A House by the Side of the Road (6 page)

Christine laughed. “I said I'd do it. But I intend to hold it against you.”

“I'll bear up,” said Meg. “She wants to play. And I want to coach. So if you don't like it, tough. Anybody married to the man you're married to needs to feel some pain. It's only fair. Does he have any idea how good-looking he is?”

Christine smiled. “I don't know. I wonder sometimes. He is cute, isn't he?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Meg. “He's that.”

*   *   *

Meg parked outside the kitchen door. She wished she'd thought to leave a light on inside. When it got dark in the country, it got very dark. Tomorrow, the house would be filled with her own possessions, her own kitchen table and chairs and bed and heaps of boxes. It would feel more familiar, more like home. Tonight, it was still someone else's house. She opened the hatchback of the car, pushed the fire extinguisher and a carton of books out of the way, picked up a box of sheets and blankets, and unlocked the kitchen door.

She had already stored her toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, and a few makeup items in the medicine cabinet. She opened the mirrored door, admiring the cherry wainscoting—the same as on the walls—that had been used to make the cabinet. Earlier in the day, putting things on its shallow, wide shelves, she had noticed the small slot in the back for used razor blades. Now, brushing her teeth, she gazed at it, wondering how many worn, dulled blades had tumbled down into the space between the studs and lay rusting inside the wall.

Something was odd. She was sure she had put the bottle of vitamin tablets on the bottom shelf, because she had moved it to look more closely at the slot, realizing what it was. The bottle was now on the second shelf.

She stared at the other objects, arranged so neatly, far more neatly than they would remain after she had filled the cabinet with the normal jumble of items that, like gas, would expand to fill the available space. The few things she had placed there were still there. Why wouldn't they be? She must be wrong about where she'd put the vitamins. There was no reason for anyone to come into her house, empty her medicine cabinet, and replace the objects. She was just being silly, spooked by the silence and the house's unlived-in feeling.

She shut the cabinet door firmly and went to bed.

Six

The Salvation Army truck arrived as the coffee in Christine's old spare coffeepot finished percolating. The workers cheerfully carried out load after load of dismal furniture and ugly, heavy curtains. At ten o'clock, the moving truck drove up. By noon, known objects had made the house comforting, despite the stacks of unpacked cartons.

The sound of barking in the early afternoon drew her out into the backyard. Two dogs were racing toward the trees, Warren G. Harding hot in pursuit of the ugly brown dog. Even with his longer legs, he stood no chance of overtaking her, but she whirled and came toward him, and they met in a tumbling pile of cream and brown.

Meg took off running, unwilling to let nature take its course. They separated, the bigger dog with his front legs on the ground, his rear end high, and his tail up. He made a short bounding motion at the other dog, who stood panting and then gave in to the invitation and romped around him. Meg slowed to a walk, glad that no one had witnessed her misunderstanding.

“Harding!” she called, and then whistled. “Hey, Harding!”

He ran eagerly to meet her, jumping up to pat at her with large paws.

“Who's your friend with the mean eyes?” she asked, pushing him down and bending to scratch his neck with both hands.

The other dog hadn't moved. She stood at a distance, watching Meg intently. Her chest was broad, her legs wide-set. Her ears were forward, and her tail stood out horizontally behind her.

“Come on, girl,” said Meg, patting her leg. “You're interested, I can tell. Let's get along with each other.”

The dog still didn't move. She barked once in a peremptory fashion, and Harding loped off to rejoin her.

Meg walked back to the house, reminded of wanting her own dog. She'd grown up with dogs, and it seemed unnatural to live without one, but Chicago landlords were, most often, unsympathetic. Hers surely had been. She wanted … not a scruffy, bad-tempered dog. Not an ugly little dog. A clown, perhaps, like the Airedale she'd liked so much in Chicago. Or a bold and beautiful Kuvasz. Or … She wanted to begin the search, but she needed to fix the fence before she could start looking. And she couldn't start on that until she'd made some headway with unpacking.

She set up her tape player, chose
Peter and the Wolf
for its energetic passages, and worked steadily. By evening, she was exhausted, but the house seemed much more like home.

