto her hip, the white shades moving all at once, the sun flipping through.

  She was somewhere in her twenties, not all that much older, and he was taller and bigger anyway. He wanted to hold her.

  She looked at him again, with something in her eyes that seemed like hope. And he felt something twist in his gut.

  —

  THAT FIRST NIGHT, walking back to Rainer’s place, his brother started to cry, and Eddy had to hold him a minute.

  She was nice.

  Yes, she was, Eddy told him.

  I want to go back.

  We will.

  When, Eddy?

  Tomorrow. Okay, buddy?

  A state van was parked in front of his uncle’s house. The men, fresh out of jail, lurked and spit. One had a lazy eye and a carny smile. Parole like your birthday after fifteen years inside. People called him Paris, like the city. I’m just a roamer, he said, tapping the side of his head. I been all over this world.