gone. Torn down to make way for a triplex, or
finally razed for safety reasons, leaving only an empty lot behind. We don't
entertain these possibilities aloud, in any case. Once we'd paid our tab at
Jake's, it was still only nine, and Randy wanted a cigarette, so I joined him
on a tipsy wander through the streets, taking the long way back to the Queen's.
Neither
of us acknowledged it when we turned the corner onto Caledonia Street. We
started up the long slope toward the hospital, noting how remarkably little had
changed about the houses, the modest gardens, even the mailboxes lashed to the
streetlight poles to thwart kids from tipping them over. When the McAuliffe
house comes into view we automatically cross the street to be on the same side
it's on. We pause in front for a moment, gazing up at Ben's window.
And
then, unstoppably, we turn to follow what was his line of sight for most of his
waking adult life.
It's
still unoccupied, judging from the black, uncurtained windows, the wood trim
bristled with mildew, the knee-high seedlings dotting the yard. Nevertheless,
given the little care paid to it over the last thirty or more years, the
Thurman house looks reasonably solid, testimony to the stone foundation and
brick work of its builders over a century ago. Even the headless rooster still
tops the attic gable.
"Why
don't they just tear it down?" I ask.
"Can't.
It's privately owned."
"How
do you know?"
"Mrs.
McAuliffe told me. It's been handed down and handed down. The owners are
out-of-towners. Never even visit."
"Why
not sell?"
"Maybe
they're waiting for an upturn in the market."
"In
the Grimshaw market?"
"I
wonder if it misses him," Randy says, stubbing his cigarette out under the
heel of his shoe. "Ben must have been its only friend."
"He
wasn't its friend," I say, sharper than I expected to.
We
stay there a minute longer. Staring at the Thurman house from the far side of
Caledonia Street, a perspective we had returned to countless times in
sleep-spoiling dreams. Watching for what Ben had been watching for. A white
flash of motion. Opened eyes. A glint of teeth.
I'm first
to start back to the hotel. The moon leading us on, peeping through the
branches.
Randy
laughs. "Guess it knows we're here now."
I do
my best to join him in it, if only to prevent the sound of his forced humour
from drifting unconvincingly in the night air. And to push away the thought
that we had already made mistakes. Coming back to Grimshaw. Pretending that we
could avoid certain topics if we simply told ourselves to. Most of all, the
mistake of letting it know we're here.
We
had forgotten what Ben reminded himself of every day: the Thurman house never
allowed itself to be observed without a corresponding price.
Every
time you looked into it, it looked into you.
----
MEMORY DIARY
Entry No. 6
Most
days, I'd stop to pick up Sarah so the two of us could walk the rest of the way
to school together. It had become habit for me to knock at her side door on the
mornings I didn't have one of the Guardians' deadly pre-dawn practices, and for
her mom to offer me homemade waffles or bacon sandwiches, something that would
have been a Christmas treat in my house. I would decline at first, but I always
ended up snarfing down a second breakfast all the same as I waited for Sarah to
come downstairs. I liked these stolen minutes, the anticipation of Sarah's
face, me telling her mother something that made her laugh too loudly for a
woman so petite and religious. Sarah's father had already left for work. Now
that I think of it, maybe he'd planned it that way. Maybe he'd designed these
moments in the kitchen to say Nice, isn't it? Make an honest woman of my
daughter and all this could be yours.
But
on the morning of the day after Ben told us he'd witnessed—or
finally razed for safety reasons, leaving only an empty lot behind. We don't
entertain these possibilities aloud, in any case. Once we'd paid our tab at
Jake's, it was still only nine, and Randy wanted a cigarette, so I joined him
on a tipsy wander through the streets, taking the long way back to the Queen's.
Neither
of us acknowledged it when we turned the corner onto Caledonia Street. We
started up the long slope toward the hospital, noting how remarkably little had
changed about the houses, the modest gardens, even the mailboxes lashed to the
streetlight poles to thwart kids from tipping them over. When the McAuliffe
house comes into view we automatically cross the street to be on the same side
it's on. We pause in front for a moment, gazing up at Ben's window.
And
then, unstoppably, we turn to follow what was his line of sight for most of his
waking adult life.
It's
still unoccupied, judging from the black, uncurtained windows, the wood trim
bristled with mildew, the knee-high seedlings dotting the yard. Nevertheless,
given the little care paid to it over the last thirty or more years, the
Thurman house looks reasonably solid, testimony to the stone foundation and
brick work of its builders over a century ago. Even the headless rooster still
tops the attic gable.
"Why
don't they just tear it down?" I ask.
"Can't.
It's privately owned."
"How
do you know?"
"Mrs.
McAuliffe told me. It's been handed down and handed down. The owners are
out-of-towners. Never even visit."
"Why
not sell?"
"Maybe
they're waiting for an upturn in the market."
"In
the Grimshaw market?"
"I
wonder if it misses him," Randy says, stubbing his cigarette out under the
heel of his shoe. "Ben must have been its only friend."
"He
wasn't its friend," I say, sharper than I expected to.
We
stay there a minute longer. Staring at the Thurman house from the far side of
Caledonia Street, a perspective we had returned to countless times in
sleep-spoiling dreams. Watching for what Ben had been watching for. A white
flash of motion. Opened eyes. A glint of teeth.
I'm first
to start back to the hotel. The moon leading us on, peeping through the
branches.
Randy
laughs. "Guess it knows we're here now."
I do
my best to join him in it, if only to prevent the sound of his forced humour
from drifting unconvincingly in the night air. And to push away the thought
that we had already made mistakes. Coming back to Grimshaw. Pretending that we
could avoid certain topics if we simply told ourselves to. Most of all, the
mistake of letting it know we're here.
We
had forgotten what Ben reminded himself of every day: the Thurman house never
allowed itself to be observed without a corresponding price.
Every
time you looked into it, it looked into you.
----
MEMORY DIARY
Entry No. 6
Most
days, I'd stop to pick up Sarah so the two of us could walk the rest of the way
to school together. It had become habit for me to knock at her side door on the
mornings I didn't have one of the Guardians' deadly pre-dawn practices, and for
her mom to offer me homemade waffles or bacon sandwiches, something that would
have been a Christmas treat in my house. I would decline at first, but I always
ended up snarfing down a second breakfast all the same as I waited for Sarah to
come downstairs. I liked these stolen minutes, the anticipation of Sarah's
face, me telling her mother something that made her laugh too loudly for a
woman so petite and religious. Sarah's father had already left for work. Now
that I think of it, maybe he'd planned it that way. Maybe he'd designed these
moments in the kitchen to say Nice, isn't it? Make an honest woman of my
daughter and all this could be yours.
But
on the morning of the day after Ben told us he'd witnessed—or
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