She took a mug of coffee and went out onto the porch to lean against the railing and look out over the yard and the meadow beyond. Twilight tinged the grass with silver where the land rolled away in the distance. A faint, sweet-smelling breeze moved the leaves on the apple trees just past the fence. This, she thought, was given to me to love.

*   *   *

The next morning, she pulled on a sweatshirt and went out to count the missing pickets. A fog lay heavily over the broad valley, thick enough so she could barely see the road. A car passed, ghostly in the mist.

By the time she had finished breakfast, the fog had begun to burn off, and by eleven o'clock it was gone. There were twenty-three pickets she would have to replace, and about forty others that needed to be fastened more securely. She wrenched a loose one free to use as a sample and went into the house to look through the Yellow Pages that the telephone installer had left earlier in the morning, when he connected her to the world. She called Christine.

“Is Meyers Lumber and Hardware right in town?” she asked.

“Turn left at the second light. It's out a little ways, a half mile maybe. You get your phone in?”

“No, I drove six miles into town to call you from a booth. Yes, I got my phone in.” She gave Christine the number. “Want some coffee?”

“If you're going to Meyers, stop here on the way. I just made some
and
some cookies, which are the best things you ever tasted. I'll see you in a few minutes.”

A half hour later, with a canister full of cookies beside her on the seat, Meg drove the rest of the way into town and found the lumberyard. A tall, rangy man got out of a red pickup truck next to her in the parking lot and passed her to hold the door open, nodding pleasantly as she went in ahead of him. He looked, in his flannel shirt and faded jeans, as if he belonged in Wyoming, but there was no drawl in his voice when he spoke to her as she stood surveying the hammers.

“Can't make up your mind?” he asked. His voice was deep and friendly.

“I know I want a claw hammer,” she said. “But I don't know how heavy.”

“Well, if you're framing a house, you probably need about twenty-four ounces. If you want something more all-purpose, sixteen ought to do.”

Meg indicated the picket she'd rested against the shelves. “I've got to fix my fence.”

“I have this one,” the man said, selecting a hammer with a rubber coating on the handle. “I like the balance, and it's not too heavy to use for long periods.” He held it out. “But your hands are small. See what you think.”

Meg gripped the handle. “No, it's fine. Feels good. Thanks. I'm assuming they can cut pickets from stock here.”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “They can match that one easy.” He pointed to a neighboring aisle. “Rust-proof nails are over there and paint's two aisles down.”

“Thanks,” she said again.

“Anytime.”

Meg watched him walk away, wishing she were more skilled at flirting and hoping that her quick glance at his ringless left hand had not been apparent. It took a while to get the pickets she needed, and by the time she moved her car to load them in the back, the pickup truck was gone.

*   *   *

The deceased citizens of Harrison who had been lucky enough to be Lutheran took their eternal rest in a particularly lovely cemetery. Behind the old stone church with its steeple and heavy wooden doors, a groundskeeper was busy mowing, but Meg was no more bothered by the noise than were the other people there. It was a pleasing hum behind her thoughts as she sat in the sunshine and looked at the inscription on her great-aunt's headstone. “He that keepeth thee will not slumber.”

“Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep,” murmured Meg, wishing she had known her aunt better, wishing she had visited. “You knew me much better than I knew you,” she said, running her hand across the rose-gray stone.

*   *   *

As she neared her house, Meg decided to keep driving, wondering who or what lay just beyond her own property. On her right, there was a large house that appeared to be empty. The road dipped slightly, rose again, then curved. Beyond the curve there was a small pale green house on her left. She pulled into the driveway and parked behind an old black sedan, which indicated that someone was at home.

There was no answer to her knock. She stood, hesitating, on the front porch and then returned to her car. As she opened the door, a man who looked to be in his late sixties came around the side of the house and waved. He was wearing a faded plaid shirt, stained corduroy trousers, and a shapeless blue hat.

“Thought I heard a car come up the drive,” he said. “I was collecting some pollen in the back.”

