think you can still see it; it has a wall around it.”
“Like the wall surrounding the house?” I asked fearing
even more complications.
“Yes,” she said, “but it’s much smaller, only two or
three feet high.”
I stared curiously at Virgil. Violet intercepted the
communication.
“What’s going on? You two are not telling me
everything,” she said.
“It’s the wall, Violet,” Virgil replied . “For
some reason, it’s come up several times in the conversation today. Do you know
anything about it?”
She deliberated for a moment; a knife poised over a
well-done rump roast, and then motioned me toward the table.
“I don’t know when it was built, but sections of it
have always been there. When they renovated the state hospital, they also
repaired the wall. Elinore’s father was the superintendent at the time. Later,
he became chairman of the board.”
I could no longer restrain myself. “He was the
superintendent of the mental hospital?”
“Yes,” she replied, “is that important?”
She sat at the opposite end of the table, picked up a
fork and made a motion for all to eat.
“He wasn’t a stockholder in the old bank, was he?” I
asked, making short work of the beef.
Her eyes studied the texture of the potatoes, dismissed
the occasional lump and cold spot, and replied, “Yes, I think he was.”
My enthusiasm was now beyond restraint. “Is there a
chance, Violet, you might know the name of the man who built the wall?”
Her lips pursed and her eyes filled with deliberation.
“Fraid not,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Mother might know, but I doubt
it. She’s eighty-five years old and has a hard time with names , un less she’s
written them down, which she is always doing. There are notes and memos she’s
written lying all over the house, and she never throws anything away.”
Her eyes brightened. “Written it down! Yes! Why didn’t
I think of it before? There is an old history book at the local library by
Henry Morgan, a descendant of one of the state's first families. It’s one of
those thick privately bound typewritten books with only one copy in existence. He
wrote the book in the early 1940s and mentioned the Ryder family, especially
Elinore.
“She was a very attractive lady when she was young, so
he says, but she went a little crazy as she grew older. I guess it was because
of her eyesight and living out there on Scary Creek. They say her father
rebuilt the wall to keep her in, but I think he built it to keep out others. You
can go to the library tomorrow and look at the book. I’m sure it will help you
in your search for…what is it you’re looking for, Charles?”
I didn’t know how to answer her. Not only did it call
into question my present circumstance, but also the questionable premise of my
life. What was I looking for: a house, a home, an investment, a warm and
friendly place to die, a change of pace, a place to hide, to escape from the
past, the present, the future, others, or me? Was I really looking for
something, or was something looking for me?
“I don’t know how it involves me, but I wouldn’t be
here if it didn’t. After all, whatever is out there, we will be spending the
rest of our lives together.”
I tried to laugh but no one found my explanation even
remotely humorous, and the expression in Virgil’s eyes was not the least bit
sympathetic.
“Are you married, Charles?” Violet asked, as she
carved the slab of beef.
“Yes and no,” I said, “I’m being divorced.”
“Do you intend to live in the house after you buy it?”
“Yes, but I plan to travel, too, though I don’t know
where.”
I felt absurd and laughed at myself again . Her
manner was unshaken.
“And what do you intend to do for water?”
The question nearly created a vacuum in the room. All
the wisdom of two able-bodied men sucked down and out through the prophetic foresight
of one homemaker.
“I beg your pardon?”
Violet’s gaze traveled back
“Like the wall surrounding the house?” I asked fearing
even more complications.
“Yes,” she said, “but it’s much smaller, only two or
three feet high.”
I stared curiously at Virgil. Violet intercepted the
communication.
“What’s going on? You two are not telling me
everything,” she said.
“It’s the wall, Violet,” Virgil replied . “For
some reason, it’s come up several times in the conversation today. Do you know
anything about it?”
She deliberated for a moment; a knife poised over a
well-done rump roast, and then motioned me toward the table.
“I don’t know when it was built, but sections of it
have always been there. When they renovated the state hospital, they also
repaired the wall. Elinore’s father was the superintendent at the time. Later,
he became chairman of the board.”
I could no longer restrain myself. “He was the
superintendent of the mental hospital?”
“Yes,” she replied, “is that important?”
She sat at the opposite end of the table, picked up a
fork and made a motion for all to eat.
“He wasn’t a stockholder in the old bank, was he?” I
asked, making short work of the beef.
Her eyes studied the texture of the potatoes, dismissed
the occasional lump and cold spot, and replied, “Yes, I think he was.”
My enthusiasm was now beyond restraint. “Is there a
chance, Violet, you might know the name of the man who built the wall?”
Her lips pursed and her eyes filled with deliberation.
“Fraid not,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Mother might know, but I doubt
it. She’s eighty-five years old and has a hard time with names , un less she’s
written them down, which she is always doing. There are notes and memos she’s
written lying all over the house, and she never throws anything away.”
Her eyes brightened. “Written it down! Yes! Why didn’t
I think of it before? There is an old history book at the local library by
Henry Morgan, a descendant of one of the state's first families. It’s one of
those thick privately bound typewritten books with only one copy in existence. He
wrote the book in the early 1940s and mentioned the Ryder family, especially
Elinore.
“She was a very attractive lady when she was young, so
he says, but she went a little crazy as she grew older. I guess it was because
of her eyesight and living out there on Scary Creek. They say her father
rebuilt the wall to keep her in, but I think he built it to keep out others. You
can go to the library tomorrow and look at the book. I’m sure it will help you
in your search for…what is it you’re looking for, Charles?”
I didn’t know how to answer her. Not only did it call
into question my present circumstance, but also the questionable premise of my
life. What was I looking for: a house, a home, an investment, a warm and
friendly place to die, a change of pace, a place to hide, to escape from the
past, the present, the future, others, or me? Was I really looking for
something, or was something looking for me?
“I don’t know how it involves me, but I wouldn’t be
here if it didn’t. After all, whatever is out there, we will be spending the
rest of our lives together.”
I tried to laugh but no one found my explanation even
remotely humorous, and the expression in Virgil’s eyes was not the least bit
sympathetic.
“Are you married, Charles?” Violet asked, as she
carved the slab of beef.
“Yes and no,” I said, “I’m being divorced.”
“Do you intend to live in the house after you buy it?”
“Yes, but I plan to travel, too, though I don’t know
where.”
I felt absurd and laughed at myself again . Her
manner was unshaken.
“And what do you intend to do for water?”
The question nearly created a vacuum in the room. All
the wisdom of two able-bodied men sucked down and out through the prophetic foresight
of one homemaker.
“I beg your pardon?”
Violet’s gaze traveled back
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