I first saw the house at forty-five Old Brook Drive on the day before Christmas. Mom drove me there in the morning because they wanted me to see our new home. They had tried to make the change sound like something positive, and they kept talking about all the new friends I’d make in Rowley. They did not talk about the perfectly good friends in Beverly that I would probably never see again. Adults think that kids live in little bubbles, but I knew what had happened to our family and why mom and I had to move to a new house.
Mom and dad were getting divorced. Once they had made the decision, it was almost comical the way they had told me about how our lives were going to change and at the same time have “continuity.” The way they used the word made me suspect they had learned it from a manual about how to talk to your kid about divorce. They acted as if we hadn’t all been living in the same house for the past twelve years of fighting and tension and sleepless nights.
Dad got their own place in Boston, and for some reason they had to sell our house in Beverly. Mom and dad tried their best to “transition” me¾that was another catchword¾into my new life. They said everything but the one thing that was the real, in-your-face truth: my new life was going to suck.
Mom and I left our house in Beverly and we drove up Route 95 for about a half an hour and then got off on Route 133. After a couple of miles we passed a wooden sign that said, “Welcome to Rowley.”
We passed through the Rowley town center with its post office and a couple of stores and a big church, but mostly there were winding roads bordered by woods and fields with big houses set back from the road. And there were lots of antiques stores, all up and down Route 133. They had names like The White Elephant and most looked as if they were crammed to overflowing with all kinds of stuff¾wooden chairs, statues, canoes, rugs, urns, bicycles, paintings, sailboat masts, doors, windows, lamps, and hundreds of things that defied description. Almost anything was for sale as long as it was old and moldy.
We took a right on Heritage Road, and then a left onto Old Brook Drive. From the car window I looked for a stream, but I saw only white or yellow frame houses with Volvos parked in the driveways. Maybe the brook had been filled in. We passed two kids walking along the road. They looked older than me and were wearing plaid shirts. I knew that grunge rockers wore plaid shirts, but these two kids seemed more like real farmers. One house had an old barn behind it, and as we drove past I caught a glimpse of two horses standing in a muddy field, their tails swishing and their heads bowed in the cold grey sunlight.
We pulled into a gravel driveway that curved toward the front door of a two-story clapboard house. It was smaller than our house in Beverly and it looked a little saggy, as though it had been built a hundred years ago. It was painted yellow, as bright as a lemon, and the wooden shutters gleamed green. A few shrubs huddled around the front door, and more shrubs bordered the tiny front yard that blocked the view from the street to the house.
As mom parked the car, a person emerged from the front door. They looked like a grandma¾ stout body, straight grey hair, cotton print dress, wire rimmed-glasses. They came over to the car door and peered at us through the driver’s side window, which mom had rolled down.
“Hello, Cheryl,” the person said. “You picked a good time to stop by¾my husband has cleaned out the cellar and the attic. Is this Jack? It’s very nice to meet you. Why don’t you and your mother come inside, and I’ll show you around.”
Mom looked at me with their now-why-don’t-you-talk-to-the-nice-lady expression.
“Uh, sure. I guess,” I replied.
Satisfied with my response, mom turned back to the person, who stepped away from the door so that mom could open it. Mom got out of the car and stood on the gravel driveway next to the person.
“Jack, this is Sylvia Woodbury,” mom said to me as I got out of the other side. “They and their husband are moving to Rembrandt Village, an apartment complex in Burlington, so they’re selling their house. They’ve been here for—”
“Thirty-three years,” Sylvia announced, completing mom’s sentence. “This house has many memories for us. It is not an easy decision to make, but some things just can’t be helped. May I offer you some coffee?”
Sylvia opened the front door and we stepped inside. The foyer smelt musty, as if it hadn’t been aired out in thirty-three years. To the left was a living room with a couple of overstuffed chairs with lace doilies on them. On the floor were several cardboard moving cartons of different sizes, some sealed shut and some still open. There was a built-in bookcase next to the fireplace, but the shelves were empty.
In front of us was a narrow staircase leading to the second floor. Halfway up there was a little landing, where the stairs turned right to go up the rest of the way. The walls were covered in flowery wallpaper, sprinkled with photos and little paintings in rectangular and oval frames. Most of the photos were black and white, and I caught a glimpse of one that had a horse and buggy.
Sylvia directed us to the right of the foyer, through a door into the dining room, and into the kitchen. We moved some boxes out of the way and sat down at the kitchen table. Mom and Sylvia chatted. I just sat and listened. They talked about lawyers and closing costs and what days the town picked up the garbage and the high price of the water and sewer bills these days. I became more depressed. Didn’t mom realize this was horrible? To be stuck out here in farm country in a smelly old house surrounded by moldy old antiques stores was a fate certainly not worse than death but pretty close. I couldn’t wait to go home to Eden Lane in Beverly, even though I knew that our days at Eden Lane were numbered and that this place would soon be my new home.