“Hi,” said Meg. “I didn't mean to interrupt you; I just wanted to introduce myself. I've moved into Louise Marriott's house—she was my great-aunt. I'm Meg Kessinger.”

“John Eppler,” said the man, approaching with a hand extended. “Come on in and sit a minute.” His handshake was strong.

“Oh, but you're in the middle of something.”

He gestured dismissively. “Pollen can wait,” he said. “How often do you get a new neighbor? I was going to sit down a minute anyway.”

He pushed the unlocked front door open, took off his hat, wiped his shoes carefully on a hemp doormat, and preceded Meg into the house. His hair was snow-white, and he was a striking-looking man.

“Come on to the kitchen,” he said, passing through a cheerful living room with furniture in chintz slipcovers and a low table bearing jars of honey in various sizes, each with a neatly printed price label on the top. He walked energetically, his back poker-straight. “Have a cup of coffee.”

Meg followed him through the dining room, where a parakeet startled her by fluttering overhead to land on a curtain rod, into a large, bright kitchen. Mr. Eppler took a delicate flowered china mug with a thin gold rim out of a cupboard, filled it with coffee, and put it on the enameled kitchen table. Refilling a thick yellow mug proclaiming that today was the first day of the rest of his life, he asked if Meg wanted milk or sugar.

“No, nothing, thanks,” said Meg, pulling out a chair and sitting. “Company gets the pretty cup?”

He opened the cupboard door and indicated five mugs that matched Meg's crammed onto a shelf next to an assortment of considerably less lovely ones.

“Got plenty of 'em,” he said, “but I don't see the point in using such fancy ones. My daughter, Ginny, she's trying to get me to throw out the others. She lives in Philadelphia now, brought these out last fall. When she left, I found eleven perfectly good ones in the trash.” He chuckled. “Can you imagine that? She just threw 'em away.”

Meg didn't have any trouble imagining it but thought it wiser to be noncommittal. “Mmm…” she said. She sipped strong coffee and looked out the kitchen window at a row of stacked white boxes about thirty yards from the house. “You're a beekeeper, I take it. This a good area for bees?”

“Near perfect,” he replied, sitting down across from her. “Plenty of alfalfa around, and clover in the meadows. I've got vitex shrubs in the back to keep 'em happy in July, when the tulip poplars are through. You ever need honey or pollen or bees, you just come see me. The county calls me when somebody needs a hive removed from an attic or gets panicky over a swarm, so I got no shortage of bees.”

“Good to know,” said Meg.

“I was sorry to hear about Louise,” he said, shaking his head resignedly. “Not surprised, mind. She must have been, what? Past ninety, I guess. We've had our share of passings along this road.” He shook his head. “Hannah Ehrlich last fall, then Louise. My bees took care of Hannah's arthritis; couldn't do too much about her heart.”

Meg looked questioningly at him. “Took care of her arthritis?”

He put down his mug and held up both hands. “Before I started keeping bees, my hands had gotten so bad, I could hardly hold a spoon.” He flexed his fingers. “See that? Beevenom therapy. Beekeepers rarely suffer from arthritis.”

“Bee stings?”

He nodded. “Most people figure they'd rather have arthritis. Phobias, you know. But Hannah, she said sure, let's try it. Worked, too.” He nodded again, this time sadly, and looked out the window. His mouth twisted. “Sure do miss Hannah Ehrlich. Knew her for thirty-five years.”

“I'm sorry,” said Meg.

The man turned his gaze back to her. “Course, it's too bad about your great-aunt, too. She was in the home so long, we kind of lost touch. But she was a fine woman. A fine woman.” He took a swallow of coffee. “She loved that place of hers, that's for sure. Too bad she had to leave it.”

“I love it, too,” said Meg. “Already.”

“Good,” said Mr. Eppler. “Place like that shouldn't be rented out. Just goes downhill. But Louise wouldn't sell it. Been plenty of people interested.” He frowned. “Mike Mulcahy tried to make her sell, thinking lawyers know better what's good for people than people do themselves. But she wouldn't let it go. She got rid of her nice furniture and all that, but not the house. I imagine you've got your work cut out.”