"I'm not here to sell my property," I gave her in return. She beamed with the exclusive news.
During the short ride up to the farm, the taxicab driver, Al Shineman, filled me in on the property's history since I had left.
"It took your attorney quite a while to get it rented, you know," he said. He lowered his chin and looked at me over his thick-lensed glasses.
"Considering what went on there, most people were afraid of the place. On Halloween the teenagers used to go up there and have bonfire parties until the police finally put an end to it. They could have caused forest fires, and someone was always breaking into the house.
"I hear the Farleys have fixed it up nicely inside. Brice coaches the junior varsity basketball team, andI'm works for your attorney, you know. She's a paralegal."
I said nothing to indicate I knew or didn't know. The quieter I was, the more he chatted. All the while my heart was thumping like a parade drum. As we drew closer and closer to the farm, the surroundings became more and more familiar. I was truly falling back through time with every ticking minute, every mile, every tree and field and rock we passed.
"Are you all right, miss?" Al asked when we reached the entrance to the long driveway and I uttered a clearly audible gasp.
"Stop!" I cried when he made the turn onto the property.
"Stop?" He brought the car to a halt. "What's wrong? This is the Atwell farm."
I took a deep breath. To my left I could see the small old stone cemetery, the tops of the three tombstones just peeking over the fieldstone walls. Many times I had held Noble's or Mama's hand at night when we stood there and held a prayer vigil, all of us looking at the unmarked grave that held our deepest secret.
I took a deep breath and gazed around the property. The forest surrounding it had thickened and expanded, as if it had begun a slow march toward the house. The three-story Queen Anne with that oh-sofamiliar turret in which I had been hidden so many times looked unchanged. The lawn immediately in front of the house was well maintained, but the fields were overgrown, the weeds raging even up to the walls of the old barn. I saw that the area where the herbal garden had once bloomed was totally overrun by wild grasses and some flowery weeds. A latemodel ruby sedan was parked in front of the house, a black pickup truck just to the right of it. To the left of the house, the inhabitants had obviously worked a small vegetable garden. I saw the remnants of pumpkin plants and recalled how Noble and I used to cut out the faces for Halloween. We'd give them names.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked Al.
"Don't you want me to drive you up to the house?"
"No," I said. There was no way to explain it so he would understand.
"Oh. Well, that will be twelve dollars," he said.
I opened the envelope Mrs. Cukor had given me and counted out the money. He took it and stepped out to get my suitcase off the rear seat.
"Sure you don't want me to drive you to the house?" he asked, handing me the suitcase. "It's not light."
"No, thank you," I said.
In a little while he'll be back at the
confectionery store talking about this for sure, I thought, but I didn't care.
I started down the driveway.
How many, many times had I walked this driveway with Mama or with Noble and heard them both talking about the spirits of our family standing to the side, smiling at us! Were they here now? I didn't blame them for not appearing, for not trusting me. Look at
the detours I had taken. Look at how I had denied and avoided them, treating them as if they were figments of a disturbed young imagination.
In the wind that brushed my hair and flowed past my face, I could recall Mama's singing. Perhaps sounds, voices, words, and music linger just like anything else that hovers about, and when it's proper, when all the forces of nature come together just right, those memories return as echoes, reverberating once again. I was thinking about all this as I walked. I didn't even notice how heavy my suitcase was, nor did I look back at Mr. Shineman, who had yet to back out of the driveway. I knew he was watching me, expecting to see something strange and amazing, something he could take back to the store for gossip.
What he did see was my stopping and standing so still, he surely wondered if I had changed my mind and was about to turn around and flee. I stopped because there was no question, no doubt, that I could hear someone playing the piano. The melody was familiar. It made my heart jump in my chest. Would I knock on that door and find Noble greeting me? Would Mama be at the piano? Would all that had happened ever since disappear like a dream when the sunlight wakens me? Would the forest move back, the weeds be gone, the herbal garden bloom?
Slowly now, each step very deliberate and careful, I walked toward the front door. A large cloud cast a shadow like a fisherman's net over the house. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
"Please, please," I whispered. "Let my dream be true."
I knocked on the door, using the old brass knocker that was still there. I heard the piano playing stop. A few moments later the door opened, and a young man with closely trimmed light brown hair and hazel eyes looked at me. Surprise curled his firm lips into a pleas-ant smile. He was in a flannel shirt and jeans and wore a pair of running shoes. I thought he was easily six feet tall, with a slim, tight build.
"Well, hello," he said in a jovial tone. He leaned out and saw no automobile. Al Shineman had backed away and gone. "Who are you?"
"I'm Celeste Atwell," I said.