That was funny. “New home.” It wasn’t new—it was old. It was only new to mom and me. It was full of other people’s memories and experiences and smells and stains. Maybe lots of families had lived here before the Woodburys. Kids and moms and dads had eaten in this kitchen and gone off to work on the farm or at a factory or had gone to school. Maybe there had been arguments like we had had when dad was living with us. The doors had been slammed and then there had been that eerie quiet when you weren’t sure if the fight was over or if the combatants were regrouping for another round.
I looked down at the floor. It was blue and white linoleum, scratched and stained, even though you couldn’t see any actual dirt. I scuffed my shoes and they left a little mark. I felt guilty for messing up Sylvia’s floor, and I tucked my feet under my chair.
Suddenly mom turned to me and brightly said, “Say, sweetheart, why don’t we take a look at your room?”
Sylvia looked away as if they didn’t expect mom to say this, but after a moment they smiled and said, “Why sure, I suppose that would be fine. It’s upstairs.”
We followed Sylvia up the stairs, and with every tread their step seemed labored, as if they were climbing a mountain. On the way up I tried to look more closely at some of the photographs that lined the stairwell. One caught my eye. It was in color, but faded. It showed a kid older than me—maybe eighteen— standing next to a tricked-out Chevrolet Camaro parked on a suburban street. The car was dark green and had big fat rear tires and an air scoop on the hood. Like a hot rod. The kid was smiling and leaning against the black vinyl top. They was wearing a button-down yellow shirt with a big collar like the type I had seen in the old movie Saturday Night Fever, and jeans with a wide leather belt and a big buckle.
At the top landing Sylvia turned to the left and stood before a closed door. It was painted white to match the trim. Sylvia glanced at us and then pushed open the door.
We entered what looked like a typical teenager’s bedroom. It wasn’t large, just big enough for some basic furniture: a four-poster bed, a bureau with mirror, an old roll-top desk with a student’s lamp and an old-fashioned computer, a table with more books and a small stereo, and a wooden captain’s chair. On the walls were Nirvana and Pearl Jam posters from the nineties, along with some old New England Patriots team posters. A blue blanket covered the bed, neatly tucked in, with a Patriots logo in the center. There was a tan plastic digital alarm clock on a tiny bedside table. The time was 3:30 PM. The room was very neat, as if it had just been cleaned. There weren’t any clothes scattered across the floor, no magazines shoved under the bed, no piles of papers. Maybe Sylvia Woodbury and their kid had cleaned up before we arrived.
The stereo set caught my attention. It had a turntable for vinyl LPs plugged into an old FM receiver/amplifier, and two desktop speakers. Next to the table were two milk crates filled with record albums. I looked over at Sylvia. They was standing at the door, leaning in slightly. I thought the stereo might make a good conversation starter.
“Gee, Mrs. Woodbury, Eric has a real old turntable,” I said. “I didn’t even know they made these any more. Pretty cool.”
Sylvia smiled their thin little smile. “They’s very proud of it. They worked mowing lawns to earn the money to buy it. It’s a little loud for my taste, though. I guess that’s the way it is with teenagers, though. Always trying to annoy their mothers. But we don’t mind. That’s what mothers are for. We just keep living day to day.”
“Is Eric around?” I asked.
Sylvia looked at me with their liquid grey eyes. “Oh, yes, well, they’ll be along shortly. They just went out for a bit. They and some friends. Some kids from the neighborhood. Nice kids, though. Nice kids.”
We stood in silence for another moment. A sound from the hallway caught my attention. Sylvia turned and moved back slightly. A person about sixty, nearly bald and with horn-rimmed glasses, put their head into the doorway. They smiled broadly and offered their big hand to me.
“You must be Jack! Hi, I’m Robin Woodbury. Nice to meet you. I see you’re getting the grand tour.”
“Yeah, we’re seeing Eric’s room. I mean my room. Well, you know,” I stammered.
“Yes, I see. Say, dear, why don’t we show Pauline and Jack the back yard?”
Sylvia nodded their head quickly. Robin ushered us downstairs and out the back door.
We stood on the cement patio and looked at the bare branches of the overhanging maple trees. The back yard was small, nearly square. A low wooden fence and some shrubs enclosed the patchy brown lawn. A rickety red wooden picnic table seemed lonely over by the fence. I felt a chill. I could see faint wisps of breath each time I exhaled. The scene reminded me of an exercise yard in a prison.
Robin took their wife gently by the elbow and whispered something in their ear. Sylvia nodded and without a word they opened the screen door and went back into the kitchen.
Robin approached mom and me. They said, “Why don’t we go over and sit at the picnic table? We can talk for a minute there.”
The picnic table was the kind that had two attached wooden benches, so we went over and sat down. Robin wore a thin blue sweater without a coat, and I wondered why they wasn’t cold.
Robin smiled at us and folded their hands. They looked beyond us, as if into the distance. Then they turned and spoke.
“I think it’s only fair to, uh, clarify something. It’s about our child, Eric. They’s no longer with us.”
Mom looked at me, and then furrowed their brow. “Oh, well, that happens to every family,” they said, their voice brightening. “Kids grow up and leave home. It’s sometimes hard to let go. Believe me, I understand completely.”
Robin shook their head. “No, I’m sorry, that’s not quite what I meant. Eric was taken from us in a car accident. They was eighteen. Just out of high school. They was going too fast and hit a tree. It happened over on Linebrook Road in Ipswich.”
I blinked and looked away from Robin. I saw a bright red cardinal perched on a tree branch at the corner of the yard. It hopped to one side and then the other, tilting its head to inspect the ground beneath. Then it flew away, over to the next yard. I tried to follow it, but it disappeared into the thickness of the trees. I didn’t want to look at Robin Woodbury, but then I realized that maybe I was being rude. I looked back at them, but not at their face. I looked at their sweater.
“Oh, Robin, I’m so terribly sorry,” I heard mom say. “I don’t know what to say—I cannot imagine such a tragic loss. You and your wife must have been devastated. I’m so sorry.”
I was glad mom was talking because I had not the faintest idea of what to say. I just kept looking at Robin Woodbury’s sweater.
“Thank you,” they replied. “Eric was taken from us ten years ago this month. We should have moved out of this house a long time ago. After the accident, Sylvia kept telling me they just needed a little more time to heal. They didn’t want to make any changes in our life. Eric was everything to them. I guess I felt differently. I mean we both loved our child very much, but I figured that the best way to show our love was to move on. I couldn’t imagine Eric wanting us to stay stuck in the past.”
Robin Woodbury turned and looked back towards the house. I think they wanted to make sure their wife wasn’t coming out.
“I guess you can see what happened. Sylvia just blocked it out of their mind. As time went by I just learned to go along with the program. Whenever they talked about Eric as if they were still here, I just nodded and said, ‘Yes, dear.’ It was easier and it seemed harmless.
“But now I’m retired and we have to face reality. We’re downsizing. Don’t worry; we’ll get everything cleaned out. Sylvia has agreed to see someone. I think it will all work out.”
“I hope so,” said mom.
Robin smiled and said, “I just want you to know the history of the house. Sort of like truth in advertising.”
Mom nodded and told them they was grateful for the information. Then mom glanced over at me. I looked down at the grain of the wooden picnic table. I had dug a little groove in the wood with my fingernail.
Sylvia Woodbury opened the back door. “Robin, there’s a call for you,” they announced. “It’s the office manager from Rembrandt Village. They’s got some questions.”
“Okay, dear, I’ll be there,” Robin called back. “If you’ll excuse me, why don’t you look around some more, Jack?”
They got up and went inside. Mom and I sat at the picnic table. After a few seconds mom turned to me.
“I know this must be terribly upsetting, Jack. I hope we can get through this. I’ll tell you what—why don’t we trade bedrooms? I rather like the view from Eric’s room. I’ll bet it gets nice morning light. What do you say?”
I pursed my lips and looked down at my hands. Then I said, “No, mom, it will be okay. I’ll take Eric’s room. It will be fine. You keep yours. I’ll take Eric’s.”
They looked at me for a moment, shrugged, and said, “All right. Well, I think it’s time we thought about going home. We have to get ready for Christmas Eve.”
A month later we moved from our house in Beverly to the house in Rowley. I hadn’t been there since the day we had visited. Mom and I pulled up in the car a few minutes ahead of the moving van. Mom unlocked the front door and we went inside. The musty smell was the same. I looked up the stairway and all the pictures were gone. Rectangular faded areas marked where they had been, with chipped nail holes in the center of each pale rectangle. I mounted the stairs and heard them creak under my feet. I stood on the upper landing and the walls were bare there also. I grasped the doorknob to my room and pushed open the door.
The bed, the bureau, the desk, and the stereo were gone. Without Eric’s furniture the room seemed smaller. Now it was a plain square space. Thumbtack holes peppered the yellow-painted walls had where the posters had been. The wood-planked floor seemed uneven, and the finish was worn away next to the door and window. There was a mark on the wall where the desk had been placed. I opened the closet door. Nothing but a single wire hanger.
I walked to the curtainless window. I looked out over the back yard and the picnic table. Beyond the fence, the stark black branches of the trees met the heavy January sky.